What I cared about was Angie. Using Pete’s cell phone, I briefed her on what had happened and let her know I was okay. But to be on the safe side, I asked her to go stay with friends. If Flip had escaped the carnival grounds and still had it in for me, he might go to my place of residence. Who knew what he might do? He might go after Angie. I wasn’t taking any chances.
“No way! I’m coming right down there this instant!”
“Sugar, they won’t let you in. This place is sealed tighter than a diving bell. They’re still looking for Flip. The police will give me a lift to the hospital in a little while, just to have me checked over. I’ll call you when I get there, and you can come meet me. How’s that?”
She groaned stubbornly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I smiled. Hearing her voice, and its familiar cadence, was like a Christmas tree lighting up in my heart.
“Positive. Just hang out and I’ll call and then you can see me at the hospital. Just a couple hours, that’s all. I’m surrounded by police, federal agents, and Navy SEALs. I couldn’t be safer.”
“Garth, you have to be more careful. In the future, I mean.”
Don’t trouble trouble unless trouble troubles you.
“Believe me, no more chasing taxidermy. Or limousines.”
“I feel somehow responsible.”
“Not at all. Now, I’ll call you in a little bit, okay?”
There was a pause, and then she sighed.
“You better be all right.” I could hear her choke back tears. “Or I’ll kick your butt.”
“Been done.” I laughed and hung up.
Fully bandaged, I was excused, so I stepped out into the midway. All the lights were still on. The Ferris wheel’s multicolored fluorescent tubes festively illuminated its spokes, running lights along the sides of the Octopus still flickered maniacally, the sign for the Round-Up still flashed, bumper cars still hummed, the neon on the Salt N’ Pepper shakers still glowed red like hot licorice. It seemed strange having the place all lit up but almost empty, like something from a dream. Of course, police and soldiers crisscrossed the midway, so I wasn’t exactly alone, and as I made my way toward the exit, hoping for that ride to the hospital, I strolled past all those wonderful rides I enjoyed so much as a kid. I was exhausted but so relieved that I was actually in a mellow mood.
The Sky Diver! I marveled at the huge wheel, with its cars with steering wheels. Man, I used to spin my car on that ride so fast that when I came close to the ride operator he’d shout at me to cut it out. And to think there was only a big-ass cotter pin holding the doors shut on those things. Same with the Zipper, which was there too. That ride has cars facing out that revolve around a bean shape that also twirls. Sometimes, at the top, your car does a triple flip. I didn’t know that I would enjoy these rides anymore. Well, not tonight, surely. I didn’t need any excitement in my life for a while.
Then there was the Matterhorn, with its alpine facade and glitter snow peaks. I never liked those rides much. First of all, they’re a lame excuse for a roller coaster. The set of cars just goes around in an oval, and the big thrill is supposed to be the little hills and dips. Well, there was a small cave you went through in the back to give you that rush of thinking you’re going to be decapitated. And for some reason that I have yet to fathom, these rides always blared disco music, often a version without lyrics. It was supposed to be a ride for older teens or Disco Stu or something. Though the cars were stationary and it was twenty-five years later, the damn thing before me was still blaring disco.
The disco craze never did much for me as a kid. In fact, I hated it. Pounding electronic music, fluff. It was still tawdry stuff, but I now thought it kitschy. I even danced to it on occasion, more as a gag than anything else.
But seriously: Like Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York,” how many times must I be subjected to “Can’t Stop Me Now”? I’m ashamed to say I even remember it was by Boogie City Express, a wailing Cecily Trieste singing lead.
You got it. “Can’t Stop Me Now” was blaring from this contraption, without the words.
I looked at the entrance to the carnival. The cops had their hands full discharging customers and checking IDs. I wasn’t going to get a ride to the hospital any time soon.
The music was disturbing my mellow mood, so I stepped up and looked at the ride’s controls to see if I could nix the sound system.
“Garth!” Pete called.
I looked around.
“Pete?”
“Muchacho, come up here, you gotta see this.”
He was calling from the ride’s tunnel, which ran through the fake mountain.
“In there?” I couldn’t see him, so I squeezed along the side of the cars. They were halfway into the tunnel, and I had to skirt along with one hand on the wall.
“C’mon, hurry!”
I stepped into one of the cars and began clambering from one to the next, into the dark tunnel.
“Pete? My side hurts too much to be doing this.”
A loud alarm bell sounded. The cars jolted forward, and I somersaulted onto my back into the next car. Someone had started the ride, and the coaster lunged farther into the tunnel. It was dark, and the coaster’s wheels were drumming along my spine, which was pressed into the seat. I could feel my ribs click, and my chest was afire with pain.
“Pete!” I shouted.
I kicked my legs and pushed against the side of the car to right myself, shrieking with agony from my broken ribs.
Gripping my side, I pushed myself upright and saw the flashing lights at the end of the tunnel ahead.
And then I didn’t.
A pair of hairy cactuses clamped over my eyes from behind.
“Guess who?” A little girl’s voice giggled over the growing roar of the coaster.
I didn’t have to guess. What I had to do was get my heart to start pumping again.
The coaster rumbled around a curve as I gripped the stubbly flippers, trying to pry them from my head and eyes.
Flip was giggling hysterically in the car behind me. Then he broke into his best Cecily Trieste:
“At first I said no, I cannot hide
He’s the man, the one I need by my side
Let him get away
I’ll die right here, today
Then when I saw him in her arms
I got mad, I swore I’d do him harm
Can’t stop me now!
Can’t stop me now!”
I think you’ll understand if my hatred of disco and Boogie City Express was forever reaffirmed at that moment.
His grip on my head made it seem like those flippers were bolted in place; Flip was incredibly strong. But as we hit the next curve, he was thrown to one side. His grip loosened, I yanked myself forward and was free.
We approached the tunnel again, and I vaulted into the car ahead of me, yowling from the spikes of agony driven into my sides.
Flip was at least one car away now but was still singing above the coaster’s clamor:
“I turned and ran, fast as I can
But turned to fight for my lovin’ man
Walked up to him, pulled him away
Instead of hitting him I soon began to sway
Magic worked within my body
And showed him I’m not shoddy
The music raged, we danced all night
In his arms I found the morning light
Can’t stop me now!
Can’t stop me now!”
Gasping for breath, I looked back as we entered the tunnel again. I could only see his hideous form framed by the receding light at the entrance to the tunnel. His flippers were waving a carving knife in the air like a diva on stage. All he needed was a feather boa and he’d have been a shoe-in for La Cage aux Mort.
We came back out of the tunnel.
And there was Walker, standing in front of the ride, his gun drawn. Smiling.
I was like George Jetson on his treadmill: “Jane! Stop this crazy thing!” I wanted to c
rawl farther away from Flip, but I couldn’t entertain the idea of tumbling onto my ribs again. I might just pass out from the pain and then would be completely at Flip’s mercy.
But I was already at his mercy. I braced my back against the front of the car, watching Flip wriggle into the car behind me, the blade of his knife pulsing with the flash of the strobe lights as we passed yet again into the dark tunnel. I ducked, fearing I might hit my head.
Surely the police would shut this thing down any second.
But as we came back out of the tunnel, I caught the jittery image of cops pounding on the controls while others dumbly watched the ride with guns at their sides. We were going too fast for them to try and shoot Flip.
But that didn’t stop Walker. I saw a flash from his gun at the same instant a spark exploded on the car’s handrail with a loud ping. The handrail next to me, not Flip.
Other cops were running every which way, maybe to try to find the master switch to shut down the power.
It would be too late. Flip’s tiny glowing blue eyes and smiling kewpie-doll lips rose in the seat behind me, a flipper holding the knife, Cecily Trieste at full throttle:
“Did you think I’d let you go?
That I’d let her have your soul?
Can’t stop me now!
Can’t stop me now!”
I was thrust to one side by a turn and felt something in my pocket press against my thigh. Careening around the next turn, back toward the tunnel, I managed to reach into my pocket.
Flip stood and made his move.
And I made mine.
Squeak-hee! Squeak-hee!
He howled, recoiling.
I caught a glimpse of a scripted sign that said: Please remain seated at all times for your safety.
Then the tunnel entrance zoomed overhead, and the roof chopped Flip just under the chin.
It was like he’d been shot from a cannon, catapulting backward and out of view, blood spattering my face. The knife hit the roof butt-first and ricocheted.
I didn’t have time to react, except to put my hand up and duck my head. I felt the blade’s icy slice on my hand. The darkness of the tunnel prevented me from seeing how bad the cut was, but I felt the knife fall into my lap—blade flat, thank God.
The coaster jolted, and as I came out of the tunnel, the lights and disco music were no more. I was slowing down. They’d found the master switch.
My hand had a nice slice in it and was bleeding all over the place. The knife lay in my lap, the blade stuck right through the belly of the squeaky penguin toy.
Sorry about your toy, Fuzzy.
A squad of cops and SEALs grabbed the slowing cars as they rumbled toward the controls, bringing it to a stop before it entered the tunnel again. They were all shouting, asking me questions that I could neither understand nor answer. I felt their hands on me, someone wrapping my hand with a handkerchief. Blood was all over my shirt. I was lifted out of the car and handed man-to-man like a bale of hay. And I was just about as animated as one.
My head rolled, the flash of the pretty carnival lights blurred with the fake mountain scenery of the Matterhorn.
Just before being carried down to a stretcher, my eyes focused on the last car. On the seat there was something odd, and it took me a moment to realize what it was. It looked like a big broken egg full of ground chuck. Tiny blue eyes stared back at me. Unblinking. I felt like he could still see me.
I awake in a sweat late at night sometimes, and think Flip still can.
Chapter 27
Predictably, I wound up back in the hospital, at a trauma center somewhere in a traditionally very bad neighborhood in Brooklyn. This may not sound like the optimal place to be, but the reverse is actually the case. Because of the rough neighborhood, these guys see the most gunshot and beating victims of almost anywhere in the country. That was reassuring, except for the fact that I was a beating victim myself.
The phalanx of police of every shape and form surrounding my room was not as reassuring. Acronyms abounded: USFW, FBI, NYSDEC, NYCPD, even CIA.
No, I didn’t have a lawyer. I had something better: Angie. She was glued to my side, fending them off, the way you hold off a pack of wolves with fire. Well, the doctor assigned to my case, Dr. Singh, was right in there. Singh was an Indian woman, with a long black braid. I’m used to seeing doctors being composed and often distracted, if not detached. This woman was consumed with trying to figure out what had happened to my internal organs and wouldn’t stand for the acronyms pestering me and getting in her way as she rushed me through a battery of tests. But mostly she kept coming in with other surgeons, poking my black-and-blue side and belly, watching me yelp with pain, and muttering terms like peritoneal lining and rebound tenderness that didn’t mean anything to me. But they also did a CT scan and what they called a lavage, in which giant needles were inserted into my belly so they could wash out my gut looking for telltale blood, bile, and what have you. I took some comfort in her headstrong manner and thoroughness but also knew that meant there might be some cause for alarm. It meant she had reason to worry my injuries might turn fatal.
Words like peritonitis were mumbled here and there, as was colostomy, but after two days they calmed down and decided exploratory surgery wasn’t necessary. While there was blood in my urine, it seemed my kidney was only bruised. My liver and spleen each took the equivalent of a black eye, and they marveled that my pancreas came through without so much as a broken fingernail. There was a minor tear of the bowel, and they began focusing on that and talking about a colostomy. It would have been temporary, but I didn’t relish the thought of having my droppings collected in a bag on my belt. In any case, the nick to my colon was eventually assessed as inconsequential. In time, I was expected to have a complete recovery without any surgery at all.
Dr. Singh told me that stomping victims, as one of them called it, are often some of the most severely injured.
“Were you not a young man,” she said, “you might not be so lucky.”
Lucky? Sure, all things considered.
Young man? Hey, beats the hell out of mister.
Relieved? In spades. But I still felt like hell.
Angie, as I said, was a champ, keeping her considerable fortitude focused on making sure I got the best treatment possible. She managed to not cry in front of me while all this was going on. And to not ask any questions about what happened. Until the second night in the hospital. She told me I’d have to talk to the acronyms the next morning.
“I’m ready,” I whispered.
“I brought you some bubblegum.” She held out a pack. “Thought it might make you feel better.”
I thought about Smiler putting that Fruit Stripe gum on my tongue, about gagging on it in the spook house.
“I think my gum days are over.”
My bed was cranked up a little, and there was a tray with some really bland, really bad food on it in front of me. Untouched.
“Well, how about some ice cream?” Angie held up a tub of banana ice cream, my favorite.
I smiled faintly. “Now you’re talking.”
She drew her chair next to the bed, pried open the ice cream, and spooned some into my mouth.
“Garth, they think you know where it is.” She slipped another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth. “Pete told me they checked everywhere.”
I’d surmised that Pete had filled her in on the essentials. Of course, I had questions of my own.
“Renard is dead?” It still sometimes hurt to talk, so mostly I whispered.
“Under arrest. Only Park and one of his bodyguards were killed. The other two are cooperating, and they think they can get to Park’s chop shop through them.”
“And the Koreans?”
“All that was reported in the papers was that there was a drug bust or some such thing at a Brooklyn carnival that night. That explains away the commotion. They’re keeping a lid on the Koreans. I guess there’s some behind-the-scenes stuff going on, diplomacy. Pete suggested that we
‘seriously consider’ keeping this to ourselves in the interests of national security. I think the idea is that if we keep our traps shut they won’t press any charges against you.”
“Charges?”
“You know that if they wanted to, they could make things difficult.” She shrugged, spooning some more ice cream into my mouth. “They could think of something.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Walker could think of something. Like an execution. He tried to shoot me on that ride.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about Walker,” Angie snorted. “He got hit by the ricochet.”
I rolled my eyes. “How fitting that he should get hit by his own bullet.”
“Not a bullet,” she said, spooning more ice cream into my mouth.
“Hmm?”
“Flip. His body landed on Walker after bouncing off the wall of the ride.”
I began to chuckle. It hurt my sides but made my intellect dance.
“It’s not funny.” She withheld the next spoonful. “His neck is broken. Looks like he’ll be on disability for some time.”
“Sorry, but you’ve got to admit,” I whispered, “it’s kinda absurd, and I have a hard time feeling sorry . . . How about some more ice cream?”
“Garth, what did happen?” She shoveled in another spoonful. “I know, you ran into Renard and Park down in Chinatown, and they kidnapped you, and then they tried to make you a go-between to sell the kving-kie horn stick thing to the Koreans. But how did Flip suddenly show up? And how did you get out of this . . .”
“Alive?” I whispered.
She nodded, looking at the floor.
“I don’t know how to answer that.” I sighed.
She looked at me, eyes wide, but said nothing.
“I could tell you that I got lucky. I can’t say for sure that what happened out there, whether any of it was directly related to the horn. When I wanted to make it to the water and wanted the spotlight to go out—that’s probably just when the commandos charged the sub and shut it down. Did I make the two Koreans who were kicking me disappear?”
I didn’t have a rejoinder for that one.
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