Carnival Charlatan
By
Skeeter Enright
Credits Page
Damnation Books, LLC.
P.O. Box 3931
Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998
www.damnationbooks.com
Carnival Charlatan
by Skeeter Enright
Digital ISBN: 978-1-62929-165-9
Print ISBN: 978-1-62929-166-6
Cover art by: Ash Arceneaux
Edited by: Juanita Kees
Copyright 2014 Skeeter Enright
Printed in the United States of America
Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights
Worldwide English Language Print Rights
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication page
For all the grammatically challenged storytellers, who don’t believe they can write.
I’d like to thank the people who read this story in its early stages and didn’t try to discourage me. You all know who you are.
Chapter One
My first customer of the day was scrutinizing me as if I were a bug.
“I’d like a reading,” the mark said just above a whisper, his voice toneless.
I gave him a professionally fake smile and said, “But of course,” using my best Gypsy accent.
He silently handed me a well-worn twenty and sat rigidly on my padded customer’s chair. His finger touched the dangling mole next to his nose, and then he crossed his arms. Deep, close set eyes and a receding hairline made his face look elongated. He’d have made a great movie alien. Once seated, he was absolutely still. I’d seen plants with more animation.
He didn’t even peek when I tucked his payment into my bra.
At the carnival, looking weird is the norm, so my neck hairs weren’t raising because of his appearance. A nervous twitch blurred my left eye.
The cardinal Carney rule is, never judge people paying cash, but I couldn’t help it. The man across the table just wasn’t right.
I took a chance and extended my psychic senses a tiny bit. I don’t usually make the effort. Any conscious magic could be dangerous. At least this time there was no mystical backlash. The images that flashed behind my eyes told me this creep was one of those people with just enough numinous ability to perceive a few uncanny things. It’s like strong intuition—just enough insight to encourage a little latent megalomania. No wonder the guy sparked my senses.
Deciding to get his reading over as fast as possible, I did a quick shuffle. He kept his lizard-blank eyes on me as he unfolded one arm and cut the cards. He returned his arm to its exact starting position. I did a standard Celtic Cross layout and flipped the first card without my usual preamble about the mystical capabilities of the Tarot.
“This card shows me you’ve had troubles in your past,” I said, keeping my accent thick. This was my standard opening for quiet customers. I studied him for a moment. I was getting nothing, no eyes widened with excitement, or narrowed in fear—things people usually project when they got their Tarot cards read. He was a blank slate, absolutely no reaction. In psychology, they call it a flat affect. If he didn’t give me something, I had no way to tailor my prognostications.
“What else?” he asked in a monotone. His pulse throbbed, steadily in the big vein at his temple.
I turned another card. “You have recently made changes to your life.”
Outside, a crow cawed insistently with a haunting rasp. The morning air was dead still.
Still no reaction, nothing to work with, not a twitch. I could barely see him breathe.
The next card was the High Priestess reversed. Falling this way, it indicated delusion and paranoia. I wasn’t going to tell this freaky guy he was deluded, so I continued, “You have strong convictions stemming from your past.”
His right eye flickered in reaction. So…he was human after all. I was on the right track.
His future influence card was the Emperor. “Your strong force of will makes what you seek possible.” This time a disturbing smile touched the corners of his mouth. I fought my involuntary shiver and concentrated on the cards. If I believed the cards actually foretold anything, they were saying this guy was going to do something massively bad, and he would do it without sympathy or remorse. I’m glad I didn’t believe in the cards.
“This final card shows the likely outcome of your quest.” The card turned, and the Devil grinned up at me—obsession, delusion, misfortune due to the consequence of choice.
The man jumped up before I could say anything. His heavy chair hit the ground with a thump. He stepped back from the table, glaring as though the card were a snake. In his dead flat voice, he said, “You know these occult practices are evil. You should renounce your wicked ways and bathe in the Divine Holy Light of God.” He sounded like an evangelist on downers. He began to pace the small confines of the tent, his arms swinging and his fists clenched.
My heart thumped painfully as adrenalin surged. I groped in my skirt pocket for my pepper spray. If he felt so strongly about what I was doing, why had he asked for a reading? “Sir, I have no control over the cards. I just interpret.” I dropped the accent. Sweat prickled out all over my body.
“The Bible can save you, young woman. Bathe yourself in the blood of Jesus, and your soul will be set free. Give up this vile witchcraft, renounce Satan,” he preached.
“I think you should leave now, sir.” Who talks like that?
He stopped, stood clenching and unclenching his fists. I held my spray ready at my side. If he took a step toward me, he was going to get a face full. On the carnival lot, a shout would bring help, but I’m a big girl, a woman of the Land family. I can control earth magic as well as having nifty right hook. I handle my own problems.
“God’s wrath will find you. You cannot escape judgment.” He glared at me for a moment. Then, he whirled and left the tent, throwing the flap aside like a cape.
My hand shook as I put the spray back in my pocket. What a start to the day. Here I thought I was lucky getting a customer before noon. At least he didn’t try to get his money back—not like I’d have let him have it.
* * * *
The rest of the morning passed without problems—or customers, for that matter. It was three o’clock when Myra poked her plump face around the screen shielding the interior of my tent from the passing carnival crowds. “Hey, Airy. I’m on break. You getting any play?” she asked, to see if I could chat.
I shrugged noncommittally. “Come and sit. I need some company to whine to about my lack of customers.”
Myra hangs out in my tent whenever she can. It’s cozy and full of texture. The thick maroon and blue tapestries lining the walls muffle the cacophony of the carnival midway. Incense holds back the acrid odor of French fries and the cloying sweetness of funnel cakes wafting in from the stands nearby. Unfortunately, the tent isn’t cozy today. The morning’s chill is long gone, and it’s hotter than hell. The humidity is higher than the Fat Lady’s belt size. The normally dangling coins on my multicolored scarf were sticking against my forehead. I rubbred them absently.
“Why don’t you lose that scarf?” Myra said. “You’re always scratching at it.”
“I need it to complete my Gypsy fortune teller image
. We Carnival dukkers have to keep up appearances. Who wants their fortune read by a flat-chested, middle class all-American girl? I need mystery.”
“I guess.” Myra plopped into a customer’s chair and propped her feet on another. She took a big slurp of her sweating cup. Knowing Myra, it was probably full of spiked lemonade. Her short, fluorescent red hair was done up in a dozen or so spiky, two-inch ponytails that stuck out in random directions. I envied her the comfortable safari shorts and a T-shirt, which advertised the Duck Grab game she was running today. My costume stuck to me like a sweaty blanket.
“We only had a few kids so far. I don’t think there are more than ten families on the grounds. I know it’s Wednesday, but this is just sad.” Myra sighed dramatically.
Great, I thought, another blue day. I was going to be eating a lot of rice and beans this winter.
“It’s so slow, they aren’t even going to run the pig races,” Myra said. She and I seldom missed the pig races. There’s money to be made if you have an eye for a fleet porker and hedge your bets
I sighed. “That’s too bad. I could use a laugh.” At Myra’s quizzical look, I continued, “You can’t help it when you watch those oinkers, their little hams a-churning when they run,” I said.
“I’m glad you want a laugh. ‘Money, money, money’. It’s all everyone worries about these days. I think we all need to lower our expectations a bit. We’d be happier.” Myra’s lack of ambition was legendary.
“Money may not be everything, but it does pay the bills.”
Myra nodded sagely. “I guess.”
“How’s business been for you this past couple of weeks? You getting much play?” Myra asked, changing her tone as well as the subject. Myra was an agent. She worked for a salary, running stands for whoever needed help. She knew running my own joint often put me in a precarious financial position.
“This winter will be tight if things don’t pick up.”
“You going to make it to Florida? I was counting on us having some good times this winter, once we shut down.” Myra was the consummate low rent party girl.
“I’ll make it through the winter, but I don’t know how much partying I’ll be able to afford. I’ve barely made gas money this season. I only had one paying customer so far today, and I had to chill him,” I said, trying not to make a big deal out of it.
“Was he rough? Why didn’t you call someone?” Myra’s feet hit the floor.
“Nothing rough. He was a sky grifter, here to tell me how I should give up my occult ways, renounce evil, and become a regular citizen, or some such nonsense. He just bugged me.” I gave a little shiver despite the heat. “I felt a touch of magic around him.”
I could talk magic with Myra. She knows I’m a witch. Although, I’m not sure how much of what I tell her she believes, or even understands. It’s safe for her to know a bit of my curious history. She is a third generation Carney, and Carnies don’t tell tales.
“The guy just spooked me,” I said. “I think he worried me, because he sounded like a fanatic.” I shook my head and shoulders like a dog shaking off water. “Zach the crow didn’t like him, either. He sat on my tent cawing the whole time the creep was here.”
“Zach is a smart old bird. You think the guy will be a problem?” Myra folded one knee to her chest, and rested her chin on it.
“I don’t know. Most times, I can win over the sky pilots, but the creep this morning was in a completely different category. He made the average Bible thumper seem like a kid at Sunday school. I hope he just walked away. I really don’t need the hassle,” I said.
“How did you get rid of him?” Myra asked.
“Usually if I get a zealot vibe, I throw a little religious reverence into my readings, and they back off. That wouldn’t have worked with this morning’s creep. He was way over the top. So, I just got serious with him, and he split.”
I’d never had to pull out my pepper spray on a sober mark before, but I wasn’t going to tell that to Myra. I also didn’t tell her about the look he gave me as he left. That look would give me the heebies for a week. I wished I could shake the feeling I was going to see the guy again. He had really gotten under my skin.
“He’s probably harmless,” I continued. “I think he was from one of the townie booths, ‘The Church of the Holy Rollers’ or something.”
“If he’s local, you ought to let Fast Eddy know, so he can smooth things over,” Myra said.
Fast Eddy was the consummate carnival patch. His job was calming unhappy people. Handsome, smooth talking, with hair by Mattel, and a smile worthy of any toothpaste commercial, he could calm the angriest townie jerk. He and I had a thing for a while, but I lost interest when I realized that in a relationship, he was all style and no substance. So we split, no harm no foul.
Eddy had recently ridden the carousel in a Carney marriage to Sandra and Simone, the Siamese twins. The three of them seemed happy. I genuinely wished them well.
“It wasn’t that big a thing. No need to bother the newlyweds,” I said.
“I’m going to let Mister Dimitri know anyway.” She had a determined look on her face.
“Don’t bother Mister D. It’s nothing—just me being silly. He’s busy running the show. He has enough on his plate without worrying about me getting the jitters.”
Myra gave me an intense look. “If you see this fellow again, you shout out. I know you’re Miss Independent, but you don’t have to handle everything yourself. You never know what might happen. Remember Springfield? What did your grandma say to the reporter that got the townies to picket us?”
“She told the reporter she and I had real magic powers, because we were descended from Martha Carrier—one of the Salem Witches.”
“Well you can do real magic.”
“Yeah, but the religious types don’t want to hear that.”
“Is that why the riot started?”
“The riot started, because Ace got drunk and started calling them names.” I raised my eyebrows
“Well, we won’t do that again.”
“Yes, Mommy.”
She made a rude gesture.
Myra and I sat for a while, just thinking and sweating. I’ve always thought introspection is especially unproductive when you’re sweating. I listlessly waved an antique silk fan embellished with peacocks. I didn’t have the energy for much effort. It only moved hot air anyway. My heavy stage makeup ran like wax on a griddle. Blotting it with a thick terry cloth towel, I smeared my cosmetics. While Myra slurped her lemonade, I touched up my face and put on powder. At least the padding I used to make myself look buxom absorbed my dripping sweat.
“You don’t need so much makeup,” Myra said between slurps.
“Thanks, but it’s hard to look mystical and wise when you have freckles and a button nose. You know how hard it is to get the marks to buy my act.”
“But, you’re good. They always leave happy.”
I shrugged. The mirror told me I didn’t look too ghastly—not that customers were lining up at my tent. Since only Myra was around, I hiked my long skirt up over my knees and used the crystal ball in my lap to cool off, like an ice pack. I know a crystal ball is a fortune teller stereotype, but my crystal actually has a connection to the spirit world. It’s been in the family for generations.
“How come your glass ball stays cold all the time?” Myra was chewing the ice from her drink now.
“It draws energy from the air to fuel the connection to the hereafter. The energy-sucking trait makes it cool as any refrigerator. Great Grandma put a spell on it eighty years ago. It’s been running ever since.”
“It’s sweating today. If you stand up, you’re going to look like you wet yourself.” That’s Myra, always looking on the bright side.
“Yeah, everything has its problems.”
“Excuse me, Miss Ariel…” a gruff voice called through the tent wall. It was Big Mike, the backyard boy—general handyman and gofer of the carnival. Mike was at least six-six and always wore the sam
e grimy overalls.
Myra gave me a leering look, wagged her eyebrows, and did a little shimmy in her chair.
“Do you need help checking your stakes? Skinny Phil said we’re in for it after midnight.” Mike was careful not to say there was a storm coming and break the Carney taboo against talking about the weather.
“Thanks, Mike,” I replied through the wall. “I’m good. I haven’t seen too many marks. What’s the gate look like?”
“Bet it ain’t more than fifty folks in, and it’s already after four.”
“It’s been a slow summer.”
“No kidding,” he muttered. His shuffling steps were audible as he trudged away.
Myra grinned like a raccoon. “He really has it bad for you. You ought to throw him a bone. Oh, wait a minute…he’s the one who wants to throw a bone to you.”
“You are so funny.”
“He always uses your real name instead of ‘Airy’. He’s crushing on you, girl.”
“For Pete’s sake, Mike’s too shy to even come into my tent. If I slept with him, I’d probably get him pregnant and have to marry him. You need to worry more about your own love life.” I fanned myself with more vigor. Mike was a good guy but not my type. He really needed to work on his personal hygiene.
Myra shrugged and took another gulp of her drink. “I’m roasting.” She lifted the bottom of her shirt and waved it. The daisy tattoo around her navel winked lazily as she rocked back on the chair.
“I know what you mean. I really wish there were a clan of bikini-wearing gypsies I could use for my act,” I said wearily, wishing I had a garment I could flap. The crystal ball wasn’t nearly cool enough.
She giggled and took a gulp of her giant-sized lemonade. “You might get a really different type of customer. We could move your act down by the Kooch show.” She grinned around her straw and took another gulp.
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