Page 3 of Corruption
Three young men in overalls sat at the nearby table. They were tow-haired, with faces and arms deeply tanned, alike enough in looks that they had to be brothers. The oldest was very handsome, but Charles knew better than to be caught staring. Even in LA, there were only a few places where a man could show interest in another. Out here, he was betting the wrong look could get a man killed. Not that he couldn’t hold his own in a fight—he was better trained and better armed than any farm boys—but he wasn’t here to cause a commotion. He stared at his coffee instead.
“Loan me ten dollars,” one of the youths demanded of his brothers.
“What for?”
“None of your business.”
“It surelyismy business if it’s my ten bucks.”
The good-natured argument continued for a time, like a cart down a well-worn track. Charles daydreamed a bit, only half-listening. It had been so long since he’d felt a man’s hard body against his. Several months ago, he spent a little time with a fellow named Walter, who’d been willing enough—but almost too willing. He was a doctoral student at a university, with soft hands and a slight frame, and he probably would have fainted if he knew how Charles made his living. He was dainty and sweet, and not at all what Charles truly craved.
“I bet you’re going back to that carnival,” one of the brothers said accusingly, throwing Charles from his slight reverie.
“So what if I am?”
“You seen all the freaks already. Why do you wanna go back?”
“Just do.”
“Well, they ain’t here no more.”
“No kidding. But I heard some of ’em talkin’ last night, saying they’re going to Hullville next.” His voice turned slightly wheedling. “Loan me ten dollars and I’ll talk Ruby Lancaster into going to the pictures with you.”
Further negotiations ensued, but Charles didn’t pay them any mind. It was time to settle his bill and drive to Hullville.
Hullville wasn’t much different from Plainville—or dozens of other nowhere little towns—although maybe this place had fewer boarded-up shops than the last. It also boasted a courthouse, an enormous heap of red bricks that had pretensions far beyond a dusty little farming burg, and which loomed over a grassy town square surrounded by low buildings, including two diners and a bar. Charles would have preferred to go to the bar, because it was easier to pick up information in a place like that. But his teetotaling habits would be too obvious there, so he went to Aunt Edna’s Home-style Diner instead. Cheery red-checked cloths covered the tables, each with a little glass vase of daisies, but the pie wasn’t as good as in Plainville, and none of the customers were as handsome or helpful as the brothers who’d inadvertently directed him here.
Passing down a narrow hallway to find the john, he came to a message board hung just outside the toilet door. Affixed to the board, a gaudy sign advertised Cheney’s World of Wonders.Thrills, Chills, and Delights from the Four Corners of the Earth—and Beyond!the red lettering promised.Rides and Entertainment for the Kiddies and Diversions for Adults. One Night Only!
Two days away.
Irked that he’d have to wait, but satisfied his quarry would come to him, Charles rented a room in the town’s only hotel, a dump that made its living off suckers who had business at the courthouse but lived too far away to spend the night in their own beds. The clerk was a ferret-faced man who wanted to know why Charles was in Hullville.
“Business,” Charles grunted.
The man squinted at Charles’ cheap, dirty clothes. “What kinda business?”
“Mine, not yours.” He could have made something up, but he was a crappy liar. He glared at the clerk instead.
In the end, cold hard cash beat curiosity. The man gave him a key.
The room was small and not especially clean, with a sink near the door and a shared toilet and shower down the hallway. The narrow window offered a view of the square and courthouse, and Charles spent the better part of the following days sitting in front of the window on a hard wooden chair, watching the people below. He longed for the softer air of Los Angeles and for his little bungalow, so close to the ocean he could walk to the beach. He liked the water all right, but his favorite part was the wet sand—neither sea nor land, but something in between.
For two nights he tossed on the hard mattress, sleeping only fitfully. His shoulders itched, and his skin felt like an outgrown suit. He jerked off angrily, shadowy figures dancing behind his squeezed-shut eyes.
Late in the afternoon on his third day in Hullville, he packed his suitcase. Before he left the room, he checked his pockets for his arsenal. Demons didn’t require much in the way of fancy equipment, which he appreciated. He’d spent too many years lugging crossbows with silver-tipped arrows, giant jars of sanctified salt, heavy ropes woven of hemp and virgins’ hair. Now he needed only a cigarette lighter and the small iron brand created especially for the Bureau. And his revolver and switchblade, which had little utility for demons but which he never went without.
Ferret-Face eyed him suspiciously when Charles checked out.
Cheney’s had set up in an empty field about a half mile outside town. Good location—close enough for people to walk, far enough for the noise and other potential disturbances to remain uninterrupted. Several tents of various sizes dominated the field, but there were also smaller trailers and carts, and behind them all, a collection of battered trucks. A few booths offered games of chance. Odors of sugar, fried foods, and sweat hung heavy in the air, and children shrieked as they spun around on the rickety rides.
Charles wanted to hate Cheney and his colleagues, who used trickery to con farmers out of their hard-earned pennies. But the people around him smiled, despite their patched clothing, and Charles conceded that maybe the rare splash of excitement and the taste of the exotic in otherwise drab lives was worth missing a few meals.
He spent some time strolling around, getting a feel for the place. He watched boys try to impress girls with the carnival games, watched parents laugh at their children’s joy. Although people glanced at him and a few barkers called his way, he felt almost invisible. Distant and disconnected. Well, he felt that way a lot of the time, even back in LA. As if the world was a party and he hadn’t been invited; he was just looking in through the windows.
He paid a few coins for the big tent. It was stuffed with exhibits and gawking locals, and the air was stifling, but there were no demons. A dance floor at one end stood empty and waiting.
The demon’s tent was nearby, though. It wasn’t open, and the huge man sitting near the flap was clearly there to keep people out, not to take money. But a garish sign hung on the canvas, depicting a hideous creature with red skin, sharp horns, and glowing eyes.Straight from the Pits of Hell!A smaller, plainer sign announcedDue to the sensitive constitutions of women and children, only adult men are allowed entrance.Charles snorted. The Bureau employed a few women who were about as sensitive as a cannonball.
