Hunter (9780698158504) Read online

  No solid answers were offered, so Lance moved on to the next possibility, one that he felt was more likely. “All right . . . Who hooked up with someone local last year? A girl with a jealous boyfriend, a boy with a jealous girlfriend. Or any combination of the above . . .”

  Standing beside Lance, Morty said, “I know that some of youse guys hook up with the local honeys all the time.” He looked around, and it was clear to Lance that a few people were deliberately looking away.

  Jerry, the foreman, said to Lance, “It’s sort of an unwritten rule here. If you’re going to hook up with a local girl, you ask her first if she’s seeing anyone. If she is, you drop it and move on. We all understand that. Last thing we need is some drunk jealous boyfriend or husband loading up his truck with his collection of shotguns.”

  Morty said, “Hunter, you said you had an idea?”

  “I do,” Lance said, and thought, I’m probably going to regret this.

  • • •

  The news reporter’s name was Pavel Southall. He was only a few years older than Lance, wearing a crisp suit and carrying a microphone bearing the TV station’s logo. The microphone was fake, a prop to make sure that the logo was on-screen as much as possible—the cameraman had fitted Lance and Tina with tiny microphones attached to their clothes.

  “I really don’t want to do this,” Lance said to Tina. Morty and Jerry had taken to his idea immediately, but they dismissed Lance’s suggestion that Tina alone should be interviewed on camera. Morty had told him, “Hunter, you hafta. You got a great gift for persuadin’ people. I mean, you got us to hire you even though you didn’t got any decent circus skills we could use. An’ we’re not easy to fool.”

  Lance had insisted that there was no way he could be on TV, but Jerry had suggested a solution for that: “So we change your look. We’ve got no shortage of costumes here.”

  “What’s that for?” Lance asked, pointing to the large square of plywood on which Southall was standing.

  “Don’t want to get mud on my shoes,” the reporter replied.

  “He brings it everywhere,” the cameraman muttered to Lance. “Sometimes he makes the studio intern take it out back and wash it.”

  “OK, folks,” Southall said. “You ever been on a news report before? No? All right, the only rule is no swearing. Absolutely none, got it? And don’t look at the camera when you’re answering, that’s the other rule. Look at me instead. Just assume that the camera is on you the whole time. We’ll be doing the nodding shots later. Right now we—”

  “Nodding shots?” Lance asked.

  “That’s right. But right now we’ll get you and Tina—”

  “Sorry, but what are nodding shots?”

  The cameraman said, “That’s when we cut back to Pavel nodding in response to your answers. Since we only have one camera here, we’ll do those shots afterward and edit them in back at the studio.”

  “What for?”

  “Because it gives him more airtime. Makes him look good if another station wants to run the segment.”

  “Are you done asking questions?” Southall asked, glaring at the cameraman. “We have a report to make.” He checked his reflection in a tiny mirror he pulled from his suit pocket, made microscopic adjustments to his hair, then nodded. “Okeydokey, we are all set and ready. Green to go and firing on all cylinders.” He put away his mirror, straightened up, took a series of deep breaths, pulled out his mirror again, and checked his teeth. “All righty, all nighty, let’s do this. Let’s get this baby on the air.” He turned to Lance. “How do I look?”

  “What do I care?” Lance asked.

  Southall’s smile collapsed. “What?”

  “You look fine,” Tina told him. “Very sharp. Professional.”

  The reporter threw Lance a suspicious look, then began jogging on the spot, his shiny shoes thumping up and down on the plywood sheet. He stopped after a few seconds and checked his hair again.

  Lance sidled over to the cameraman. “Is he always like this?”

  “This is one of the good days. Last week we were outside a mall and it took him five minutes to adjust his tie. And that was before we even got out of the car.”

  Eventually, after much flexing of his neck and cracking of his knuckles, Southall announced that this time he really was ready.

  “OK,” the cameraman said. “Recording . . . Gimme a sound check, Pavel.”

  Southall cleared his throat and tapped his real microphone. “One. Two. Buckle my shoe. Three, four, may I have some more? Five, six, picking up chicks. Sev—” He stopped, and looked at Tina. “I’m so sorry. That was . . . I just . . . That was totally inappropriate. I promise I’m not a misogynist! I meant to say sticks and the word just . . .”

  “Forget it,” Tina said. “No harm done.”

  “Oh, get the lead out!” Lance muttered. The heavy wig was making his head hot and itchy, and he was sure that the makeup on his face was starting to run. He despised the clothes, and his feet were aching inside the uncomfortable shoes. To Tina, he whispered, “I hate this. What if someone recognizes me?”

  “Isn’t the point of dressing up like this so that no one will recognize you? Hunter, even your own mother wouldn’t be able to pick you out of a lineup looking like that.”

  After another round of throat-clearing, microphone-tapping, and mirror-checking, the reporter began. “This is Pavel Southall reporting from Peterman’s field, outside of Roeville, Alabama, where the annual Circus Fantabulosa carnival has come to town. Last year, the carnival drew thousands of visitors from all over the county, and the first week this year proved to be just as popular. But last night, in the small hours, the carnival received a visitor who had more than cotton candy and carousels on his mind. I’m here with Christina Hainstock, the carnival’s publicity manager, and star attraction Chuckles the Clown. Chuckles, can you explain what’s happened?” He angled the fake microphone toward Lance.

  Lance forced himself to look at the cheesy grin on Southall’s face and not at the camera. “Sure. Last night the carnival’s owner was attacked and robbed while he slept. Luckily, Mr. Ponichtera’s recovering, but all of the money we’ve taken in over the past week is gone.” He found himself relaxing, easing into the report despite wearing a bright-orange wig, white makeup, oversize shoes, and green-and-pink parachute pants. “That’s our wages, money needed for the upkeep of the equipment, for gas to get to the next town.”

  Southall said, “Ms. Hainstock, can you tell us more about the robbery?”

  Tina said, “Well, right now we can’t say much, as it’s an ongoing investigation, but the police are working on several solid leads. Traveling carnivals like ours get by on a tiny profit margin—you rarely hear of anyone quitting a carnival because they’ve struck it rich—so the theft is a real blow. Without the money that was taken, we can’t afford to pay for our next venue, and we can’t advertise. If we can’t advertise, numbers will be down and the fifty-one people working here won’t be able to afford to buy food.”

  “And what sort of secondary effect will this have, Chuckles?”

  “It could be bad for the town, Pavel,” Lance replied. “Our carnival brings a lot to the local economy. While we’re here, we purchase our food and supplies locally, plus the carnival draws people from all over the county. They eat in the town’s diners and restaurants, shop in the local stores. Tens of thousands of dollars are generated by the carnival’s presence.”

  Southall said, “Good, good. I like that. OK, now at this point we’ll show a few acts. The lady with the cats, I think. And that gentleman hammering nails into his head. And perhaps you—”

  “Wait, wait,” Lance said. “I’ve got a good one. Are we still recording?”

  The cameraman nodded. “Yep. Go for it.”

  Looking at Southall, Lance said, “We know that the people of Alabama are good people, and even though we’ve travel
ed all over the South, Roeville always feels like we’re coming home. We’ve always enjoyed playing this town in the past. The people are friendly and fun, and they sure know how to have a good time. But this has really soured that good feeling for us. Even if the carnival can somehow survive this disaster, I can’t see us ever coming back here. There are other towns nearby, towns where no one is trying to sabotage us. Much as we love Roeville, we might have to take our business elsewhere.”

  Southall paused. “Ooooh-kaaay. See, that sounds like a threat. The viewers won’t like that.”

  “It is a threat,” Lance said. “Someone attacked our boss and robbed us, and we’re supposed to just roll over and take it?”

  “Yeah, well, we’re cutting that. I’ll do a V.O. saying something similar back in the studio. But less threatening.”

  “V.O.?”

  “Voice-over,” the cameraman said. “Still recording, Pavel.”

  “OK, put a pin in it and we’ll check out the cat lady.” To Lance and Tina, he said, “Can you two stick around? I think we’ve got enough but it’s best to be sure.”

  They spent the next half hour filming short segments on various parts of the carnival, then Southall concluded that they had almost everything they needed. “Just a couple more cutaway shots, just in case. Can you do a few tricks for us, Chuckles?”

  “Uh, no,” Lance said.

  “Oh, I know, do the one with the bucket of confetti that everyone thinks is water! That’s great—everyone loves that one.”

  “I don’t have my bucket with me,” Lance said.

  “How about a few tumbles? We could shoot you walking away, and you trip over something and roll and come up on your feet!”

  “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

  Tina muttered, “Better do something.”

  To Southall, Lance said, “Clown Union rules. We can only perform when we’re being paid. Otherwise I’ll be fined and they might even take away my license.”

  The reporter sighed. “I see. Not the most fun clown in the world, are you? All right. We’ll go and see the bearded lady.”

  “You can’t,” Tina said. “She doesn’t like to be filmed.”

  “So you’ve got a bearded lady who’s camera-shy, even though she performs in a carnival, and a clown who won’t do tricks. Great. What else do you have? A fire-eater who’s scared of flames? A trapeze artist with agoraphobia?”

  “Acrophobia,” Lance said. “If you mean fear of heights, it’s acrophobia. Agoraphobia is—”

  “Whatever. Seriously, what kind of half-baked excuse for a carnival is this?”

  “Careful. You almost stepped off your plywood,” Lance said.

  He heard the cameraman mutter, “Please stop antagonizing him!”

  He’s right, Lance told himself. “OK, sorry. We’re all a little stressed here. Come on, I’ll bring you to Masatoshi, the knife thrower. He’s really good and he’ll look great on camera.”

  • • •

  The report was broadcast on the local channels during the 5:00 p.m. news. Even though Southall and the cameraman had been with the carnival all afternoon, the report only lasted a couple of minutes.

  Lance watched it with the others, all crowded around the back of Kevin’s camper van. His was the only TV set that was able to pick up the channel.

  They watched it four times, with the carnies cheering throughout the entire report, jostling each other good-naturedly. “There’s Alan—man, you look chubby on-screen!”

  “Me? Well, you look old. Does the camera add ten years as well? One more time, Kev. Hit the ‘Rewind’ button.”

  “Hey, is that really what I look like from behind?”

  Morty reached out and shut off the set. “Awright, enough. Gate opens in just over an hour. Bit of luck this report’ll bring the punters in. If it don’t . . . Well, if it don’t, then we’re packin’ up in the mornin’. Jerry talked to the farmer, says if we can’t pay, then we gotta clear out. We maybe got a place in Greenwood, on a farm about eight miles north a here, says they’ll take us for the resta the week for half the price we woulda hadda pay here.”

  Who stands to gain? Lance asked himself again. And now he knew.

  • • •

  “We’re up against the clock here, Newbie,” Nigel said to Lance as the car drove a little too fast along the winding country roads. In the back of the car, Mary-May sat with Nigel, with Masatoshi behind the wheel. “Mind telling us what we’re doing?”

  “Not yet,” Lance said. “I just want to be sure.” As they drove, he checked the list of directions Jerry had given him. “Should be a sharp turnoff coming up on the left. . . . There it is.”

  Masatoshi eased off the accelerator and slowed the car to a crawl.

  “Nigel’s right,” Masatoshi said. “Gate’s up in less than hour, and we’ve still got to get ready. We’re cutting it close.”

  “Trust me,” Lance said. The car bounced along the unpaved road despite Masatoshi’s best attempts to avoid the potholes. “Let’s see. Wooden gate, painted blue . . . There!”

  Masatoshi pulled the car to a stop next to the gate, and switched off the engine.

  “OK. We need to find this guy,” Lance said. “Nigel, you and Mary-May stay here. Me and Masatoshi will bring him over.” He turned to look at Mary-May. “Don’t want you getting all covered in mud.”

  The old woman smiled and nodded. “Go for it.”

  “And if I’m wrong?”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to talk your way out of it.”

  Lance and Masatoshi climbed out of the car, and Masatoshi easily vaulted over the gate while Lance climbed it.

  “What’s this about, exactly?” Masatoshi asked as they walked toward the small farmhouse.

  “You’ll find out. Your job is to look like you know how to handle yourself.”

  A forty-year-old man in mud-encrusted clothing came out of the house to greet them. “What can I do for you folks?”

  “You’re Mr. Wayers?” Lance asked, extending his hand. “Hunter Washington. I’m with the carnival.”

  The man grinned as he shook Lance’s hand. “So you’re taking me up on my offer?”

  “That’s what we need to talk about,” Lance said. “We’ve got someone in the car we’d like you to meet, if you’ve got a few minutes?”

  When they reached the gate, Mary-May and Nigel were waiting by the car, watching them.

  “Mary-May,” Lance said, “this is Glenn Wayers. He owns this land.”

  Wayers reached over the gate and shook hands with Mary-May, but was staring at Nigel. “Nice to meet you folks.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Got a great spot picked out. Nice hard ground, easy access from the road, and plenty of parking too. Plus my wife’s thinking that she could maybe set up a stall, y’know? We sell eggs, cheese, pickles, preserves. We could even do sandwiches and coffee. I know you got your own food to sell, but it’d look good to be seen supporting local businesses, right?”

  Lance nodded slowly throughout all this, and then said, “We want our money back.”

  Wayers glanced at him, and his smile flickered for a second. “What?”

  Mary-May said, “You paid a man, one of your farmhands . . . to break into Morty’s caravan and take the cashbox.”

  “What are you people talking about?”

  Lance said, “Mary-May’s a psychic. A real, genuine, can-read-your-mind psychic. There’s three ways this can go, Wayers. You give us back the money, plus an extra ten percent to cover Morty’s medical bills, and we leave it at that. Or you can refuse, and we go to the cops. Or, and this one you really don’t want, you can protest vehemently and threaten us, in which case we will take matters into our own hands.”

  Wayers was silent for a few seconds, then said, “I figure there’s a fourth way.” Before Lance could respond, Wayers lashed out
with a right hook aimed directly at Lance’s jaw.

  Lance knocked Wayers’s arm aside with a sweep of his left arm, then slammed his own right fist into Wayers’s face.

  The farmer collapsed backward onto the ground.

  Wow, did I really do that? Lance asked himself. He reached down and grabbed Wayers’s arm, then hauled him to his feet. Blood dripped from the farmer’s nose. “Let me see . . . ,” Lance said. “Hold still, let me see it. I don’t think it’s broken.” He took a step back. “Violence isn’t going to make things go any more smoothly, Wayers. Just give us the money.”

  The man used the back of his hand to wipe the blood from his upper lip. “You can’t prove anything!”

  Mary-May said, “You stole our money because you knew we wouldn’t be able to pay the rental on the field without it, and we’d turn to you for help. For years you’ve seen your neighbor make a nice profit on an otherwise useless field, and you wanted that for yourself. But you’re right. We’ve no physical proof. Except that I know the name of the man you paid to do it. We can give his name to the police. See what happens then.”

  Wayers swore under his breath. “All right. Look, he wasn’t supposed to hurt your boss. He was only supposed to take the money. I’ll talk to him, get him to take it back to you.” He looked at Lance. “It’ll be tomorrow, or the day after. And then we’re even?”

  “Oh, we’re not even. Not by a long way. But we will leave it there, for now. You owe us, Wayers. Maybe next year we will set up on your field, which you’re going to let us have for free.”

  THAT EVENING IN ROEVILLE was considerably more successful than any day during the previous week, with customers already lining up before the gate opened.

  On the following evening, Lance was on the balloon stand just inside the gate, filling the round balloons with helium, and using the long balloons to make animal shapes for the children. He was also acting as a general guide, informing the customers of the times of the various shows and pointing out the locations of the toilets and concession stands.