Crackpot Palace by Jeffrey Ford Page A

hand. He’d pour lighter fluid on them and then turn on the range and light them off the burner. He had a small blond ponytail and a beat-up face, broken nose, and scar tissue around the eyes. He was a lackluster showman. His approach was to say, “I’m gonna eat fire now,” in a low, placid voice, and then he ate it.
    After you’ve seen someone eat fire once, there’s not much else to it. I watched him eat fire five times, and by the fourth time, even though nobody left, nobody was clapping, either. I had cold beer on my mind, so, after the fifth time, I said in a loud voice, “All right, let’s get on with it.” To my surprise, people started leaving the kitchen. The fire-eater tried to see who’d said it, but I kept my gaze down and pushed gently forward.
    I found the cooler of beer out on the patio. It was filled with ice and Rolling Rock. I took one and sat down at a glass-topped table, on a wrought-iron chair with arms my fat ass barely fit between. I was alone out there in the dark. The night was cool but pleasant, and I could feel the sweat drying. Someone had left behind a pack of cigarettes, Lucky Strikes (I didn’t know they still made them), and a lighter. That beer tasted like heaven, and the cig wasn’t far behind. I took out my cell phone and dialed Lynn.
    It rang and rang, and then she answered. “Where are you?” she said.
    I told her, “I’m out on the patio, having a beer.”
    â€œThe show’s going to start any minute,” she said. “I got us a table.”
    â€œYou can’t believe how big the place is,” I said. “How many people are here. It took me forever to get to the food table.”
    â€œBring me a beer,” she said.
    â€œWill do. And listen, if I don’t get back in time and the smartest man in the world answers your question, don’t let him touch you.” There was silence from the other end of the line. I said her name a couple of times, but it was clear that either we’d been cut off or she’d thought we were through and hung up.
    I put the cigarettes and lighter in one jacket pocket, and then took another beer and put that in my other jacket pocket. I put my smoke out in a planter at the edge of the patio and then turned to head back in. As I moved toward the house, I saw the smartest man in the world’s face at the window of the door. He smiled at me and waved before looking down, as if he was going to open it and come out. An instant later he was gone. I tried the doorknob and realized that what he’d done was lock it. When I knocked on the door, I looked inside and saw the kitchen was completely empty.
    I heard a window opening above me on the second floor. I backed onto the patio and looked up. The smartest man in the world poked his head out. He was again wearing his top hat. “Perhaps like in Chaucer’s ‘Miller’s Tale’ you can climb up here and kiss my hairy ass,” he said.
    â€œLet me in,” I said.
    â€œThere’s a reason they call me the smartest man in the world,” he said. “The show starts in ten minutes.”
    â€œI’m going to call the cops,” I told him.
    â€œDornsberry says you’re a pussy,” said the smartest man.
    â€œI’ll kill you both,” I shouted.
    â€œNo you won’t. Now hurry around front and pay again to be let in. You might catch me answering your wife’s question.” I heard Dornsberry’s laughter in the background. The window shut with a bang.
    I took out my cell phone, but when I flipped it open it was dead. “Shit,” I said, and headed for the edge of the patio. Only then did I notice that the side of the house butted up against the edge of a forest. In the moonlight I could make out tall pine trees in both directions. There was a path that went either around the back of the place through the trees or, in the other direction, to the front of the