the simp-hoister.” This was a derogatory term for the Ferris wheel he would have known better than to use if Lane had actually been there. “Beat feet, Jonesy. Got a lot to do today.”
I beat feet, but saw no one at the Spin, which stood tall, still, and silent, waiting for the day’s first customers,
“Over here,” a woman called. I turned to my left and saw Rozzie Gold standing outside her star-studded fortune-telling shy, all kitted out in one of her gauzy Madame Fortuna rigs. On her head was an electric blue scarf, the knotted tail of which fell almost to the small of her back. Lane was standing beside her in his usual rig: faded straight-leg jeans and a skin-tight strappy tee-shirt perfect for showing off his fully loaded guns. His derby was tilted at the proper wiseguy angle. Looking at him, you’d believe he didn’t have a brain in his head, but he had plenty.
Both dressed for show, and both wearing bad-news faces. I ran quickly through the last few days, trying to think of anything I’d done that might account for those faces. It crossed my mind that Lane might have orders to lay me off . . . or even fire me. But at the height of the summer? And wouldn’t that be Fred Dean’s or Brenda Rafferty’s job? Also, why was Rozzie here?
“Who died, guys?” I asked.
“Just as long as it isn’t you,” Rozzie said. She was getting into character for the day and sounded funny: half Brooklyn and half Carpathian Mountains.
“Huh?”
“Walk with us, Jonesy,” Lane said, and immediately started down the midway, which was largely deserted ninety minutes before Early Gate: no one around but a few members of the janitorial staff—gazoonies, in the Talk, and probably not a green card among them—sweeping up around the concessions: work that should have been done the night before. Rozzie made room for me between them when I caught up. I felt like a crook being escorted to the pokey by a couple of cops.
“What’s this about?”
“You’ll see,” Rozzie/Fortuna said ominously and pretty soon I did. Next to Horror House—the two connected, actually—was Mysterio’s Mirror Mansion. Next to the agent’s booth was a regular mirror with a sign over it reading SO YOU WON’T FORGET HOW YOU REALLY LOOK. Lane took me by one arm, Rozzie by the other. Now I really did feel like a perp being brought in for booking. They placed me in front of the mirror.
“What do you see?” Lane asked.
“Me,” I said, and then, because that didn’t seem to be the answer they wanted: “Me needing a haircut.”
“Look at your clothes, silly boy,” Rozzie said, pronouncing the last two words seely poy.
I looked. Above my yellow workboots I saw jeans (with the recommended brand of rawhide gloves sticking out of the back pocket), and above my jeans was a blue chain bray workshirt, faded but reasonably clean. On my head was an admirably battered Howie dogtop, the finishing touch that means so much.
“What about them?” I said. I was starting to get a little mad.
“Kinda hangin on ya, aren’t they?” Lane said. “Didn’t used to. How much weight you lost?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. Maybe we ought to go see Fat Wally.” Fat Wally ran the guess-your-weight joint.
“Is not funny,” Fortuna said. “You can’t wear that damn dog costume half the day under the hot summer sun, then swallow two more salt pills and call it a meal. Mourn your lost love all you want, but eat while you do it. Eat, dammit!”
“Who’s been talking to you? Tom?” No, it wouldn’t have been him. “Erin. She had no business—”
“No one has been talking to me,” Rozzie said. She drew herself up impressively. “I have the sight.”
“I don’t know about the sight, but you’ve got one hell of a nerve.”
All at once she reverted to Rozzie. “I’m not talking about psychic sight, kiddo, I’m talking about ordinary woman-sight. You think I don’t know a lovestruck Romeo when I see one? After all the years I’ve been
I beat feet, but saw no one at the Spin, which stood tall, still, and silent, waiting for the day’s first customers,
“Over here,” a woman called. I turned to my left and saw Rozzie Gold standing outside her star-studded fortune-telling shy, all kitted out in one of her gauzy Madame Fortuna rigs. On her head was an electric blue scarf, the knotted tail of which fell almost to the small of her back. Lane was standing beside her in his usual rig: faded straight-leg jeans and a skin-tight strappy tee-shirt perfect for showing off his fully loaded guns. His derby was tilted at the proper wiseguy angle. Looking at him, you’d believe he didn’t have a brain in his head, but he had plenty.
Both dressed for show, and both wearing bad-news faces. I ran quickly through the last few days, trying to think of anything I’d done that might account for those faces. It crossed my mind that Lane might have orders to lay me off . . . or even fire me. But at the height of the summer? And wouldn’t that be Fred Dean’s or Brenda Rafferty’s job? Also, why was Rozzie here?
“Who died, guys?” I asked.
“Just as long as it isn’t you,” Rozzie said. She was getting into character for the day and sounded funny: half Brooklyn and half Carpathian Mountains.
“Huh?”
“Walk with us, Jonesy,” Lane said, and immediately started down the midway, which was largely deserted ninety minutes before Early Gate: no one around but a few members of the janitorial staff—gazoonies, in the Talk, and probably not a green card among them—sweeping up around the concessions: work that should have been done the night before. Rozzie made room for me between them when I caught up. I felt like a crook being escorted to the pokey by a couple of cops.
“What’s this about?”
“You’ll see,” Rozzie/Fortuna said ominously and pretty soon I did. Next to Horror House—the two connected, actually—was Mysterio’s Mirror Mansion. Next to the agent’s booth was a regular mirror with a sign over it reading SO YOU WON’T FORGET HOW YOU REALLY LOOK. Lane took me by one arm, Rozzie by the other. Now I really did feel like a perp being brought in for booking. They placed me in front of the mirror.
“What do you see?” Lane asked.
“Me,” I said, and then, because that didn’t seem to be the answer they wanted: “Me needing a haircut.”
“Look at your clothes, silly boy,” Rozzie said, pronouncing the last two words seely poy.
I looked. Above my yellow workboots I saw jeans (with the recommended brand of rawhide gloves sticking out of the back pocket), and above my jeans was a blue chain bray workshirt, faded but reasonably clean. On my head was an admirably battered Howie dogtop, the finishing touch that means so much.
“What about them?” I said. I was starting to get a little mad.
“Kinda hangin on ya, aren’t they?” Lane said. “Didn’t used to. How much weight you lost?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. Maybe we ought to go see Fat Wally.” Fat Wally ran the guess-your-weight joint.
“Is not funny,” Fortuna said. “You can’t wear that damn dog costume half the day under the hot summer sun, then swallow two more salt pills and call it a meal. Mourn your lost love all you want, but eat while you do it. Eat, dammit!”
“Who’s been talking to you? Tom?” No, it wouldn’t have been him. “Erin. She had no business—”
“No one has been talking to me,” Rozzie said. She drew herself up impressively. “I have the sight.”
“I don’t know about the sight, but you’ve got one hell of a nerve.”
All at once she reverted to Rozzie. “I’m not talking about psychic sight, kiddo, I’m talking about ordinary woman-sight. You think I don’t know a lovestruck Romeo when I see one? After all the years I’ve been
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