may just wake up tomorrow and decide she’s out on the street. And if you don’t want my lawyers dragging your red-cheeked ass into court for breach of contract, you’d better put up and shut up until I decide otherwise.”
Hank stood mutely, so incensed he couldn’t speak.
“Now get the hell out of here and grab some sleep.” Coonts gave a nod, as if Hank’s silence meant he’d given in. “I think we’re done yapping.”
Oh, I’m done all right, Hank decided and left the room, taking off as fast as he could before his heart leaped from his chest, before his hands somehow ended up around Coonts’s neck. How had the fat man turned the tables so quickly? Instead of allowing Hank to peacefully resign, Coonts had made it all about control.
And Hank didn’t appreciate being reminded that he wasn’t the one who held the cards in this particular game.
Of course, he told Nadya nothing of the confrontation. Instead, he acted as if Coonts had given them both the green light to electively depart the caravan and start their new lives.
“I think we should pack our bags now,” he said as she pressed her small hands to his chest, such an eager smile on her face that Hank hated to lie. “If all goes well, we may leave tonight.”
That evening when he performed onstage, he was keenly aware of Coonts in the box seats on the balcony to his left. As he chanted and danced, the same anger that had arisen within him in Coonts’s hotel room swirled inside his blood like a fever. The more he tried to bury it, the larger it got, until a mounting pressure swelled in his head as words came out of his mouth that he’d never meant to say, ancient phrases that came from somewhere deep in his subconscious, pleas for the sky and earth to feel the same fury he felt, for the spirits to rise up and assert their true power over man.
Answering his call, the theater lights began to flicker and thunder rumbled through the building, swaying the lamps above and shaking the stage beneath Hank’s feet. The audience gasped and applauded, awestruck, as if it were all part of the act, concocted purely for their enjoyment.
Until the air inside picked up strength and lifted paper programs and wayward kerchiefs, flinging them upward and rotating them like a twister. Above Hank’s head, the velvet curtains billowed and the fog from the dry ice blowers dissipated in the swirl of wind. As a white-hot choler seared his heart, Hank begged the Great Spirit for lightning to strike Coonts’s box. His final, unforgettable act.
Within seconds, a ball of fire appeared out of nowhere, hitting the pillar positioned just beneath Coonts’s box. The flames licked at the painted column below, spitting upward toward the balcony as smoke belched and the audience coughed.
“Help!” people screamed, but Hank barely heard them. He focused solely on Wilbur Coonts, suddenly on his feet and backing away from the gray clouds billowing from below. The man’s mouth moved, cursing him, but his voice was lost in the howl of wind and the frantic cries of the audience.
Hank willed the wind to toss Coonts over the brass rail and into the fire below. As he watched, an invisible hand bent Coonts over the banister while the frightened man desperately tried to hang on.
“Stop this!” Hands grabbed at Hank’s arm, and there was Nadya’s voice, sharp in his ear. “Please,” she begged him, “stop it now!”
Somehow the touch of her hand and the fear in her tone doused the fury inside him, and Hank went still, breathing hard, the swirl of air settling down until the conflagration went out and the howling winds ceased. Though the panicked audience still cried out as they pushed their way toward the exit doors, inside Hank’s mind, all went deathly quiet.
Though the silence existed only for a moment before Coonts began to shake his fist and yell, “You’re done, Chief, you hear me? You’re finished in vaudeville!”
Hank met Nadya’s eyes, and his own filled with
Hank stood mutely, so incensed he couldn’t speak.
“Now get the hell out of here and grab some sleep.” Coonts gave a nod, as if Hank’s silence meant he’d given in. “I think we’re done yapping.”
Oh, I’m done all right, Hank decided and left the room, taking off as fast as he could before his heart leaped from his chest, before his hands somehow ended up around Coonts’s neck. How had the fat man turned the tables so quickly? Instead of allowing Hank to peacefully resign, Coonts had made it all about control.
And Hank didn’t appreciate being reminded that he wasn’t the one who held the cards in this particular game.
Of course, he told Nadya nothing of the confrontation. Instead, he acted as if Coonts had given them both the green light to electively depart the caravan and start their new lives.
“I think we should pack our bags now,” he said as she pressed her small hands to his chest, such an eager smile on her face that Hank hated to lie. “If all goes well, we may leave tonight.”
That evening when he performed onstage, he was keenly aware of Coonts in the box seats on the balcony to his left. As he chanted and danced, the same anger that had arisen within him in Coonts’s hotel room swirled inside his blood like a fever. The more he tried to bury it, the larger it got, until a mounting pressure swelled in his head as words came out of his mouth that he’d never meant to say, ancient phrases that came from somewhere deep in his subconscious, pleas for the sky and earth to feel the same fury he felt, for the spirits to rise up and assert their true power over man.
Answering his call, the theater lights began to flicker and thunder rumbled through the building, swaying the lamps above and shaking the stage beneath Hank’s feet. The audience gasped and applauded, awestruck, as if it were all part of the act, concocted purely for their enjoyment.
Until the air inside picked up strength and lifted paper programs and wayward kerchiefs, flinging them upward and rotating them like a twister. Above Hank’s head, the velvet curtains billowed and the fog from the dry ice blowers dissipated in the swirl of wind. As a white-hot choler seared his heart, Hank begged the Great Spirit for lightning to strike Coonts’s box. His final, unforgettable act.
Within seconds, a ball of fire appeared out of nowhere, hitting the pillar positioned just beneath Coonts’s box. The flames licked at the painted column below, spitting upward toward the balcony as smoke belched and the audience coughed.
“Help!” people screamed, but Hank barely heard them. He focused solely on Wilbur Coonts, suddenly on his feet and backing away from the gray clouds billowing from below. The man’s mouth moved, cursing him, but his voice was lost in the howl of wind and the frantic cries of the audience.
Hank willed the wind to toss Coonts over the brass rail and into the fire below. As he watched, an invisible hand bent Coonts over the banister while the frightened man desperately tried to hang on.
“Stop this!” Hands grabbed at Hank’s arm, and there was Nadya’s voice, sharp in his ear. “Please,” she begged him, “stop it now!”
Somehow the touch of her hand and the fear in her tone doused the fury inside him, and Hank went still, breathing hard, the swirl of air settling down until the conflagration went out and the howling winds ceased. Though the panicked audience still cried out as they pushed their way toward the exit doors, inside Hank’s mind, all went deathly quiet.
Though the silence existed only for a moment before Coonts began to shake his fist and yell, “You’re done, Chief, you hear me? You’re finished in vaudeville!”
Hank met Nadya’s eyes, and his own filled with
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