Fortune (5 page)

But detest Rick or not, she was part of the troupe. And he needed her help.

Skye took one last look at the direction the mystery kid had disappeared, sighed and turned back to Rick. “Go already. But hurry back. I've got things to do.”

C
hance had taken one last glance behind him—the woman at the concession stand appeared to have forgotten all about him—and tossed the remainder of his perfectly edible hot dog in the trash.

This had to work. Abner Marvel had to give him a job.

He had no contingency plan.

Chance wiped his damp palms on the thighs of his newly resurrected blue jeans. He had dug them, a T-shirt and the remainder of his pre-Lancaster County things out of storage, dressed, packed, then written his aunt and her husband a note. Then he had headed out into the night to hitch a ride.

From there he had winged it. The food-poisoning routine had been a last, desperate attempt to find a way to get to the carnival's owner. Before he had come up with that scheme, he had asked a half-dozen carnival employees who the owner/manager was and where he could find him; each time, his inquiry had been met with surliness and suspicion. All had told him the same thing—no jobs available.

Then he had realized his mistake. He had done it all wrong—to get to the owner he needed something better than the truth, he needed a scam.

If there was one thing people understood, it was liability. If nothing else, Chance had learned that from his father. The bastard had considered Chance a liability. And nothing else.

Thus the rotten-meat routine had been born.

Determination swelled inside him. Confidence with it. Chance shifted the strap of his duffel bag, inching it higher on his shoulder, and picked up his pace, anxious to secure his future.

Chance made his way down the wide, crowded midway. People streamed around him, laughing with each other, jostling him as they passed. Garish pink, green and yellow neon lights illuminated the moonless night. The scent of popcorn made his mouth water. Rock music blared, a different song from every dizzily spinning ride. Carnies called out lewd greetings to one another; with each revolution of the hammerhead and tilt-a-whirl, girls screamed. The sounds blended together creating a strange, at once ugly and exciting mix.

A group of rowdy teenagers pushed past him. One of the girls giggled and glanced back at him, but not in admiration, Chance knew. He had grown taller in the year he had been imprisoned at his aunt's, his shoulders had broadened, his chest thickened. Consequently, his denims were too short, his T-shirt too tight; he hadn't even been able to get his feet into his old Nikes, so he'd been forced to wear his farm-boy work boots. He looked like a total nerd.

Chance stiffened, straightening his shoulders. Not for long, he vowed silently. He was going places; he was going to be somebody important. Someday, girls like those would look at him and wish, pray even, that he would look back.

Up ahead he saw the little top, as the woman had called it. Actually, there were several tents of varying sizes at the end of the runway. Chance decided to try the one dead center first. It was empty save for a man sweeping trash from ringside. Chance hesitated a moment, eyeing the burly man. It seemed doubtful that this was the carnival's owner, but he might know where Abner Marvel was.

Chance moved farther into the tent. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I'm—”

“The next show's not for an hour,” the man said, not glancing up. “Come back then.”

“I'm not here to see the show.” Chance swaggered toward the man. “I'm looking for the boss.”

“That so? The boss?” Chance earned a glance. The man's face could only be described as battered. It looked as if his head had once played ball to someone's bat and the exchange had left his entire face pushed in.

“That's right. You know where I might find him?”

The man swept his gaze over him, head to foot, real leisurely-like. He was built like a gorilla, thick and strong, and he was looking at Chance as if he might want to flatten him. No doubt it had been his pleasure to have flattened many punks in his day.

“You already did,” he said.

“You're Abner Marvel?”

At the obvious disbelief in his tone, the man's mouth twitched. “None other. And who are you?”

“Chance McCord.” Chance held out his hand, but the man ignored it, going back to his sweeping.

“What can I do for you, Chance McCord?”

“I'm looking for a job.”

“Figured as much. What kind of job you looking for?”

“Any kind.”

“Figured that, too.” The man eyed Chance again, sizing him up once more, his expression openly doubtful. He arched his eyebrows. “You eighteen?”

“Just last month,” Chance lied. He would turn eighteen in October.

“Funny, I'd have guessed you to be younger than that.”

Chance squared his shoulders and stuck out his jaw. “Well, I'm not. And I'm a hard worker.”

“Your parents know you're here? They know you're wantin' to run off and join the carnival?”

“I don't have any parents.” Chance cocked up his chin. “I've been living with my aunt.”

The man cleared his throat, turned his head, spit out a wad of phlegm, then looked at Chance once more. “She know?”

“She doesn't have to. I'm eighteen.”

“So you said.” Mr. Marvel shook his head. “What makes you think you can handle a job with my show? The boys here have been around. They play pretty rough.”

“So do I. I've been around.”

“Right.” He spit again, this time with flourish. “You Amish?” He pronounced the word with a short A.

“My aunt is. I'm not.”

“And I take it you don't have any carnival experience?”

“No, sir.”

The man shook his head again. “Look, kid, I've seen a whole lotta shit during my years on the circuit. A whole lotta ugly shit. Been in the business as long as I can remember, my old man was a showman, his old man before him. I got this place from them. It's in my blood. But if it wasn't, I'd be outta here.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

He looked Chance in the eye. “There're lots of other things a boy like you can do with your life. Go do one of 'em. Go home. Go back to the farm. I don't need any help.”

“I need a job.” Chance took a step toward the man, not too proud to beg. “I have to have one. I'll work hard. You'll see.”

“Everybody with my troupe works hard. Sorry, kid.” The man spit another wad of phlegm, this time directly into the pile of swept trash. “Maybe next year.”

He turned and walked away. Chance stared after him, stunned, disbelieving. Just like that, and he was screwed.
Back to the farm with you, kid. Back to hell on earth.

“Wait!” Chance hurried after the man. “I'll do anything, the dirtiest most low-down job you have. Just give me a chance.”

Abner Marvel's ugly face actually seemed to soften. He shook his head. “Look, kid, I've got nothin'. No jobs. I'm sorry.”

“But…somebody might quit tonight,” he said, grasping at straws. “They might get fired. It's good to have an extra person, just in case.”

“Can't afford a ‘just in case.'” The momentary sympathy Chance had seen on the man's face was replaced with annoyance. “Look, nobody quits midseason. Nobody in their right mind, anyway. We come all the way up here to God's country from our winter quarters in Florida, and none of my boys wants to get caught without a way back. And the only thing that'll get one of this crew fired is drinking, fighting and hittin' on the local jailbait. None of my boys been doin' that either, at least not that I've seen. They know better. Is that plain enough for you?”

He jerked his thumb toward the door. “Go on now. Get lost. I've got things to do.”

This time Chance did not follow Abner Marvel. The carnival's owner had made it clear that he was not going to give Chance a job.

Unless one suddenly opened up. Unless a miracle happened.

A miracle.

Chance narrowed his eyes. There had to be a way. He wasn't going to be like his mother and spend his life wishing for the things he didn't have, the opportunities that had never come his way.

Sometimes in life, you had to make your own opportunities. Your own miracles.

His mother hadn't understood that. He did.

Chance turned and headed back out to the midway. He wandered the wide aisle, aware of each minute ticking past. Tonight was the carnival's last night in Lancaster County. Tomorrow would be too late.

From the shooting-gallery booth to his right, Chance became aware of arguing. He shifted his attention to the two carnies working it. One was taunting the other with a tale of a sexual exploit—with the girl the other wanted.

“You see this, asshole?” The uglier of the two boys held up a plastic sandwich bag he'd dug from his back pocket. “When Marlene gets a look at this, you won't have another chance with her. So you better remember what she tasted like, 'cause that's the only taste you're going to get.”

The second boy guffawed, “Yeah, right. Like
one
joint is really going to impress her.”

Several players stepped up to the booth, and the first boy tucked his bag behind the wooden ticket box. Chance watched the two as they helped the players, noting how, as each moved by the other in the booth, they delivered surreptitious blows, jabs and obscenities to the other.

Chance eyed the boys, an idea occurring to him. The two had been drinking; Chance was certain of it. Their tempers were short, their inhibitions dulled by drink. If the bag and joint disappeared, the first boy would blame the second and a fight was sure to break out.

Of course, if he got caught, they would beat the crap out of him and he would be tossed off the carnival lot. But if he didn't…

This might be his only shot. He had to take it.

He watched. And waited. The opportunity presented itself—in the form of the fought-over Marlene. Personally, except for the pair of awesome hooters covered by a severely overextended tube top, Chance didn't see what all the fuss was about.

While the two teenagers fell all over themselves, completely ignoring their crowded booth to compete for the girl's attention, Chance reached over the partition and snatched the bag and joint. Heart thundering, he stuffed it into his right front pocket and moved as quickly as he could away from the booth.

But not too far away. He had to be around for the fireworks.

They weren't long in coming. As soon as Marlene walked away, the two boys began bickering over who she liked best. Moments later, Chance heard a howl of rage and a shouted obscenity.

“Motherfuckin' asshole! Where is it?”

“Where's what?”

“My bag, you asswipe.” The outraged carny advanced on the other, fists clenched. “Give it back.”

“I don't have your stupid little prize. I'm the one who doesn't need it. Remember?” He smirked at his rival, then turned away. “Jerk.”

With a howl of fury, the first teenager leaped onto the back of the other. “Give it back or I'll beat the shit out of you!”

“Get off me, you son of a bitch!” The kid threw his rider, turned and swung a fist. It connected, and the first boy stumbled backward, then righted himself and charged like a bull at the other boy. He caught him dead in the ribs and the two went careening backward into the booth's shanty-style wall. It toppled. A woman screamed. A child began to cry. The two carnies rolled on the ground, tangled with each other in a death grip, shouting obscenities and delivering blows as best they could.

“That's enough!”

The bellow came from Abner Marvel as he charged around the side of the booth directly across the midway, a baseball bat in hand. With him were two other men, as big and burly as Marvel, also wielding bats. How the old showman controlled his rowdy crew was obvious, and Chance took another step backward.

“Get up! Both of you.”

The boys immediately broke apart and scrambled to their feet. One's nose was bloodied, the other's eye had already started to purple and swell. From the way the teenagers cowered, Chance suspected that Abner Marvel wouldn't hesitate to take a swing with that bat.

A trick he had probably learned from his father.

“He stole from me!” The first boy pointed accusingly at the second. “He deliberately stol—”

“I didn't take nothin'! He's just jealous 'cause Marlene—”

“Shut up!” Abner Marvel bellowed, his face crimson with rage. “Both of you. Pack your things. I've taken all I'm going to from you two, you're out of here!”

The two rowdies' expressions went slack at the news, then in unison they began begging to keep their jobs. The old carny didn't budge. “You're out,” he said again, this time calmly. “You know the rules about fighting. Now get, before I decide I have to use this.” He slapped the wooden bat against his palm. “Stop by my trailer and collect your pay on your way off the lot.”