The Bear in a Muddy Tutu (8 page)

“The first piece of shit who gets caught with a
fourteen
-y
ear
-o
ld local
gets strung up by the balls from this rope
.
”
Enzo
Pisani dropp
ed
a thin coil of nylon rope at his feet. The brothers had called the usual pre-opening meeting in the bleachers of one of the main tents. “Bugger their wives and grannies all the goddamn much you want, but I’ll rip the nuts off the next one of you who messes with a kid.
Understood?
”

Pinhead, named for hundreds of scalp and face piercings
—
several were always infected
—
held up his hand, but the surrounding freaks elbowed him and nudged his
piercings
, so he put it back down. His wisecrack about whether hand jobs should be considered sex had sent both old Pisanis right over the edge last time.

“I want zero trouble from the law,
”
Donato Pisani said. “No fights, no boozing, and
if
anyone gets in trouble outside this parking lot, you better pray to God I don’t find out you told them you worked for us. Got that?
”

There was enough general mumbling for
Enzo
to continue
.
“
We open at three tomorrow with games and rides, right after the little shits get outta school
. Pe
rformers who don’t need
makeup will take first shift on games, while you barkers are on shit patrol until it gets dark. Enrique’s cannon goes off at eight, followed by the main events. I know you ain’t got any questions, so get the fuck outta here and finish settin’ up.
”

“Hold up!
”
Donato shouted, and the barkers and ticket sellers who’d already made it out of the tent stuck their heads back in to hear the old man, lit cigarette hanging from
his
lips. “This is a good gig we got here, people. This one could be gold if some dumbass do
es
n’t screw it up. We got
a permit for two weeks, and there’s
word
’
bout another circus on har
d times down in Delaware lookin’
to sell two Africans.
”

“We gettin’ slaves,
bo
ss?
”
asked one of the two mechanics.

“African Elephants, you fuckwit,
”
Enzo
shouted. “And you know what that means?
”

The barkers who had afternoon shit patrol cringed.

“Means we could be in the big time soon,
”
Donato answered. “Means we triple the head count and make some real money.

“Now get the fuck outta here!
”
ordered
Enzo
, and they did.

Billy Wayne had even less experience with guns than he did with women. He’d never touched a gun, or even seen
a real
one
other than
the game warden’s and
those strapped in
police holsters. But just like with women, it
turned out that anyone could
possess a gun with the right amount of cash.

Convenience was also something money could buy. An extra eighty dollars bought him the privilege of shopping in the back room of a pawn shop, where
“
preferred
”
customers could make purchases without the hassle of paperwork.

It took Billy Wayne almost an hour and a half to
find the Parkway and then the Expressway, crossing the long marshy flats into Atlantic City.
T
here was something magical about the place. Not so much the tenements and abandoned cars, but all the names were the same as on the
Monopoly board in his bedroom back
home. He sometimes played for hours against himself, since the game had too many small pieces for his mother’s sausage-like fingers to manipulate, and the game board didn’t fit
right
on her TV tray. Billy Wayne built houses and hotels, owned
railroads
, a
nd
forced himself to pay to get out of jail. He sometimes wondered if Betty Katz liked Monopoly
a
nd maybe would have played with him.

Steering with his left knee,
Billy Wayne
reread the directions
written in the squiggly, drunken script of the game warden, as he guided his Dart down busy Atlantic
Avenue searching for
the U Pawn-It Store
sign
. He certainly didn’t expect to see so many black people. Billy Wayne was nervous around black people, especially
those
who sounded like they might be from Haiti. There were more Haitians living near his mother’s house than all the other foreigners combined, and Billy Wayne didn’t trust them one bit. It was the tone of voice from the women who waited for their laundry to tumble dry. They sat with their hair wrapped in dingy cloth, smoking
harsh
-
smelling, unfiltered
cigarettes, and eyeing him like he was a suspicious piece of meat.
Billy Wayne’s mother had told him about voodoo
and how these women might decide to snatch some of your hair and make a little doll with it, if they caught you looking at them. Once the doll was made, they’d stick pins in your eyes and twist your legs all the way around
—
whatever they wanted. Billy Wayne walked pas
t
them as fast as he could, his hands cupping his eyes as if he were trying to see through a dark window. The
women
had laughed at him, but they’d never gotten
any of
his hair.

He also didn’t expect all the Mexicans and circus people at the hotel he checked into
—him and his
shiny Smith & Wesson .38 Special
,
a box of bullets stuffed inside his Samsonite. The Lucky Dollar Casino had a weekly room rate of $125, which gave Billy Wayne plenty of time to unearth some disciples and begin his new life.

Now he was packing heat and feeling wonderfully safe, a swagger in his step for the first time.
No
more panicky
fast walking for Billy Wayne Hooduk.
The feelings associated with becoming a gun owner were both surprising and edifying. Billy Wayne feared nothing, despite the exotic salsa music and strange c
ooking smells seeping out from behind t
he doors as he
hunted
for ro
om
1
427. Having such stored power at his finger tips
—
should he unlatch his suitcase and load his gun
—
heightened his senses, lengthened his stride. He was James Bond.
He was Superman.

The carpet underfoot was so worn it had no real color remaining, and half the lights in the hallway were dark. The gold
-
and
-
white
-
flowered wallpaper was frayed and peeling near the sconces, giving Billy Wayne the impression of an old wild west saloon, upstairs where the loose women serviced cowboys, like in the movies. All the muffled
Spanish swearing gave it
a Tex-Mex aura,
like
a
saloon at the Alamo, Billy Wayne fancied.
He was Davy Crockett, or maybe Sam Bowie
…
no, he was Billy the Kid!

Texas or Atlantic City, this
was the f
a
rthest Billy Wayne had ever been from home. The f
a
rthest he’d been from his mother. And as he turned the room key and stepped inside, some of Billy Wayne’s exaltation shrank a little, drained away by the sight of the small, boxy
,
steaming
-
hot
room
.

He unpacked his Samsonite
—
filling one drawer with his four good shirts and two pairs of slacks
—
and cranked the dial on the air conditioner to high. He wrapped his new gun and bullets in a towel from the bathroom, then tucked them back into the suitcase. Then, worried the maid would hunt for the missing towel, he unwrapped the gun and bullets and stood at the foot of the bed, turning in a slow circle, holding the gun as if ready to blast away.

Billy Wayne dropped to his knees
a
nd shoved the gun
between
the m
attress
and box spring, as far as he could reach.

Satisfied, he stood and carefully removed his dark blue suit jacket, the back and armpits sweat-soaked, and used a woo
den h
anger
to hang it
in the narrow closet. He unbuttoned his best shirt and folded it on the bathroom counter, with plans to rinse it out later. He draped his pants over a chair next to the bed, then flicked on the television and stood scratching his testicles
through his white underpants
. The tube warmed up and showed a snowy Phillies baseball game.

Not able to follow the action and not really liking baseball anyway, Billy Wayne sat at the foot of the bed
and
flip
ped
through his book.

Step number thirteen
in
How
t
o
Become
a
Cult Leader
i
n 50 Easy Steps
:
“Always be alert for opportunities to display your eminen
ce
. Put out a small fire, deliver a baby, or stop a purse snatching. Purchase a container of pepper spray
and
a small fire extinguisher and consider a
midwif
ery
course at your local health clinic or community college.
”

He was sure he’d never be able to deliver a baby without passing out or throwing up
a
nd was afraid
that if
he  start
ed
a fire
, it might get out of control and he
wouldn’t be able to put it out. He’d gone through a bit of a fire
-
starting stage as a teenager and didn’t want to risk tapping those old
compulsions
. Having the gun was already a better rush than setting things on fire,
even
without shooting at something.

Stopping a crime sounded intriguing and much more like
ly now that he owned the weapon
. Billy Wayne fantasized about walking into a bank during a hold
up
. The lone masked robber would have forced everyone to the floor, waving his own puny gun
,
much smaller than Billy Wayne’s. When the robber demanded Billy Wayne get down, he would just stand the
re, glaring, refusing to obey. He
’d
show off a deadly,
quiet strength
,
just like when his dad had kicked him and his mom out. Instead of cowering on the floor with all the others, Billy Wayne would reach into his holster
,
pull out his .38
,
and take aim.

“Go ahead,
”
Billy Wayne would whisper harshly
,
“
make
my day.
”

And every person in the bank would love Billy Wayne Hooduk. He would be an instant hero,
bigger than
a
movie
star. His picture would be on the front page of all the newspapers.
He
would use the reward money for a down payment on a secluded cabin out in the Pinelands, where people would beg to come and stay, just to be in Billy Wayne’
s presence and listen to his preaching, whatever that might be
.
He made a note to start trying to fill out that section of his book, since his time was getting closer and closer. A
scension
, was what his book called it.

The empty ice bucket in the bathroom reminded Billy Wayne of the humming machines next to the elevator. He grabbed the brown plastic bucket and leaned back into the closet
to rummage
for change and dollar bills in
his
pockets,
snatched
the key off the dresser top, and headed for the door. Billy Wayne paused, looking down over his
pale round
belly toward his dingy briefs
, then back across the room to where his pants
were draped over a chair
.
He
decided it wasn’t worth the trouble
;
the elevator wasn’t that far. He pulled open the door, ice bucket held like a football, and scurried toward the
vending
machines.

The ice dispenser
was unplugged
;
a note had been torn from over the
bucket cradle
with only the top left corner and a piece of tape remaining.
A
ll six little lights glowed red to indicate the Coke machine was
also empty
. Billy Wayne went to work at the snack machine, feeding dollar bills and
pressing buttons for
three Snickers bars, two
small bags of Doritos,
and chocolate covered
pr
etzels
. C
arefully packing them in the ice bucket
, h
e
t
urned to hurry back to his room
but
stumbled
on
a
n upright
vacuum cleaner abandoned in the hallway
, its cord a long gray snake coiled
, dangling
from the handle
.
Billy Wayne searched the deep shadows all around, almost expecting something terrible to step out and reach for him.
Then h
e
scampered barefoot toward his room, ice bucket clutched to his chest
. The
muffled music
was louder
and food smells more pungent than earlier
;
they
seemed to close in on him
.
His hands were shaking as he
fumbled
to get the key into the lock and
wondered why he hadn’t thought to bring his gun.

But t
he food made him feel better
,
and his thumping heart slowed back down with each bite. Chocolate worked like a medicine, his mother had told him, although he couldn’t remember exactly what it did.
In the bathroom h
e
drank two glasses of water
, went back and swept crumbs from the bedspread
and plopped down.

Room
1
427 was clean enough, but everything was threadbare, and every sharp edge looked as if it had been gnawed on. Billy Wayne stooped forward to twist the
volume
all the way down on the television
. D
ropping
the
book to his side
, h
e collapsed back on the orange b
ed
sp
rea
d, letting the cold air drift over his body, imagining these rooms filled with lost souls just waiting for someone to love and adore. They were waiting for someone like him.

The ceiling was
a
rough popcorn texture with flecks of glitter, now yellow from cigarette smoke
. T
iny cobwebs drift
ed
back and forth
in
the moving air.
If you s
quint
ed
, the ceiling
became
a moonscape, or what sand looked like after a rainstorm.