Joyland (20 page)

I could have pointed out that Pop had told me Lane Hardy would be in charge of my schedule after he, Pop, was gone, but kept my lip zipped. No sense making a bad situation worse. As to why Eddie had taken a dislike to me, that was obvious. Eddie was an equal-opportunity disliker. I’d go to Lane if life with Eddie got too hard, but only as a last resort. My father had taught me—mostly by example—that if a man wanted to be in charge of his life, he had to be in charge of his problems.

“What have you got for me, Mr. Parks?”

“Plenty. I want you to get a tub of Turtle Wax from the supply shed to start with, and don’t be lingerin down there to shoot the shit with any of your pals, either. Then I want you to go on in Horra and wax all them cars.” Except, of course, he said it
caaas.
“You know we wax ’em once the season’s over, don’t you?

“Actually I didn’t.”

“Jesus Christ, you kids.” He stomped on his cigarette butt, then lifted the apple-box he was sitting on enough to toss it under. As if that would make it gone. “You want to really put some elbow-grease into it, kiddo, or I’ll send you back in to do it again. You got that?”

“I got it.”

“Good for you.” He stuck another cigarette in his gob, then fumbled in his pants pocket for his lighter. With the gloves on, it took him awhile. He finally got it, flicked back the lid, then stopped. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Then get going. Flip on the house lights so you can see what the fuck you’re doing. You know where the switches are, don’t you?”

I didn’t, but I’d find them without his help. “Sure.”

He eyed me sourly. “Ain’t you the smart one.”
Smaaat.

I found a metal box marked LTS on the wall between the Wax Museum and the Barrel and Bridge Room. I opened it and flipped up all the switches with the heel of my hand. Horror House should have lost all of its cheesy/sinister mystique with all the house lights on, but somehow didn’t. There were still shadows in the corners, and I could hear the wind—quite strong that morning—blowing outside the joint’s thin wooden walls and rattling a loose board somewhere. I made a mental note to track it down and fix it.

I had a wire basket swinging from one hand. It was filled with clean rags and a giant economy-size can of Turtle Wax. I carried it through the Tilted Room—now frozen on a starboard slant—and into the arcade. I looked at the Skee-Ball machines and remembered Erin’s disapproval:
Don’t they know that’s a complete butcher’s game?
I smiled at the memory, but my heart was beating hard. I knew what I was going to do when I’d finished my chore, you see.

The cars, twenty in all, were lined up at the loading point. Ahead, the tunnel leading into the bowels of Horror House was lit by a pair of bright white work lights instead of flashing strobes. It looked a lot more prosaic that way.

I was pretty sure Eddie hadn’t so much as swiped the little cars with a damp rag all summer long, and that meant I had to start by washing them down. Which also meant fetching soap powder from the supply shed and carrying buckets of water from the nearest working tap. By the time I had all twenty cars washed and rinsed off, it was break-time, but I decided to work right through instead of going out to the backyard or down to the boneyard for coffee. I might meet Eddie at either place, and I’d listened to enough of his grouchy bullshit for one morning. I set to work polishing instead, laying the Turtle Wax on thick and then buffing it off, moving from car to car, making them shine in the overhead lights until they looked new again. Not that the next crowd of thrill-seekers would notice as they crowded in for their nine-minute ride. My own gloves were ruined by the time I was finished. I’d have to buy a new pair at the hardware store in town, and good ones didn’t come cheap. I amused myself briefly by imagining how Eddie would react if I asked him to pay for them.

I stashed my basket of dirty rags and Turtle Wax (the can now mostly empty) by the exit door in the arcade. It was ten past noon, but right then food wasn’t what I was hungry for. I tried to stretch the ache out of my arms and legs, then went back to the loading-point. I paused to admire the cars gleaming mellowly beneath the lights, then walked slowly along the track and into Horror House proper.

I had to duck my head when I passed beneath the Screaming Skull, even though it was now pulled up and locked in its home position. Beyond it was the Dungeon, where the live talent from Eddie’s Team Doberman had tried (and mostly succeeded) in scaring the crap out of children of all ages with their moans and howls. Here I could straighten up again, because it was a tall room. My footfalls echoed on a wooden floor painted to look like stone. I could hear my breathing. It sounded harsh and dry. I was scared, okay? Tom had told me to stay away from this place, but Tom didn’t run my life any more than Eddie Parks did. I had the Doors, and I had Pink Floyd, but I wanted more. I wanted Linda Gray.

Between the Dungeon and the Torture Chamber, the track descended and described a double-S curve where the cars picked up speed and whipped the riders back and forth. Horror House was a dark ride, but when it was in operation, this stretch was the only completely dark part. It had to be where the girl’s killer had cut her throat and dumped her body. How quick he must have been, and how certain of exactly what he was going to do! Beyond the last curve, riders were dazzled by a mix of stuttering, multi-colored strobes. Although Tom had never said it in so many words, I was positive it was where he had seen what he’d seen.

I walked slowly down the double-S, thinking it would not be beyond Eddie to hear me and shut off the overhead work-lights as a joke. To leave me in here to feel my way past the murder site with only the sound of the wind and that one slapping board to keep me company. And suppose . . . just suppose . . . a young girl’s hand reached out in that darkness and took mine, the way Erin had taken my hand that last night on the beach?

The lights stayed on. No bloody shirt and gloves appeared beside the track, glowing spectrally. And when I came to what I felt sure was the right spot, just before the entrance to the Torture Chamber, there was no ghost-girl holding her hands out to me.

Yet something was there. I knew it then and I know it now. The air was colder. Not cold enough to see my breath, but yes, definitely colder. My arms and legs and groin all prickled with gooseflesh, and the hair at the nape of my neck stiffened.

“Let me see you,” I whispered, feeling foolish and terrified. Wanting it to happen, hoping it wouldn’t.

There was a sound. A long, slow sigh. Not a human sigh, not in the least. It was as if someone had opened an invisible steam-valve. Then it was gone. There was no more. Not that day.

“Took you long enough,” Eddie said when I finally reappeared at quarter to one. He was seated on the same apple-box, now with the remains of a BLT in one hand and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in the other. I was filthy from the neck down. Eddie, on the other hand, looked fresh as a daisy.

“The cars were pretty dirty. I had to wash them before I could wax them.”

Eddie hawked back phlegm, twisted his head, and spat. “If you want a medal, I’m fresh out. Go find Hardy. He says it’s time to drain the irry-gation system. That should keep a lag-ass like you busy until quittin time. If it don’t, come see me and I’ll find something else for you to do. I got a whole list, believe me.”

“Okay.” I started off, glad to be going.

“Kiddo!”

I turned back reluctantly.

“Did you see her in there?”

“Huh?”

He grinned unpleasantly. “Don’t ‘huh’ me. I know what you were doin. You weren’t the first, and you won’t be the last. Did you see her?”

“Have
you
ever seen her?”

“Nope.” He looked at me, sly little gimlet eyes peering out of a narrow sunburned face. How old was he? Thirty? Sixty? It was impossible to tell, just as it was impossible to tell if he was speaking the truth. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be away from him. He gave me the creeps.

Eddie raised his gloved hands. “The guy who did it wore a pair of these. Did you know that?”

I nodded. “Also an extra shirt.”

“That’s right.” His grin widened. “To keep the blood off. And it worked, didn’t it? They never caught him. Now get out of here.”

When I got to the Spin, only Lane’s shadow was there to greet me. The man it belonged to was halfway up the wheel, climbing the struts. He tested each steel crosspiece before he put his weight on it. A leather toolkit hung on one hip, and every now and then he reached into it for a socket wrench. Joyland only had a single dark ride, but almost a dozen so-called high rides, including the Spin, the Zipper, the Thunderball, and the Delirium Shaker. There was a three-man maintenance crew that checked them each day before Early Gate during the season, and of course there were visits (both announced and unannounced) from the North Carolina State Inspector of Amusements, but Lane said a ride-jock who didn’t check his ride himself was both lazy and irresponsible. Which made me wonder when Eddie Parks had last ridden in one of his own
caaas
and safety-checked the
baaas.

Lane looked down, saw me, and shouted: “Did that ugly sonofabitch ever give you a lunch break?”

“I worked through it,” I called back. “Lost track of time.” But now I
was
hungry.

“There’s some tuna-and-macaroni salad in my doghouse, if you want it. I made up way too much last night.”

I went into the little control shack, found a good-sized Tupper-ware container, and popped it open. By the time Lane was back on the ground, the tuna-and-macaroni was in my stomach and I was tamping it down with a couple of leftover Fig Newtons.

“Thanks, Lane. That was tasty.”

“Yeah, I’ll make some guy a good wife someday. Gimme some of those Newtons before they all go down your throat.”

I handed over the box. “How’s the ride?”

“The Spin is tight and the Spin is right. Want to help me work on the engine for a while after you’ve digested a little?”

“Sure.”

He took off his derby and spun it on his finger. His hair was pulled back in a tight little ponytail, and I noticed a few threads of white in the black. They hadn’t been there at the start of the summer—I was quite sure of it. “Listen, Jonesy, Eddie Parks is carny-from-carny, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s one mean-ass sonofabitch. In his eyes, you got two strikes against you: you’re young and you’ve been educated beyond the eighth grade. When you get tired of taking his shit, tell me and I’ll get him to back off.”

“Thanks, but I’m okay for now.”

“I know you are. I’ve been watching how you handle yourself, and I’m impressed. But Eddie’s not your average bear.”

“He’s a bully,” I said.

“Yeah, but here’s the good news: like with most bullies, you scratch the surface and find pure chickenshit underneath. Usually not very far underneath, either. There are people on the show he’s afraid of, and I happen to be one of them. I’ve whacked his nose before and I don’t mind whacking it again. All I’m saying is that if the day comes when you want a little breathing room, I’ll see that you get it.”

“Can I ask you a question about him?”