2
Earlier that day, when the old man had stepped off the bus and onto the green in downtown Bascom, he had looked around with dismay, wondering how his life had gotten to this point.
He was usually one step ahead of the colder weather as he traveled, doing jobs as he made his way from the north to Florida every year. Hoards of carnival people wintered there. Mostly old-schoolers like him, who never referred to the past as the good old days.
But he needed a quick infusion of cash first, which was why he’d stopped here. It wouldn’t be a lot, but it would get him through the next few months. Business had been slow this year. There were fewer and fewer people on his list and, truthfully, he didn’t have the skill he used to have. He once was able to blackmail people so smoothly he could make them believe giving him their money was all their idea. But his heart just wasn’t in it anymore.
Or so the expression went.
He was fairly certain he didn’t have a heart anymore. The only thing that kept his blood flowing through his veins was the thrill of the heist, and even that felt like going through the motions these days. The last time he could remember feeling an actual beat to his long-ago heart was when he’d been eight years old and his mother, the Incredible Zelda Zahler, Snake Charmer from the Sands of the Sahara, had left him during the night, never to be seen again. Her name had actually been Ruthie Snoderly, and she’d been from the tiny town of Juke, West Virginia, about as far away from the sands of the Sahara as one could get. She’d been neither pretty nor nice, but he had loved her. Under her thick pancake makeup, her skin had been pockmarked, but he would stare at her adoringly from his cot at night and imagine her scars were constellations, a secret map to a far-off, happy place. Her accent had been thick and rural, and sometimes when he heard that deep Appalachian accent even today, he found himself longing for something he’d never really had in the first place: home.
He set his suitcase down. It was a strange place, this North Carolina town. There was a huge gray sculpture of a half-buried head in the park. One of the eyes on the sculpture had a monocle, and the hair had been so expertly molded even the comb marks looked real. He sighed, thinking this almost wasn’t worth the effort. If he hadn’t put so much research into this already, he would wait for the next bus and go to Florida right now. Maybe he would get a job at Taco Bell for the winter.
The Great Banditi working at Taco Bell.
No, that was something even he couldn’t foresee.
So, first things first. He had to find Pendland Street.
He turned and noticed a teenager across the street. She had long, dark hair and a steady gaze. She had stopped to stare at him. Not everyone could hold a stare that long and not seem rude. He quickly summed her up: too observant. He smiled to put her at ease.
“I was wondering,” he called to her, “if you could tell me where Pendland Street is?”
She pointed west and he thanked her, picking up his suitcase and hurrying away. Best to be a mystery to some. Confusion was always the best way out of an unfamiliar situation. Any magician worth his salt knew that.
He found the street easily and walked slowly past the rambling old houses. Decent enough, he supposed. But the neighborhood didn’t give him hope that he could make more money here than he’d already figured.
He had no idea where he was going to stay. He never did. Oftentimes it was in a park or a patch of woods somewhere. But his bones weren’t what they used to be. He longed for softer things these days. Softer bus seats, softer beds, softer marks. And there was a chill in the air here that he didn’t like. He wasn’t moving fast enough to avoid the cold touch of autumn as it marched steadily from the north, and it made his joints stiff.
Halfway down the winding street, he stopped. His feet were already aching because, even though his shoes were so highly polished that they made perfect star-point reflections in the sunlight, there were holes forming on the soles, and he could feel every pebble he stepped on.
He looked up and saw that he had stopped in front of a house with a large sign on the front lawn that read, HISTORIC PENDLAND STREET INN.
He looked at the address number. It was a mere nine houses away from where his latest mark lived. This was fortuitous, indeed. Perhaps things were looking up.
Instead of walking to his mark’s house to scope it out, which was better done under the cover of night, anyway, he walked up the sidewalk to the inn. The house was painted pink with brick-red shutters. The gingerbread trim along its arches was white, as was the porch. No fewer than four pumpkins were on each step leading up to the porch, each of varying sizes and colors; some pumpkins were even white, one was purple. Dried pampas grass was in an urn beside the door. Someone had put a great deal of effort into the autumnal decorations.
He opened the door, which had a wreath made of bittersweet on it, and entered.
It looked as most old houses turned into inns did, lots of shiny dark wood, a sitting room to the left, a dining area to the right, and a staircase leading to the upper floor. A check-in desk was in the foyer. More pumpkins were in here, too, and displays of dried silver dollar plants and Japanese paper lanterns. Someone had also taken their floral arranging class very seriously.
He set his suitcase down and looked around. There was no one here this evening. They must not offer dinner to guests. But the dining area hinted at breakfast or lunch, which meant there was a kitchen he could quietly raid. It had been hours since he’d last eaten. He tapped the bell on the desk and waited, studying the photos on the wall. Most were of a prissy, prudish-looking man in his sixties, shaking hands with people who appeared to be local bigwigs.
But the man in the photos wasn’t the person who appeared from a room behind the staircase.
It was an excruciatingly thin woman, someone who reminded him of a contortionist he once knew named Gretel. This woman was in her late fifties or early sixties. Her hair was dyed dark brown and her skin was the sallow hue of someone with a two-pack-a-day habit. Her eyes, probably her one beauty as a youth, were quite green. He sized her up right away. This was a woman who had long ago figured out she wasn’t getting her own happily-ever-after. But, like all disappointed women, she still believed in it, just that it was meant for someone else.
“May I help you?” she said, without much enthusiasm. She reeked of cigarette smoke.
He smiled at her, holding her eyes with his own. He was older than she was by twenty years, but he knew he was still attractive, in a genteel kind of way. His hair was thick and silver, and his eyes were an unusual bright gray. They were eyes that could hypnotize, which was the only reason he’d been allowed to stay on with Sir Walter Trott’s Traveling Carnival when his mother left. Well, one of the reasons. “I’d like a room, please.”
She turned to the computer on the desk and woke it up with a shake of the mouse. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Sadly, no.”
She looked at him with exasperation. “This is leaf-looker season. We’re booked. Sorry.”
He leaned in slightly, showing his appreciation for the small effort she’d made with lipstick by looking at her mouth. “Surely you could make an exception for this weary traveler? I’ve come a long way.”
She looked startled, as if this kind of attention was unexpected. Unexpected, but not unwanted. No, he had not read her wrong. He rarely did. “My brother would have a fit,” she said, her hand going to the collar of her white polo shirt with the Pendland Street Inn logo embroidered on the chest.
“But something tells me you know how to work around that,” he said with a smile. He let her know that he noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring by looking at the hand that was playing with her collar. “I’ve always found that the smartest people aren’t the ones in charge, it’s the ones who let them think they’re in charge. Older brother?” He could see from the photos on the wall that he was.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I had an older brother, too.” He didn’t, of course.
“Was he a prick, too?” the woman asked. Her use of the familiar, the colloquial, let him know he was already in.
He shook his head in solidarity. “The stories I could tell.”
“I do love a good story. What the hell,” she said, turning back to the computer. “It’s your lucky day. My brother doesn’t usually let me man the front desk. He says I don’t have front-desk qualities. I can cancel a reservation.” She typed something into the computer. “Credit card and ID?” she said, looking up at him.
“In my suitcase,” he said, gesturing to the banged-up leather case he’d set by the door. “If you don’t mind, could I be shown to my room first? I’ll rustle through my things and find them for you. Perhaps after a nap.”
If that tripped her up, she didn’t show it. He was fairly certain that she was past the point of caring if her brother got paid or not. “Room six, then. Breakfast starts at eight and there’s tea at four.” She handed him a key. “Don’t mention this conversation to my brother.”
“My lips are sealed,” he assured her. “Thank you, Mrs…?”
“Ainsley. Anne Ainsley. Miz.,” she said pointedly. “And you are?”
The Great Banditi smiled and gave her a half-bow. “Russell Zahler, at your service.”