He stops, closes his eyes, and lifts a hand. He shakes his head with remorse. “But no,” he continues. “In the interest of decency and on account of being in mixed company, I can’t say any more than that. Can’t say any more, gentlemen. Except this—you don’t want to miss it! Just hand your quarter to this fella here, and he’ll take you right on in. You’ll never remember the quarter you spent here today, and you’ll never forget what you see. You’ll be talking about this for the rest of your lives, fellas. The rest of your lives.”
Cecil straightens up and adjusts his checked waistcoat, tugging the hem with both hands. His face assumes a deferential expression and he gestures broadly toward an entrance on the opposite side. “And ladies, if you’ll kindly come this way—we have wonders and curiosities suitable for your delicate sensibilities, too. A gentleman would never forget the ladies. Especially such lovely ladies as yourselves.” With this he smiles and closes his eyes. The women in the crowd glance nervously at the disappearing men.
A tug-of-war has broken out. A woman holds fast to her husband’s sleeve with one hand and bats him with the other. He grimaces and frowns, ducking to avoid her blows. When he finally breaks free, he straightens his lapels and glowers at his now-sulking wife. As he struts off to hand over his quarter, someone clucks like a hen. Laughter ripples through the crowd.
The rest of the women, perhaps because they don’t want to make a spectacle, watch reluctantly as their men drift off and get in line. Cecil sees this and comes down from his platform. He is all concern, all gallant attention, gently drawing them toward more savory matters.
He touches his left earlobe. I push imperceptibly forward. The women move closer to Cecil and I feel like a sheepdog.
“If you’ll step this way,” Cecil continues, “I’ll show you ladies something you’ve never seen before. Something so unusual, so extraordinary, you never dreamed it existed, and yet it’s something you can talk about at church this Sunday, or with Grandma and Grandpa at the dinner table. Go ahead and bring the little fellas, this here is strictly family fun. See a horse with his head where his tail should be! Not a word of a lie, ladies. A living creature with his tail where his head should be. See it with your own eyes. And when you tell your menfolk about it, maybe they’ll wish they’d stayed with their lovely ladies instead. Oh yes, my dears. They will indeed.”
By now I’m surrounded. The men have all but disappeared, and I let myself drift along in the current of churchgoers and ladies, of young fellas and the rest of the non-red-blooded Americans.
The horse with his tail where his head should be is exactly that—a horse backed into a standing stall so that his tail hangs into his feed bucket.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” says one woman.
“Well, I never!” says another, but mostly there is relieved laughter, because if this is the horse with the tail where his head should be, then how bad can the men’s show be?
There’s a scuffling outside the tent.
“You goddamned sons of bitches! You’re damned right I want my money back—you think I’m gonna pay a quarter to see a goddamned pair of suspenders? You talk about red-blooded Americans, well, this one’s red-blooded all right! I want my goddamned money back!”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I say, wedging my shoulder between the two women ahead of me.
“Hey, mister! What’s your hurry?”
“Excuse me. Beg your pardon,” I say, pushing my way out.
Cecil and a red-faced man are squaring off. The man advances, places both hands on Cecil’s chest, and shoves him backward. The crowd parts, and Cecil crashes against the striped skirt of his platform. The patrons close in behind, standing on tiptoe, gawking.
I launch myself through them, reaching Cecil just as the other man hauls off and swings—his fist is but an inch or two from Cecil’s chin when I snatch it from the air and twist it behind his back. I lock an arm around his neck and drag him backward. He sputters, reaching up and clawing my forearm. I tighten my grip until my tendons dig into his windpipe and half-drag, half-march him to beyond the end of the midway. Then I chuck him into the dirt. He lies in a cloud of dust, wheezing and grasping his throat.
Within seconds, two suited men breeze past me, lift him by the arms and haul him, still coughing, toward town. They lean into him, pat his back, and mutter encouragement. They straighten his hat, which has miraculously stayed in place.
“Nice work,” says Wade, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You done good. Come on back. They’ll take care of it from here.”
“Who are they?” I say, examining the row of long scratches, beaded with blood, on my forearm.
“Patches. They’ll calm him down and make him happy. That way we won’t catch any heat.” He turns to address the crowd, clapping once—loudly—and then rubbing his hands in front of him. “Okay, folks. Everything’s fine. Nothing more to see here.”
The crowd is reluctant to leave. When the man and his escorts finally disappear behind a redbrick building they start to dribble away, but continue to glance hopefully over their shoulders, afraid they’ll miss something.
Jimmy pushes his way through the stragglers.