“Paralyzed. It can start anytime within two weeks of drinking the shit.”
I am horrified. “How the hell do you know this?”
He shrugs. “It’s in the papers. They only just figured out what it was, but there’s lots been affected. Maybe tens of thousands. Mostly in the South. We passed through there on our way up to Canada. Maybe that’s where he picked up the jake.”
I pause before asking my next question. “Can they fix it?”
“Nope.”
“They can’t do anything at all?”
“I already told you. He’s done for. But if you want to waste your money on a doctor to tell you that, be my guest.”
Black and white fireworks explode across my field of vision, a shifting, shimmering pattern that blanks out everything else. I drop onto my bedroll.
“Hey, you okay?” says Walter. “Whoa, pal. You’re looking a little green there. You’re not going to throw up, are you?”
“No,” I say. My heart pounds. Blood whooshes through my ears. I have just remembered the small bottle of brackish liquid Camel offered me my first day on the show. “I’m okay. Thank God.”
THE NEXT DAY, right after breakfast, Walter and I line up in front of the red ticket wagon along with everyone else. At nine on the nose, the man in the wagon beckons forth the first person, a roustabout. Moments later he stalks off, cursing and spitting on the ground. The next one—another roustabout—also leaves in a fit of pique.
The people in the line turn to each other, muttering behind their hands.
“Uh-oh,” says Walter.
“What’s going on?”
“It looks like he’s holding back Uncle Al-style.”
“What do you mean?”
“Most shows hold back some pay till end of season. But when Uncle Al runs out of money he holds it all back.”
“Damn!” I say, as a third man storms off. Two other working men—grim-faced and with hand-rolled cigarettes between their lips—leave the lineup. “Why are we bothering then?”
“It only applies to working men.” Walter says. “Performers and bosses always get paid.”
“I’m neither of those.”
Walter regards me for a couple of seconds. “No, you’re not. I don’t actually know what the heck you are, but anyone who sits at the same table as the equestrian director is not a working man. That much I know.”
“So, does this happen often?”
“Yup,” says Walter. He’s bored, scuffing the ground with his foot.
“Does he ever make it up to them?”
“Don’t think anyone’s ever tested the theory. The general wisdom is that if he owes you more than four weeks pay, you better stop showing up on payday.”
“Why?” I say, watching as yet another filthy man stomps off in a maelstrom of curses. Three other working men leave the line from in front of us. They head back to the train with stooped shoulders.
“Basically you don’t want Uncle Al to start thinking of you as a financial liability. ’Cuz if he does, you disappear one night.”
“What? You get redlighted?”
“Damn right.”
“That seems a bit extreme. I mean, why not just leave them behind?”
“’Cuz he owes them money. How well do you think that would go over?”
I’m second in line now, behind Lottie. Her blonde hair gleams in the sun, arranged into neat finger curls. The man at the window of the red wagon waves her forward. They chat pleasantly as he peels a few bills off his stack. When he hands them to her, she licks her forefinger and counts them. Then she rolls them up and slips them inside the top of her dress.
“Next!”
I step forward.
“Name?” says the man without looking up. He’s a small, bald fellow with a fringe of thin hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He stares at the ledger book in front of him.
“Jacob Jankowski,” I say, peering past him. The wagon’s interior is lined with carved wood panels and a painted ceiling. There’s a desk and a safe at the back and a sink along one wall. On the opposite wall is a map of the United States with colored pins stuck in it. Our route, presumably.
The man runs his finger down the ledger. It comes to a stop and then moves to the far right column. “Sorry,” he says.
“What do you mean, ‘sorry’?”
He looks up at me, the picture of sincerity. “Uncle Al doesn’t like anyone to finish the season broke. He always holds back four weeks pay. You’ll get it at the end of season. Next!”
“But I need it now.”
He fixes his eyes upon me, his face implacable. “You’ll get it at the end of season. Next!”
As Walter approaches the open window, I stalk off, pausing just long enough to spit in the dust.
THE ANSWER COMES to me as I’m chopping fruit for the orangutan. It’s a mental flash, a vision of a sign.
Don’t have money?
What have you got?
We’ll take anything!
I walk back and forth in front of car 48 at least five times before I finally climb inside and knock on the door of stateroom 3.
“Who is it?” says August.
“It’s me. Jacob.”
There’s a slight pause. “Come in,” he says.