Snatch Page 12

  “Love it.”

  “Let’s go into the dining room and see if anybody workin’ for me is workin’ for me.”

  * * *

  At the table, over tall glasses of iced tea, Mr. Silvermine leaned forward and said, “Arrived Thursday night. Man came in to register, boy stayed in car. That’s unusual. Little kids usually like to come in with their fathers, ’specially boys. If they’re awake. Saw his head through the window, stickin’ up over the dashboard. Wide awake. Didn’t really lay eyes on your little boy till next morning, real early. As soon as the dining room opened for breakfast, he presented himself in the lobby, enlisting my authority to permit him to order breakfast. I was taken by the way he was dressed—black shoes, gray slacks, white shirt, blue blazer. Even the president of the United States wouldn’t be dressed that way in the lobby of a motel at seven o’clock in the morning, if he had other clothes. Struck me that if the boy had any other clothes, shorts or jeans or somethin’, he’d be wearin’ ’em. Then I perceived he was a well-spoken child, and the man who registered as his father had given me the distinct impression he believed vocabulary was something meant for other people. I guess I was a little suspicious. I threw a quick routine at him about his name, Jack Jackson, son of Jack Jackson, and although he didn’t answer me, he also didn’t particularly seem to know what I was talking about.”

  “How did he seem to you?”

  “Right as rain. Hungry. Mostly anxious about his breakfast.”

  “He wasn’t wounded in any way?”

  “No. Not at all. I saw him later playing in the swimming pool. No bruises as far as I could see.”

  “He was playing in the swimming pool?”

  “Later. Later in the afternoon.”

  “Was this man, Jackson, with him at that time?”

  “Yup. He was sittin’ to the side, dozin’.”

  “This is hard for me to understand,” Christina said. “I’ve been envisioning…gagged, tied in a closet, beat up.”

  “I’m sure you have. None of that was goin’ on, as far as I could see.” Bernard Silvermine thought a minute. “’Course, it would be pretty hard to move a child around in that condition, bound and gagged. You’d sort of have to keep him in one place, if you know what I mean. Lose your freedom of movement.”

  “But how are they doing it? What have they told him?”

  “Oldest story in the world,” Bernard Silvermine said. “Get a child to come along with you by the promise of candy. Con him. Make him think if he comes along nicely, he’ll get somethin’ he wants. Isn’t that always the story?”

  Christina had not touched her iced tea. “Tell me about this man. Jackson.”

  “Not terribly tall, but heavily, I mean, powerfully built. Big shoulders, chest, thick arms and neck. Glass eye. His face was pretty well cut up.”

  “What do you mean, ‘cut up’? Acne? Chicken pox? Knife scars?”

  “Very distinctive scars. Follow the fights somewhat, you know. Always fascinates me how one man can make a business out of knockin’ other men senseless.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “He had the scars of a fighter. A professional fighter. Scars over his eyes, mashed nose, lace cuts the back of his neck.”

  “A fighter.”

  “Boxer. Retired boxer.”

  “Why do you say ‘retired’? Because of his age?”

  “No. He wasn’t that old. Didn’t I say he had a glass eye? Can’t fight with a blind side. Have to be able to see out of both sides of your head.”

  “He sounds pretty ugly.”

  “Well, I doubt he’d ever be taken up as a model for aftershave.”

  “But what kind of a person did he seem like? I know that’s a stupid question….”

  Bernard Silvermine looked at her a long moment before answering. “Frankly, he seemed a pretty tough character. But don’t take that too much to heart. I’m older than you, by a day or two, and I can tell you I’ve never met a person yet who is what he looks like. People with wide open, innocent faces seem to have more latitude in bein’ rotten. I find that people who are born lookin’ rotten already seem to have to toe the line a little closer. All I can say is your boy seemed all right when I saw him.”

  “Any idea where they went?”

  “No, ma’am. People aren’t apt to leave forwardin’ addresses at a motel. The home address Jackson signed was 200 Park Avenue, Saint Louis, Kentucky. The imponderability of all that didn’t strike me until later. Paid cash. No credit card. The boy—your son—told me he was goin’ to Fantazyland—which might have been the candy Jackson was usin’ to keep him in line. Then again, the boy also told me he was waitin’ on a call from his mother—you. You were comin’ to take him to Fantazyland.”

  Christina’s eyes roamed around the empty dining room.

  Bernard Silvermine waited patiently, to hear if she had any other questions.

  Finally, he said, “California’s just one big parking lot, you know—strips of it movin’.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Even highway patrol doesn’t seem to be able to find any particular car too quickly.”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t suppose so.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Bernard Silvermine said. “Anything at all I can do to help?”

  “No.” Christina took her handbag off the table and stood up. “Really, I’m very grateful to you. This is the first real lead we’ve had.”

  Bernard Silvermine said, “Delighted to hear I’m not a busybody. Not that I was losin’ any sleep over the possibility.”

  He had risen and she had put her hand in his. “Thank you so very much, Mr. Silvermine.”

  “I have a question. Busybody question. What’s your son’s name?”

  “Toby.”

  “That’s a right nice name,” Bernard Silvermine said. “Right nice. You know, I wouldn’t mind too much knowin’ where there’s good news.”

  “What? Yes. Of course.”

  “Otherwise, I won’t want to know, if you understand me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d rather think maybe you just forgot to tell me.”

  “I understand,” Christina said. “…I understand.”

  Thirty-Two

  The parking lot at Fantazyland was the largest Toby had ever seen. They had to follow the hand signals of six people before they were parked properly.

  And Uncle Whimsy’s Stovepipe Hat rose up into the sky from the nearby landscape higher than Toby had ever dared think possible. He could see the little gondolas, bright red, yellow, green, pop out of the hole near the Top of The Hat, the people in them barely distinguishable, zip around a curve, vanish into another hole in The Hat, reappear from a tunnel a little further down, climb slowly, plunge down into another tunnel.

  They had to walk a long way through the sun-dazzled parking lot to get to Fantazyland’s main gate. And then wait in line for tickets.

  UNCLE WHIMSY WELCOMES YOU—ONE AND ALL—TO FANTAZYLAND. Toby read the sign a million times. He had known, really known, that someday he would get to read that sign.

  If you need help at Fantazyland, ask your Constable. Emergency medical facilities are available near main gate.

  Spike bought two books of tickets, good for two days’ admission, a ticket for every ride.

  Inside the main gate, constables stood around, men in blue suits, wide belts, truncheons hanging from them, handlebar mustaches and helmets.

  A giant Uncle Whimsy, stovepipe hat, bright pink face with white-painted smile and smiling eyes, baggy pants and three-footlong high-button shoes, greeted them. His gloved hand on Toby’s head was so big and floppy it fell over Toby’s shoulders.

  Spike’s hand disappeared in Uncle Whimsy’s glove.

  “Glad to meetcha, glad to meetcha,” Spike said. “You’re a big bastid, arncha?”

  A nearby constable gave Spike a sharp look.

  And Uncle Whimsy moved away.

  Immediately inside the main gate, t
hey were in the square of a town that had never existed, except in people’s longings.

  In the middle of a green, four-squared park was a bandstand on which mustached firemen played trumpets and saxophones and an oboe and drums, When the saints come marchin’ in….Horse-drawn carriages went around the square and up and down the main street. One horse relieved itself and instantly a man in a white suit was there with shovel and broom and a barrel on wheels to clean it up.

  On one side of the square was a Fire Station, its doors open. Inside was a horse-drawn pumper and an antique fire truck, kids swarming over both, ringing the bells. Next to it was a Candy Store (the biggest store in the square).

  Also on the square was an Emporium, a Mercantile Establishment, a Newspaper Office (People with press passes please check in here), a Drug Store (Ice Cream, Notions & Sundries), a small Lawyer’s Office, a large Doctor’s Office with a Red Cross flag outside (Doctor Is In—for medical emergencies), a Chamber of Commerce Office (Special Guests of Fantazyland, please check in here), a movie theater (See Charlie Chaplin! Harold Lloyd! Abbott & Costello!) and a Sandwich Shoppe. Poles atop the buildings flew the flags of all nations, although Toby could not find the flag of his nation.

  “Jeez,” Spike said, standing, staring. “Just like Newark.”

  First they went to the Candy Store, where Spike bought a bag of peppermints (“Good for your breath”) and Toby a bag of licorice (“That stuff shits,” Spike said.)

  Munching, they listened to the band music for a while. Spike hummed along with such a dreadful voice the space around them cleared. Then they ambled around the square. Going by the Fire Station, Toby looked in and guessed it wouldn’t take him all that long to work his way through the crowd of kids, take his turn in the drivers’ seats and ring the fire bells.

  Spike said, “Kids’ stuff. Ya see, that’s kids’ stuff.”

  Continuing to look around doors, Toby noticed that although the dresses in the windows of the Emporium had hoops and hobbles and bustles and veils for sale at low, low prices, inside the store were jeans and T-shirts and shorts with no prices visible.

  At the end of the street was a signpost with three arrows. The one pointing right said, TO THE FUTURE; to the left, TO THE PAST; straight ahead, THRILLS, CHILLS AND SPILLS.

  Toby wanted to go straight ahead. He knew that path led to Uncle Whimsy’s Hat.

  Spike said they would go to the left.

  On the main street of Wild West City stood a man dressed in black cowboy gear, snarling at the people, cracking a bullwhip. He wore a black patch over one eye.

  “Look at that turkey,” Spike said.

  They tried their luck in a shooting gallery. Toby’s score was twelve hits out of twenty shots. He was awarded an Uncle Whimsy Comic Book. Spike’s score was seven.

  “Rigged,” Spike said. “Can’t trust nobody. Bastids.”

  Walking along, Spike said, “I ain’t tol’ you ’bout the time I shot this guy…. He was up on a roof in Newark, eight, nine storys high. I was in the street, block away. Single shot with my pistol, from my hip. That was a real gun, none of this shooting-gallery crap. Fac’ is….”

  The cracks of the bullwhip became sharper, more frequent, more insistent. A cowboy dressed in white came out of The Marshal’s Office. He and the villain glared at each other. The marshal stepped into the street. The villain dropped his whip. They circled around each other. The large semicircle of tourists, dressed in bright shirts and shorts, grew six deep.

  The two cowboys drew on each other and fired. For a moment, each stood there. Then a red stain appeared on the villain’s shirt, over the heart, and he fell forward, biting the dust.

  The tourists smiled and laughed and applauded and took pictures.

  Four other cowboys appeared, picked the villain up by his hands and feet and carried him off.

  “Make believe,” Spike said. “Fac’ is, it ain’t real, ya know. None of this stuff.”

  There was a Wild West Clothing Store—more jeans, shorts and Uncle Whimsy T-shirts, ten-gallon hats and big belt buckles—a Dance Hall Saloon with a list of prices outside for fruit juices, soft drinks. Toby heard a piano tinkling. Two or three heavily made-up women, hair piled on top of their heads, gowns cut low, stood outside, saying to the men, “Hiya, honey…”

  Spike reached into the skirt of one and pinched her bottom.

  “Hiya, honey,” he said. “Whatcha doin’ after the show?”

  At first the woman looked shocked, then disgusted; then she looked away.

  In various places, when they were just standing there looking around, Toby heard the hum of machinery. He didn’t ask if Spike heard it too. He noticed little booths here and there (in the village by the main gate they were old-fashioned telephone booths, without windows; in the Wild West village they were outhouses)—all marked Employees Only. Especially standing near these booths, he heard the humming noises. He thought the sounds nearest the booths sounded like elevators.

  There was a corral with live ponies, one of which Toby rode; another area of mechanical horses, bucking broncos, which they both rode. The mechanical horses were more lively than the live.

  They were in Wild West City so long the villain reappeared in the street, with a fresh black shirt, again cracking his whip at people.

  “Turkey,” Spike said.

  Over the tuna sandwiches at an outdoor pavilion, they studied their ticket books and discussed where they’d go next. Toby pressed for THRILLS, CHILLS AND SPILLS, but Spike said he thought THE FUTURE would be more interesting. Near them was a seven-foot-tall white stem of a ship’s air vent. At the beginning of lunch, Toby saw a constable step up to the vent, open a door in it with a key, step inside and close the door. Toby kept careful watch all through lunch. The constable never came back out of the vent. However, near the end of lunch, the door in the vent opened again and out stepped a woman in a space suit, carrying her helmet.

  Everywhere they had gone in the park, people dressed as constables, clowns, bears, space travelers, rabbits, shook hands with people, patted children’s heads, held babies, struck silly poses with tourists while having their pictures taken. While they were finishing up their sandwiches, a fountain in the middle of the pavilion rose up slowly. Music became louder and louder. Under the fountain rose a stage. On it, a band with electric guitars and drums played; four girls, all blondes in slinky red dresses, sang. Why don’t you love me, baby? I can bake a cake…

  Spike turned around. “Where’d they come from?”

  “Look, Spike.” Toby pointed up in the air. “The fountain’s still working! Over their heads!”

  “Well, I’ll be a goose’s rear door!”

  That afternoon they visited THE FUTURE: circled a lake in a ship that traveled on an air cushion, its engines making the lovely, awful noise Toby had heard from the motel; visited the bottom of the lake in a submarine, stared through the portholes at simulated ocean growths and fish; whipped around the lake on a Future Bus that also traveled on an air cushion, making a ground noise; talked into telephones that permitted them to hear Japanese (“What’s that shit?” Spike said as he listened. “Not me!”); blasted off in a space ship, rushed through the atmosphere, watching the world become smaller behind them, then burst into the galaxy and floated among the stars to tinkling music.

  “Whaddaya think of this?” Spike asked himself out loud.

  “Inneresting,” he answered. “Inneresting.”

  They also visited the Spooky House. Eyeballs of portraits followed them; ghosts walked by them in the dark, moaning. Chains rattled. The room lurched, suddenly changing dimensions. Headless ladies and gentlemen appeared, dancing a minuet.

  And The Pirate’s Caravelle. Gold spilled from a chest on the lower deck. Sailors languished in the brig. On the upper deck a sailor, dressed only in torn-off pants and a blindfold, hands tied tightly behind his back, was forced to walk the plank.

  The tourists smiled and laughed and applauded and took pictures.

  Spike and
Toby watched a long time, but the man never rose to the surface of the water.

  “Poor dude,” Spike said. “He croaked.”

  They went in a dugout through The Dangerous Swamp. Mechanical alligators and crocodiles came to the edge of the boat and snapped their teeth at them. The dugout veered away. Along the embankment, ten-foot mechanical bears waved them nearer and roared at them. Huge snakes slithered down the trees. On a little island they passed, there was a log cabin burning.

  “Fantastic!” Spike said, “fac’ is, you know, all this is fake, you know. I mean, that cabin isn’t really burnin’. It’s takin’ too long. It just looks like it’s burnin’.”

  They were walking across an old wooden bridge. It began to tremor. It wobbled. It lurched down to the left. They could see and hear the timber supports breaking. Three sharks appeared across the lagoon and came at them with horrendous speed. One after the other, they came to the edge of the bridge, their mouths open, reaching for them….

  “Jeez,” said Spike, drawing back. “Getcha to believe it.”

  Toby knew they were coming to the base of Uncle Whimsy’s Stovepipe Hat.

  But down a path, Spike saw a great, smooth cement bowl in the landscape. In it, people were driving brightly painted, rubber-wheeled, rubber-bumpered cars, gathering speed, smashing into each other, laughing, bouncing off.

  “I gotta try that!” Spike said.

  Spike hustled into the driver’s seat.

  “Hey, Spike! I’m drivin’!”

  “Bullshit you are, kid. You’re too young.”

  “Other kids my size are driving!”

  Spike looked around. “Oh, yeah. So they are. Next time. Next time you get to drive.”

  Spike drove. He gave himself the maximum space to gather the maximum momentum to crash into people with the maximum force.

  “Hyaaa! Gotcha, ya bastids!”

  Some of his victims looked offended.

  Spike gave them the raspberry.