Carnival of Shadows Page 7

  Michael shook his head ever so slowly. His heart was twice its size, and it thundered uncontrollably in his chest. He could feel the rage building inside him, the desperate need to strike back, to lash out, to destroy. He also knew that whatever happened now, it was going to hurt. Still he did not look away from Scarapetto.

  “Well, that’s good,” Scarapetto said. “That’s very good, little man, ’cause you don’t wanna get me riled, you know? Folks who get me riled always regret it. They always regret it.”

  Michael was aware then that the surrounding tables were quiet. People were watching him. People were seeing how he dealt with this guy.

  Scarapetto released Michael’s wrists and leaned back from the table, proud and arrogant now.

  He pulled the cuffs of his shirt as if he were checking himself in the mirror at Brooks Brothers, and he smiled a cruel smile that said all that needed to be said. He’d put the new kid in his place. He’d made a mark, scared the little runt, and that was how it should be.

  Michael understood then that if he did nothing, he would always be at the bottom of the ladder, right there for anyone to step on if they so wished. He could not fight someone such as Scarapetto. He would not have a prayer. He had to do something decisive, and he had to do it now.

  In that moment, Scarapetto turned around to look at the faces that were watching him.

  As he did so, Michael Travis took his own life in his hands. He leaned forward slightly and dribbled a mouthful of saliva into the oatmeal on his tray.

  When Scarapetto turned back, he was wearing that self-same crooked smile. Look at me, it said. Cock of the walk, I am. Big boss of the hot sauce.

  Scarapetto reached out and slid Michael’s tray toward himself. He took a spoon from his pants pocket, breathed on it, polished it on his shirttail as if for effect, and then started eating the oatmeal.

  There was silence around that table, but inside the head of every person watching was a groan of disgust.

  Scarapetto was aware of nothing.

  Michael watched him eat the oatmeal, his own expression blank and implacable.

  Once Scarapetto was done with the oatmeal, he ate the corn bread, the egg, and then shoved the tray back at Michael.

  “I think you finished your breakfast, kid,” Scarapetto said.

  “Looks like I did,” Michael replied.

  “Good, was it?”

  “Excellent. The best ever.”

  Scarapetto looked at Michael sideways. Was this kid smart-mouthing him? Was that actually a dig? Better have not been a dig; otherwise…

  “What’s your name?” Michael asked.

  “Huh?

  “Your name.”

  “My name is none of your fuckin’ business, kid. Why the hell do you want to know my name?”

  “Because when someone asks me who’s the boss here, I wanna be able to tell ’em.”

  Scarapetto smiled his sly, paper-cut smile again. “Scarapetto,” he said. “Anthony Scarapetto.”

  “And what do I call you? Do I call you ‘Mr. Scarapetto’ or ‘sir’ or what?”

  Scarapetto started to nod. “You’re a smart kid,” he said. “You ain’t no fool, is ya? You know how to treat a man with respect, right?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Michael said. “Seems that if a man deserves respect, then he should get it. Obviously, you know the deal here. I am just a new guy who knows jack shit, and I wouldn’t want to upset things. Seems like a new guy would want to make friends with a man like you, someone who could take care of things, show him the ropes in a place like this.”

  For the first time, Scarapetto seemed to unwind a little. Whatever six-foot steel rod he carried up his ass seemed to give a little, and he nodded his head sagely. “I like you, kid,” he said. “You seem like a good kid to me. Why the hell are you in here, anyhow?”

  “Because I got no place else to go,” Michael said. “My mom killed my dad, and she’s in jail and they got no place else to put me.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, sir. That is so.”

  “Hell, kid, you don’t need to be callin’ me that. Just call me Tony.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure thing. Tony is just fine. What’s your name?”

  “Michael. Michael Travis.”

  Scarapetto reached out his hand. Michael took it and they shook.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Tony,” Michael said.

  “What the fuck is that? Jesus Christ. Who the fuck talks like that? Are you for real, kid? Pleased to make your acquaintance? Seriously, kid, you can’t talk like that around here. Folks is gonna think you’re a homo or somethin’.”

  “Are you a homo?” Michael asked.

  Scarapetto looked surprised, as if he was now doubting his own ears.

  Those seated on the tables within earshot fell silent. That silence seemed to spread out like ink through water.

  Listen up.

  What’s happening?

  Someone’s fucking with Scarapetto. Called him a homo.

  No, really?

  Really. Now, shut the fuck up, will you?

  “What did you say?”

  “I asked if you had a home,” Michael said. “Why are you here? Don’t you have someone to look after you?”

  Scarapetto—for a split second—wondered what was happening. He shook his head, just once, like a cartoon character shaking off a damn good whack.

  “A home?” Scarapetto asked.

  “Sure,” Michael said, as nonchalant as anything. “Your folks, right? A home. Everyone has a home, don’t they?”

  Scarapetto was still frowning. “I thought you asked me…”

  The room was silent. Those far away didn’t know why they were being silent, but they didn’t dare utter a word.

  A couple of custodians started down from the far end of the room. Michael could hear the squeak of their shoes on the polished linoleum floor, the metal jangle of keys on their belts. For some reason—inside of himself—Michael felt almost nothing then, as if his real self had retreated into some safe internal space, and the State Welfare Michael, the one who would survive this, the one who would see him through, was out there facing the world and all it had to offer. The rage had subsided, his blood had stopped boiling, and the shadows had retreated.

  “I had a home,” Scarapetto said. “A while back. Don’t have one no more, as far as I know.”

  “How long you been here?” Michael asked.

  “Three years.”

  “How much longer you got?”

  Scarapetto squinted at Michael. “Why all the questions, buddy?”

  “Because that’s what friends do,” Michael said. “They talk about shit, you know? They ask questions; they answer them. You never had a friend before?”

  “Sure I have. I got lots of friends. Everyone likes me, right? Everyone likes Tony Scarapetto.”

  Michael smiled. “Hey, what’s not to like, right?”

  Scarapetto smiled back, and then he started laughing. “Right as fuckin’ rain, kid. What’s not to like?”

  There seemed to be a collective sigh of relief. Even the custodians, now within earshot of this exchange, understood that there wasn’t going to be a problem here. Scarapetto was smiling, laughing even, and the new kid wasn’t gonna get a breakfast tray up his ass. The new kid had balls, that was for sure. Hell, the new kid even spat in his oatmeal before Scarapetto took it off him. If Scarapetto had seen that, they’d be scraping bits of that new kid off the ceiling for a week or more. What’s that kid’s name? What did he say? Travers? Travis? It was Travis, right?

  “So you take care of yourself, kid,” Scarapetto said, and got up from the bench. “I’ll be seein’ you around.”

  “Sure as shit stinks, my friend.”

  Scarapetto hesitated once more. Somet
hing wasn’t clicking somewhere. Something wasn’t right with the kid, but then he couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong. He shook his head once more, turned his back, and walked away.

  As he did so, all eyes followed him, and once he had passed them, those eyes turned back and looked at Michael Travis.

  Michael Travis merely picked up the breakfast tray, brushed the crumbs of corn bread off the table onto it, and then rose to his feet. He walked to the end of the hall, the sound of his shoes the only audible noise, and he joined the last of the breakfast stragglers.

  “Kinda hungry this morning,” he said. “Any chance of some more?”

  A greasy-faced teenager with a firestorm of angry spots across his forehead glanced up at one of the custodians.

  The custodian nodded once, and Michael Travis was served a second breakfast.

  By the time he took his seat again, the hubbub of voices had resumed, just as before, but there was a different timbre and pitch to it. People who had not heard the exchange wanted to know what had taken place. There was very little that remained of the real conversation save two details: The new kid had spitballed his oatmeal before Scarapetto ate it, and then had he actually called him a homo? Really? That was all that remained, for that was what they wanted to believe.

  No one explained this version of events to Scarapetto, of course, for no one dared. Scarapetto was a class-A asshole—always had been and always would be—and just because the new kid had bested him didn’t mean that Scarapetto couldn’t still be as vicious and cruel as ever. The vast majority of kids in State Welfare weren’t so eager to start trouble, just to stay out of it.

  Michael Travis, however, had somehow avoided a whirlwind of trouble by doing nothing much at all, and he hadn’t even realized it.

  5

  Travis looked to his right. Rourke stood in the open doorway of the McCaffrey Hotel, his hat in his hand.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Travis?”

  “Yes, Sheriff. Of course.”

  Again, they took separate cars. There was really no need for Rourke to be present at every interview, but Travis liked the man and felt it would serve him well to include Rourke as much as possible. Rourke was a valuable ally, and he did not want to be disrespectful of his position.

  Rourke drove out beyond the town limits, but only for a short while. They were in transit a mere ten minutes, and then the field upon which the carnival had been pitched was evident.

  The central marquee was a good fifty or sixty feet high, and from it trailed streams of bunting and a kaleidoscope of tattered and weary pennants. Rourke pulled over, and Travis drew to a halt right behind him. Rourke was out, had already started walking toward the edge of the field, but Travis called him back.

  “Hang fire,” Travis said. “I just want to take stock of the place.”

  Rourke returned to his car. Travis surveyed the scene before him, then retrieved his camera from his car and took a number of photographs. He went down onto his haunches and took photographs from all angles, finally walking along the road to look at the field from one end to the other.

  Back and to the right, there alongside a bank of trees, were the vehicles that Rourke had mentioned. Travis took out his notebook. Four pickups—a Ranchero, an F-100, an L120 long-bed International Harvester, and a Chevy Stepside with a trailer attached. Behind those was a Chevy Nomad station wagon and a Buick Special. Some way ahead of them was a Westfalia caravan. It was approaching dusk, and there were lights on in the caravan. Even as he looked, Travis saw a silhouette move past the small window.

  “That’s where the boss man lives,” Rourke said. “Edgar Doyle. He and his wife… well, I think it’s his wife. Anyway, the pair of them run this show.”

  “Her name?”

  “Valerie, I think. Something like that. Not American. Has an accent.”

  “That’s where we’ll start, then,” Travis said.

  “You need me to introduce you, or you okay?” Rourke asked. “I got things I need to do otherwise.”

  “You go ahead,” Travis replied. “I’ll call you through your office if I need anything.”

  “Good luck,” Rourke said, raising his hand as if they were wishing farewell at the train station.

  Travis smiled. “I don’t believe in luck,” he said. “Tried it one time. Total bust.”

  Edgar Doyle possessed a presence, no doubt about it. He had the caravan door open before Travis even reached the vehicle, and he smiled with such warmth that Travis was somewhat taken aback.

  “I imagined someone would be coming,” he said, and there was the faintest British accent in his voice. “Sheriff of Seneca Falls he might be, but I didn’t imagine Chas Rourke altogether comfortable investigating a murder.”

  Doyle came down the little wooden steps that had been placed beneath the caravan door and extended his hand.

  “Edgar Doyle,” he said. “I run the carnival.”

  “So Sheriff Rourke told me,” Travis said, and shook Doyle’s hand. “My name is Michael Travis. I am with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Special Agent Travis.”

  Doyle, all of fifty-five or sixty, stood an inch or so taller than Travis. His hair was almost shoulder length, gunmetal gray, close to white at the temples. He was clean shaven but for a small triangle of hair that sat beneath his lower lip and pointed down to the cleft of his chin. He was sharply dressed in a clean white shirt, a deep red tie, a midnight-blue vest and matching pants. Travis’s eye was caught by a small enamel badge on the vest’s collar, a blue flower, which—if he was not mistaken—was a forget-me-not.

  Travis’s first impression of Doyle was of a man of considerable confidence. Body language, the hesitancy—or lack of it—with which a person spoke, the ability to maintain eye contact—both while speaking and listening—such things as these had all been part of the many areas that Travis had studied during his time in Kansas City. The unit within which he worked, a unit headed by Section Chief Gale, was still in its infancy, but they had made great progress in identifying the many and varied aspects of the criminal personality, as it had been informally labeled. There were other things that Travis observed in Doyle’s immediate manner, unsubstantiated as yet, but indicative of some degree of willful contrariness. Though it was merely assumption, the mere fact that Doyle owned and ran a carnival suggested that he was a man of different and unusual values.

  “There is something in your accent,” Travis said.

  “Irish forefathers,” Doyle replied. “My family name is Ó Dubhghaill. Means ‘dark foreigner,’ though there’s a little less of the dark in me each year.” He smiled and touched his hair.

  “I heard that premature aging could be caused by bad whiskey.”

  “Is that so?” Doyle asked.

  “I heard it. I hope you won’t be offering me any bad whiskey, Mr. Doyle.”

  “An Irishman peddling such a thing? I should hope not, Agent Travis.” Doyle smiled. “So, you’re inviting yourself in for a slug of the good stuff?”

  “If you’ll have me.”

  “One way to start a murder investigation, I suppose.”

  “No need for us to be on anything but friendly terms, Mr. Doyle. As we speak, I have no reason to suspect you of anything. I assume nothing, and I make no guesses. I am just here to look, to listen to see if I can’t find out what happened to this nameless victim that lay beneath your carousel.”

  “Then mi casa es su casa, Agent Travis. Please, step inside and we shall share a drink and I will answer your questions as best I can.”

  The caravan interior was much the same as all such vehicles—a table at the front end, a bench on either side, those benches designed to fold together into a bed. There was a cooker unit, a two-burner hob, a small fridge that looked like a safe, and at the back of the caravan, a further bench, the seat and back
of which each moved independently and could be arranged to form a bunk-bed sleeping arrangement if required. For two people it was relatively roomy, all things considered; for four, claustrophobic would have been an understatement. By all appearances, only Edgar Doyle and his partner lived here. If they did in fact use the vehicle to sleep in, then any obvious signs of that had been folded away discreetly. The table was a table, the benches on either side were simply benches, and this is where Doyle directed Travis.

  “Please, sit,” Doyle said.

  Travis sat, and—as Doyle busied himself at the other end of the caravan—he surveyed the interior. Pieces of seemingly mismatched and incongruous fabric had been pinned to the walls. Over those squares of fabric had been secured posters advertising the Carnival Diablo. Crude in their execution, they nevertheless possessed a sense of gaudy drama. They snatched the eye. They intrigued Travis, and the reaction evoked was that here there was something that needed to be seen. Beyond the simple imagery employed—a clown’s face, a pyramid of acrobats, in the next, the silhouette of some dark feline creature: a cougar, a puma, something such as this—there were the usual shout lines. Seeing Is Believing! Not to Be Missed! For Two Nights Only! But unlike other such posters and advertisements, they also jarred the senses a little. It took a moment for Travis to realize why: The colors chosen were opposites. Red and green, blue and yellow, orange and purple. They had been printed with wildly contrasting hues, and thus viewed indirectly they seemed to move.

  Doyle was good to his word. He set a bottle of Irish whiskey and a couple of glasses down on the table, took a seat facing Travis.

  “I’m going to take notes,” Travis told him, and withdrew his book from his pocket.

  “Please, feel free,” Doyle replied as he uncorked the bottle and poured.

  “What’s your full name?”

  “Edgar Francis Doyle.”

  “Your date of birth?”

  “July 1, 1897.”

  “And your wife is with you?”

  “Valeria? No, she’s not here, and she’s not my wife. We have been together for a long time now, but we have never married.”