Money, Love by Brad Barkley

Author:Brad Barkley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Money, Love
ISBN: 9781938604812
Publisher: Dzanc Books
Published: 2000-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

In Valdosta, the Lions Club Carnival was five hours away from opening. We were to set up in the parking lot of the Food King, where all around us the carnies were hammering up their game booths, shouting to one another, or lying asleep on the asphalt. Vic consulted his leather notebook.

“We need to locate a gentleman by the name of Harris Pettigrew. He runs the show here.”

We left the car and trailer parked, and walked around looking for Harris Pettigrew. The carnies were hard at work, sweating in the still-hot south Georgia late summer, drinking beer, listening to eight-track tapes of CCR and Jimi Hendrix. Most of them were young guys with ponytails, some old with heavy beards or heavy wrinkles, fading tattoos on their arms or chests. We saw only a handful of women, and as we walked past, some of the men stopped their work to ogle Sandy, offering suggestions of things for her to do with them. I kept expecting her to break down and run crying back to the car, but she only smiled at them or stuck out her tongue when they said something disgusting. Once or twice she flipped them the finger.

“Just some good, clean family fun around here,” she said.

Roman paused to take off his suitcoat. “We better make some money in this rat hole.”

“This rat hole is exactly the kind of place where we’ll make money,” Vic said. “Three days from now you’ll love Valdosta so much you’ll want to get married and settle down here.”

Roman nodded. “We’ll see,” he said.

Harris Pettigrew managed the E. Browning Lovell Attractions, a small-time amusements company which did shows in Georgia and Florida. He wore a black shirt and a bolo tie, had a thick Midwestern accent. A gun handle stuck out the front of his pants, and he spoke into a walkie-talkie to his assistants scattered around the lot. He carried a clipboard.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass,” he was shouting when we found him. “If it slopes it slopes. Work around it.” He noticed us and held up his finger, asking us to wait a minute. He popped a sunflower seed into his mouth and spat out the shell. “I don’t care. You do what I said and if it don’t work, then you make your own decision. Have a nice day.” He clicked a switch on the walkie-talkie and looked at us, then his clipboard.

“Hanky-pank or grab joint?” he said.

We looked at one another.

“Hahla ingles?” Roman said.

“What are you runnin’?” Harris said. “Do not waste my time.”

“We have the cars of famous people who got killed,” I said. “In the cars.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” Harris said. “The blood fest. You must be Comstock.” He shook my hand, nearly breaking it.

“I’m Vic Comstock,” Vic said, annoyance edging his voice. “These are my partners.”

“I couldn’t be happier for you, bub,” Harris said. “Set up over there, northwest corner, next to the kootch. You need anything?”

“A drink,” Roman said.

“Around here? Close your eyes, reach out, and grab something.

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