Fortune. Erica Spindler
he had winged it. The food-poisoning routine had been a last, desperate attempt to find a way to get to the carnival’s owner. Before he had come up with that scheme, he had asked a half-dozen carnival employees who the owner/manager was and where he could find him; each time, his inquiry had been met with surliness and suspicion. All had told him the same thing—no jobs available.
Then he had realized his mistake. He had done it all wrong—to get to the owner he needed something better than the truth, he needed a scam.
If there was one thing people understood, it was liability. If nothing else, Chance had learned that from his father. The bastard had considered Chance a liability. And nothing else.
Thus the rotten-meat routine had been born.
Determination swelled inside him. Confidence with it. Chance shifted the strap of his duffel bag, inching it higher on his shoulder, and picked up his pace, anxious to secure his future.
Chance made his way down the wide, crowded midway. People streamed around him, laughing with each other, jostling him as they passed. Garish pink, green and yellow neon lights illuminated the moonless night. The scent of popcorn made his mouth water. Rock music blared, a different song from every dizzily spinning ride. Carnies called out lewd greetings to one another; with each revolution of the hammerhead and tilt-a-whirl, girls screamed. The sounds blended together creating a strange, at once ugly and exciting mix.
A group of rowdy teenagers pushed past him. One of the girls giggled and glanced back at him, but not in admiration, Chance knew. He had grown taller in the year he had been imprisoned at his aunt’s, his shoulders had broadened, his chest thickened. Consequently, his denims were too short, his T-shirt too tight; he hadn’t even been able to get his feet into his old Nikes, so he’d been forced to wear his farm-boy work boots. He looked like a total nerd.
Chance stiffened, straightening his shoulders. Not for long, he vowed silently. He was going places; he was going to be somebody important. Someday, girls like those would look at him and wish, pray even, that he would look back.
Up ahead he saw the little top, as the woman had called it. Actually, there were several tents of varying sizes at the end of the runway. Chance decided to try the one dead center first. It was empty save for a man sweeping trash from ringside. Chance hesitated a moment, eyeing the burly man. It seemed doubtful that this was the carnival’s owner, but he might know where Abner Marvel was.
Chance moved farther into the tent. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, I’m—”
“The next show’s not for an hour,” the man said, not glancing up. “Come back then.”
“I’m not here to see the show.” Chance swaggered toward the man. “I’m looking for the boss.”
“That so? The boss?” Chance earned a glance. The man’s face could only be described as battered. It looked as if his head had once played ball to someone’s bat and the exchange had left his entire face pushed in.
“That’s right. You know where I might find him?”
The man swept his gaze over him, head to foot, real leisurely-like. He was built like a gorilla, thick and strong, and he was looking at Chance as if he might want to flatten him. No doubt it had been his pleasure to have flattened many punks in his day.
“You already did,” he said.
“You’re Abner Marvel?”
At the obvious disbelief in his tone, the man’s mouth twitched. “None other. And who are you?”
“Chance McCord.” Chance held out his hand, but the man ignored it, going back to his sweeping.
“What can I do for you, Chance McCord?”
“I’m looking for a job.”
“Figured as much. What kind of job you looking for?”
“Any kind.”
“Figured that, too.” The man eyed Chance again, sizing him up once more, his expression openly doubtful. He arched his eyebrows. “You eighteen?”
“Just last month,” Chance lied. He would turn eighteen in October.
“Funny, I’d have guessed you to be younger than that.”
Chance squared his shoulders and stuck out his jaw. “Well, I’m not. And I’m a hard worker.”
“Your parents know you’re here? They know you’re wantin’ to run off and join the carnival?”
“I don’t have any parents.” Chance cocked up his chin. “I’ve been living with my aunt.”
The man cleared his throat, turned his head, spit out a wad of phlegm, then looked at Chance once more. “She know?”
“She doesn’t have to. I’m eighteen.”
“So you said.” Mr. Marvel shook his head. “What makes you think you can handle a job with my show? The boys here have been around. They play pretty rough.”
“So do I. I’ve been around.”
“Right.” He spit again, this time with flourish. “You Amish?” He pronounced the word with a short A.
“My aunt is. I’m not.”
“And I take it you don’t have any carnival experience?”
“No, sir.”
The man shook his head again. “Look, kid, I’ve seen a whole lotta shit during my years on the circuit. A whole lotta ugly shit. Been in the business as long as I can remember, my old man was a showman, his old man before him. I got this place from them. It’s in my blood. But if it wasn’t, I’d be outta here.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
He looked Chance in the eye. “There’re lots of other things a boy like you can do with your life. Go do one of ‘em. Go home. Go back to the farm. I don’t need any help.”
“I need a job.” Chance took a step toward the man, not too proud to beg. “I have to have one. I’ll work hard. You’ll see.”
“Everybody with my troupe works hard. Sorry, kid.” The man spit another wad of phlegm, this time directly into the pile of swept trash. “Maybe next year.”
He turned and walked away. Chance stared after him, stunned, disbelieving. Just like that, and he was screwed. Back to the farm with you, kid. Back to hell on earth.
“Wait!” Chance hurried after the man. “I’ll do anything, the dirtiest most low-down job you have. Just give me a chance.”
Abner Marvel’s ugly face actually seemed to soften. He shook his head. “Look, kid, I’ve got nothin’. No jobs. I’m sorry.”
“But…somebody might quit tonight,” he said, grasping at straws. “They might get fired. It’s good to have an extra person, just in case.”
“Can’t afford a ‘just in case.’” The momentary sympathy Chance had seen on the man’s face was replaced with annoyance. “Look, nobody quits midseason. Nobody in their right mind, anyway. We come all the way up here to God’s country from our winter quarters in Florida, and none of my boys wants to get caught without a way back. And the only thing that’ll get one of this crew fired is drinking, fighting and hittin’ on the local jailbait. None of my boys been doin’ that either, at least not that I’ve seen. They know better. Is that plain enough for you?”
He jerked his thumb toward the door. “Go on now. Get lost. I’ve got things to do.”
This time Chance did not follow Abner Marvel. The carnival’s owner had made it clear that he was not going to give Chance a job.
Unless one suddenly opened up. Unless a miracle happened.
A miracle.
Chance narrowed his eyes. There had to be a way. He wasn’t going to