FICKSTER THE FIXER
D.M.S. Fick
“Start talking.” I had Flossy on the blower. She was blubbering again. Always best to be direct with old Floss or your conversation could drag on to next Tuesday.
“Oh, Fickster, I’m so dumb.”
It was true. Flossy was dumb. Now don’t get me wrong. She was a smart gal. Especially with numbers. She kept books––heck, she kept two sets of books––at my favorite watering hole, Tommy Tuohee’s North Star Bar. But if common sense were currency, she couldn’t buy a gumball.
“Is it a guy?” It was always a guy with Flossy, but it’s just polite to ask.
“Was.”
I’m now thinking murder. Oh, Flossy.
She went on. “I mean, I doubt I’ll ever see him again. He found my rent money and took off while I was still asleep. Oh, Fickster, what am I going to do?”
I felt sorry for old Flossy, but I can’t deny I was relieved no one had kicked it. I didn’t like to choose between driving the Bronco and my standards.
“Did you call the police?” I asked logically.
“Oh, Fickster, you know I can’t do that. Freddy’d be sure to find out.” Freddy was Floss’s boyfriend. The one on the force. Turns out she kept two sets of books in her private live too.
“So where’d you meet Prince Side Piece?
“You know how the fair’s in town?” asked Flossy. I did. Two of my boyfriends were playing in the music tents. I’d planned to sit this one out just to keep things simple.
“Yes. Go on,” I said.
“Well I met him in the beer tent. The south one, next to the landjäger stand.” A landjäger, for all you folks without Teutonic ancestry, is a sturdy blood-red sausage with a verrrry dense texture. The kind of food that stands up bragging about its four-legged origins. Goes well with beer. Next to a brew tent would be a primo location.
“Was he working there?”
“No, just drinking. Like me.”
“Whereabouts was he sitting?”
“Oh, he was standing. And he looked good doing it too. Caught me eyeballing him and winked at me. I played it cool after that and found a table. Then he followed me. And we sat.”
Fingers crossed for Flossy’s sake this guy was a pro and he’d be there again today.
“What kind of boots did he wear?” I asked. Most likely he’d changed his clothes, but maybe not his footwear. And if I know Floss––and I think I do––dude’s wearing some kind of fancy-assed boots that’ll stand out in a crowd.
“Real pretty ones,” said Floss. “Golden alligator vamps with French square toes and yellow flames stitched into oxblood uppers. Wouldn’t mind a pair myself. Real Eye-catching.”
“He wear a hat?”
“No.”
“Must have nice hair then. Doesn’t want to mat it down.”
“You got that right. Thick waves of golden blonde. The kind that makes ya’ wanna weave your fingers in and hang on for all you’re worth.”
“So you did.”
“So I did.”
“And he took you for all you’re worth.”
“So he did.”
“May as well tell me about his eyes now. You know you want to.”
“Sometimes blue, sometimes grey, depends on the light.”
“What color were they in the beer tent?”
“Blue, blue, blue. And did I mention he’s tall? Six-two, I’d say.” Floss was an avid tree-climber. “And he’s got a mole––“
“I don’t want to know.”
“On his neck, silly. Left side, just below the ear.”
“About what time was it when you two met up?”
“About now.”
“Floss! It’s ten o’clock!
“That’s when you get the best tables.”
“I better hustle on down there before he finds his next mark. I’ll call you later with any news.”
Luckily for Floss, I lived just a block from the fairgrounds. It wasn’t an ideal location if the demo derby was in town, but it was just dandy if there was a music festival or if a person craved a corn dog.
I holstered the blower and sat down by the kitchen table to pull on my powder blue Fat Baby cowgirl boots and gulp down some hot joe. I’d just poured the java when the phone blasted out a sound that jolted me sideways. Boyfriend One’s ringtone was something like a viking blowing “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” from the fifth circle of hell. (A far louder clarion call than the twinkly bell tones I chose for Floss.)
The ring was so loud, in fact, that it spooked the cat who’d been perched on the kitchen window sill. It inspired him to launch himself onto the table, jostling the joe which tipped over and almost Niagara’d into my right Fat Baby. Said cat then made a detour––claws full out––onto my lap and down to the linoleum. I grabbed the Fat Baby in time to avoid the Great Java Flood of 2024, tapped the green icon on the phone, and watched as little red drops of my insides started finding their way to the outside of my thigh.
“There she is!” Boyfriend One is an enthusiastic sort. It’s his best trait.
“Bludgeoned and bloody,” I groused. “Darn cat left his John Doe in O positive on my thigh. Wish he’d learn to use a pen.”
“I won’t keep you, doll. You better go wash that out and disinfect it. Just wondering if you’re headed to the fair today.”
“I don’t think so, hon. Gonna lay low today. It’s kind of hot and you know I don’t take well to the heat.”
“If you change your mind, drop by the County Cousin music tent. It’s the one catty-corner from the landjäger stand.”
I winced. Would I need a disguise?
“What time are you on?”
“On and off all day,” said Boyfriend One. “We’re rotating with the Oscar Wingdinger Band.” I was gonna need a disguise.
“I’ll see how I feel,” I replied. “First I better tend to this scratch. It’s bleeding a little more now.”
“That can be good,” said Boyfriend One. “Pushes the bacteria out.”
Now most people would have said germs, but Boyfriend One went with bacteria right out of the gate. That was his third best trait. Precise vocabulary. Made him a good lyricist.
“I better see to it. Call me later if you want, after the gig.” I tapped the red icon, tucked my hair up under a straw panama, and donned an oversized pair of sunglasses. It was all the disguise I had time for. Slapping some hand sanitizer on my wound and laying a finger aside of my nose, I set off in search of Mister Golden Hair before he found a new mark.
Soon as I stepped onto that trampled grass and dry fairground dirt, the aroma of mini donuts and fried onions took my brain hostage. I followed the scent like a cartoon dog smelling T-bones, my feet pert near off the ground. This hallowed deep-fried reverie was rudely interrupted by the dissonant tones of a band tuning up.
I peeked through the grand door of the Pioneer Dance Hall tent to see Boyfriend Two and his band getting ready to play. He was studying a cheat sheet on the sound box of his Gibson. A new guy to his left was noodling with a squeezebox. Must have hired him on special for this fair set. Kind of unusual seeing as the bulk of their show was Eagles covers, but this was a German town, so.
Boyfriend Two looked up from his crib sheet to assess the audience as they ambled in. His band could spend half the day tuning up––and they often did––but they were smart enough to know you don’t keep people waiting when it’s mid-August hot. I jumped back so that Boyfriend Two wouldn’t see me. As I turned to leave I about flew out of my skin because standing right in front of me now was Boyfriend One. The Boyfriends Dos knew each other through playing in the same musical circles, but they didn’t know each other through playing with me and I wanted to keep it that way.
“Fickster! You said you weren’t coming today.”
“Changed my mind.” I decided to go with the truth. “I’m doing Floss a favor. You know me, Fickster the Fixer.”
Boyfriend One canted his head and narrowed his eyes. Maybe the truth wasn’t a good idea. About as good as my disguise had turned out to be.
“What’s it this time?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have it sorted by noon and then back to my hovel. So, like I said, call me tonight if you’re not too tired. You playing late?’
“On and off till eight. You can bet I’ll be dog tired. But if you’re game for a night of TV and Jameson, come over to my place around ten.” I got it. He’d haul his equipment back home and wouldn’t care to set out after that. “Guess who’s playing after us tonight? Lon Perkerwicz. Remember him?”
How could I forget? Our state Polka Laureate once planted a major smoocheroo smack dab on my kisser then posted it to his Facebook page. He’d asked permission for neither act. But that wasn’t all.
“He want you lean on a club owner for him?” In the not distant past, Lon Perkerwicz had required Boyfriend One and his bass player to act as back-up thugs during a visit to a miserly bar owner who was being reluctant about paying the band’s fee. Now, you have to understand that these were musicians, not very likely to endanger their moneymaker hands for a night’s paycheck. But they were also performers, so when asked to look tough, they were willing to give it a shot. Visions of Michael Corleone and the baker’s son-in-law danced in my head.
“You laugh, but it worked. Say, you got any of your playing cards with you?” he asked. “A blank one? There’s a gal from a recording studio here and she’s looking for session players.”
I dug around in the gas mask bag I use for a purse looking for the deck and a Sharpie. (You see, I liked to hand out playing cards with my contact information on them instead of the usual business-type of card. More space to personalize them and a lot more memorable.) I shuffled through ten or so cards before I got a blank one for him, then snapped the bag shut.
“I don’t know how you never lose anything from that bag,” he said. “You’re playing with fire.”
“Hasn’t happened yet.” I looked across the fairway and spied the landjäger stand. “You better get back to your band before that studio gal finds another picker.” Boyfriend One’s brown eyes got big and he took the card and marker and skedaddled. I watched him until he was inside the tent, then peeked back inside to Boyfriend Two’s stage. His back was to the door so I hightailed it over to the landjäger stand and the adjacent beer tent. I slipped on a discarded corn dog along the way, jostling open the bottom grommet of the gas mask bag in the process, but catching any contents before they could escape. I blamed Boyfriend One. I’d surely have secured it better if he hadn’t been so owly about it.
It was dark inside the tent and it took a small while for my eyes to adjust. I blinked a few times and what to my acclimating eyes did appear but Mister Goldenhair Surprise. First things I noticed were those crazy gold and oxblood boots. Like Floss said, they were pretty. Well, those pretty boots were made for walkin’, and they walked right towards me.
“Hey there, sister.” Not exactly the Bard, but an okay line for a beer tent before noon. “Nice boots. Come here often?” The hits just keep on comin’.
“Nice boots yourself.” I know, I know, but I don’t want to be too dazzling or he’ll suspect I’m out of his league. I studied his neck. Yep, there it was. A mole, left side, just below the ear.
“Buy you a drink?”
“Sure. Jameson. Straight.”
He smiled and winked one of his beer tent blues. While he paid for the drinks, I made note where he kept his wallet. We adjourned to a vinyl-clad folding table. It wasn’t sticky yet from spilled beer. Floss was right. It was a good time to get there. The tent was filling up and pretty soon there wouldn’t be a place to sit. Goldenhair raised his glass to me.
“From One Good American to Another.”
“To the Circus of Life.”
We clinked glasses, but, since they were plastic, it was more like a nudge.
“So,” said he, “what brings you to the fair?”
“Midway,” says I. “I like the rides, especially the Zipper.”
“Zipper! Now that’s one I haven’t been on for a while. Probably not since I was a teenager, maybe before then.”
“It’s the best one,” I said. “Classic.”
“Maybe you and I could do some rockin’ in the old Zipper.” I braced myself. “And maybe we could do some other kind of rockin’ later on.” I successfully avoided a grimace.
“Maybe.” I downed my shot. “Next one’s on me.”
“Liberated lady. I like it.” I don’t know what decade this guy was living in but it wasn’t mine.
I made a deal with the bartender––with a nod and a wink––to give me tonic with just enough gin on top to make it smell. Then took it and a shot back to the table.
“Switching to mixed drinks?”
“As long as I’m paying.” Those blues lit up and Goldenhair winked again.
A couple rounds later we decided to get to the first kind of rocking. Strolling through the midway, the duelling sounds of the music tents merged with the bells and sirens of the rides. The wind had come up and food wrappers and napkins were blowing around in the dust like birds lost in a dirt devil.
We arrived at the Zipper. As soon as we were locked into our egg-shaped cage, Goldenhair started shooting me coy looks. The cage lurched up as more riders were loaded into pods. Once each was filled, the ride jerked into motion. The cages went up and around slowly at first and I thought about Orson Wells and cuckoo clocks; then it accelerated, surprising me with its speed. Riders in the other cages laughed and shrieked. I chuckled too, until Goldenhair put his hand on my knee. (I thought they only did that in Seventies sketch comedy.) He leaned forward to plant a Lon Perkerwicz on me. Now, Floss is a friend, but I’m not willing to land on Goldenhair’s Facebook page to help her out.
I started rocking the cage and laughing like ‘wasn’t this the funnest thing ever in all the wide world?’ Goldenhair did not approve. He scowled in a most fierce way and grabbed on tight to the crossbar. I was pleased his hand was no longer on my knee and rocked the cage with unabated zeal. Now, if you know anything about the Zipper, you know that once you start rocking it, your cage will soon start somersaulting and ours dutifully complied. I think Goldenhair would have slapped me but it would have required taking his hands off the crossbar.
The cage kept spinning. Even I was getting sick of it. Goldenhair lurched hard against me causing my gas mask bag to fly off my lap and against a side of the cage. The spinning continued. Round and round and round. The bag popped a grommet and the deck of cards spewed out dealing Fifty-two Pick-up throughout the pod. The centrifugal force of the spinning car then plastered the cards against the wire mesh walls.
The rocking lessened. The cards fell to our feet. Goldenhair lifted his mitts off the crossbar and made for my neck whereby I heaved forward and back and got the cage rolling again. Those wily cards found a hole in the cage and escaped, catching the wayward wind and flying out free throughout the fair. The carny must have noticed something untoward was going on and slowed the ride to a stop with our car resting at the disembarking spot.
As the car was just about opened, I rammed myself into Goldenhair and grabbed his wallet. When the hatch was up I popped out faster than a weasel and made tracks into the midway. Goldenhair made chase. By the time he caught up with me a crowd had gathered. Being that I’m of the female variety, the crowd tended to wall him away from me. Two members of the crowd stepped forward. I noticed there were no tunes lilting from the music tents.
“Fickster! What the hell?” Boyfriend Two looked from me to Goldenhair. Boyfriend One––holding one of my autographed playing cards––looked from Goldenhair to Boyfriend Two.
“He took Floss’s rent money!” I cried. “I’m trying to get it back. Call the cops!”
One did his best Corleone impression and stepped forward flicking the card at Goldenhair like a malevolent discus. That was enough. Goldenhair and his pretty boots took off for the vacant demo derby track. I remembered Floss’s policeman boyfriend. “Wait. Don’t call the cops.” Too late. Both a man and woman in blue had already set off from the Milk Can games and were closing in on their suspect.
I looked inside the wallet to see if there was enough green in it to cover Floss’s rent. There was indeed. Floss was going to have to think for herself when it came to her boyfriend on the force, but at least she’d be in good stead with her landlord. I withdrew the amount and secured it inside the gas mask bag, making doubly sure that both grommets were holding. Then I tossed the wallet to the ground.
“Must have fallen out of his pocket when he took off,” I said.
Seeing as how Goldenhair was on the lam, it must have appeared to the crowd that I had some kind of right to the dough and that the dirt was as good a place as any for what was left over. Mums the word. County fair justice. The crowd dispersed.
As for me, I was going have to do some fast thinking concerning Boyfriends One and Two and how to get out of my two-timing scrape. But then again, fast thinking is my best trait.
D. M. S. Fick is the author of the offbeat, big-hearted country music mystery Lewis Sinclair and the Gentlemen Cowboys from CamCat Books. She's an award-winning graphic designer, cartoonist, and animator and has worked on Peabody and Emmy-winning programs such as Liberty! The American Revolution, Newton’s Apple, and SciGirls. She grew up in a town of three hundred people, walked beans for her father, and was an extra in the movie Fargo. Her short story “Loco Motive” was published in the anthology Festival of Crime. You can find out more at https://dmsfick.com/
D.M.S. Fick
“Start talking.” I had Flossy on the blower. She was blubbering again. Always best to be direct with old Floss or your conversation could drag on to next Tuesday.
“Oh, Fickster, I’m so dumb.”
It was true. Flossy was dumb. Now don’t get me wrong. She was a smart gal. Especially with numbers. She kept books––heck, she kept two sets of books––at my favorite watering hole, Tommy Tuohee’s North Star Bar. But if common sense were currency, she couldn’t buy a gumball.
“Is it a guy?” It was always a guy with Flossy, but it’s just polite to ask.
“Was.”
I’m now thinking murder. Oh, Flossy.
She went on. “I mean, I doubt I’ll ever see him again. He found my rent money and took off while I was still asleep. Oh, Fickster, what am I going to do?”
I felt sorry for old Flossy, but I can’t deny I was relieved no one had kicked it. I didn’t like to choose between driving the Bronco and my standards.
“Did you call the police?” I asked logically.
“Oh, Fickster, you know I can’t do that. Freddy’d be sure to find out.” Freddy was Floss’s boyfriend. The one on the force. Turns out she kept two sets of books in her private live too.
“So where’d you meet Prince Side Piece?
“You know how the fair’s in town?” asked Flossy. I did. Two of my boyfriends were playing in the music tents. I’d planned to sit this one out just to keep things simple.
“Yes. Go on,” I said.
“Well I met him in the beer tent. The south one, next to the landjäger stand.” A landjäger, for all you folks without Teutonic ancestry, is a sturdy blood-red sausage with a verrrry dense texture. The kind of food that stands up bragging about its four-legged origins. Goes well with beer. Next to a brew tent would be a primo location.
“Was he working there?”
“No, just drinking. Like me.”
“Whereabouts was he sitting?”
“Oh, he was standing. And he looked good doing it too. Caught me eyeballing him and winked at me. I played it cool after that and found a table. Then he followed me. And we sat.”
Fingers crossed for Flossy’s sake this guy was a pro and he’d be there again today.
“What kind of boots did he wear?” I asked. Most likely he’d changed his clothes, but maybe not his footwear. And if I know Floss––and I think I do––dude’s wearing some kind of fancy-assed boots that’ll stand out in a crowd.
“Real pretty ones,” said Floss. “Golden alligator vamps with French square toes and yellow flames stitched into oxblood uppers. Wouldn’t mind a pair myself. Real Eye-catching.”
“He wear a hat?”
“No.”
“Must have nice hair then. Doesn’t want to mat it down.”
“You got that right. Thick waves of golden blonde. The kind that makes ya’ wanna weave your fingers in and hang on for all you’re worth.”
“So you did.”
“So I did.”
“And he took you for all you’re worth.”
“So he did.”
“May as well tell me about his eyes now. You know you want to.”
“Sometimes blue, sometimes grey, depends on the light.”
“What color were they in the beer tent?”
“Blue, blue, blue. And did I mention he’s tall? Six-two, I’d say.” Floss was an avid tree-climber. “And he’s got a mole––“
“I don’t want to know.”
“On his neck, silly. Left side, just below the ear.”
“About what time was it when you two met up?”
“About now.”
“Floss! It’s ten o’clock!
“That’s when you get the best tables.”
“I better hustle on down there before he finds his next mark. I’ll call you later with any news.”
Luckily for Floss, I lived just a block from the fairgrounds. It wasn’t an ideal location if the demo derby was in town, but it was just dandy if there was a music festival or if a person craved a corn dog.
I holstered the blower and sat down by the kitchen table to pull on my powder blue Fat Baby cowgirl boots and gulp down some hot joe. I’d just poured the java when the phone blasted out a sound that jolted me sideways. Boyfriend One’s ringtone was something like a viking blowing “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” from the fifth circle of hell. (A far louder clarion call than the twinkly bell tones I chose for Floss.)
The ring was so loud, in fact, that it spooked the cat who’d been perched on the kitchen window sill. It inspired him to launch himself onto the table, jostling the joe which tipped over and almost Niagara’d into my right Fat Baby. Said cat then made a detour––claws full out––onto my lap and down to the linoleum. I grabbed the Fat Baby in time to avoid the Great Java Flood of 2024, tapped the green icon on the phone, and watched as little red drops of my insides started finding their way to the outside of my thigh.
“There she is!” Boyfriend One is an enthusiastic sort. It’s his best trait.
“Bludgeoned and bloody,” I groused. “Darn cat left his John Doe in O positive on my thigh. Wish he’d learn to use a pen.”
“I won’t keep you, doll. You better go wash that out and disinfect it. Just wondering if you’re headed to the fair today.”
“I don’t think so, hon. Gonna lay low today. It’s kind of hot and you know I don’t take well to the heat.”
“If you change your mind, drop by the County Cousin music tent. It’s the one catty-corner from the landjäger stand.”
I winced. Would I need a disguise?
“What time are you on?”
“On and off all day,” said Boyfriend One. “We’re rotating with the Oscar Wingdinger Band.” I was gonna need a disguise.
“I’ll see how I feel,” I replied. “First I better tend to this scratch. It’s bleeding a little more now.”
“That can be good,” said Boyfriend One. “Pushes the bacteria out.”
Now most people would have said germs, but Boyfriend One went with bacteria right out of the gate. That was his third best trait. Precise vocabulary. Made him a good lyricist.
“I better see to it. Call me later if you want, after the gig.” I tapped the red icon, tucked my hair up under a straw panama, and donned an oversized pair of sunglasses. It was all the disguise I had time for. Slapping some hand sanitizer on my wound and laying a finger aside of my nose, I set off in search of Mister Golden Hair before he found a new mark.
Soon as I stepped onto that trampled grass and dry fairground dirt, the aroma of mini donuts and fried onions took my brain hostage. I followed the scent like a cartoon dog smelling T-bones, my feet pert near off the ground. This hallowed deep-fried reverie was rudely interrupted by the dissonant tones of a band tuning up.
I peeked through the grand door of the Pioneer Dance Hall tent to see Boyfriend Two and his band getting ready to play. He was studying a cheat sheet on the sound box of his Gibson. A new guy to his left was noodling with a squeezebox. Must have hired him on special for this fair set. Kind of unusual seeing as the bulk of their show was Eagles covers, but this was a German town, so.
Boyfriend Two looked up from his crib sheet to assess the audience as they ambled in. His band could spend half the day tuning up––and they often did––but they were smart enough to know you don’t keep people waiting when it’s mid-August hot. I jumped back so that Boyfriend Two wouldn’t see me. As I turned to leave I about flew out of my skin because standing right in front of me now was Boyfriend One. The Boyfriends Dos knew each other through playing in the same musical circles, but they didn’t know each other through playing with me and I wanted to keep it that way.
“Fickster! You said you weren’t coming today.”
“Changed my mind.” I decided to go with the truth. “I’m doing Floss a favor. You know me, Fickster the Fixer.”
Boyfriend One canted his head and narrowed his eyes. Maybe the truth wasn’t a good idea. About as good as my disguise had turned out to be.
“What’s it this time?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have it sorted by noon and then back to my hovel. So, like I said, call me tonight if you’re not too tired. You playing late?’
“On and off till eight. You can bet I’ll be dog tired. But if you’re game for a night of TV and Jameson, come over to my place around ten.” I got it. He’d haul his equipment back home and wouldn’t care to set out after that. “Guess who’s playing after us tonight? Lon Perkerwicz. Remember him?”
How could I forget? Our state Polka Laureate once planted a major smoocheroo smack dab on my kisser then posted it to his Facebook page. He’d asked permission for neither act. But that wasn’t all.
“He want you lean on a club owner for him?” In the not distant past, Lon Perkerwicz had required Boyfriend One and his bass player to act as back-up thugs during a visit to a miserly bar owner who was being reluctant about paying the band’s fee. Now, you have to understand that these were musicians, not very likely to endanger their moneymaker hands for a night’s paycheck. But they were also performers, so when asked to look tough, they were willing to give it a shot. Visions of Michael Corleone and the baker’s son-in-law danced in my head.
“You laugh, but it worked. Say, you got any of your playing cards with you?” he asked. “A blank one? There’s a gal from a recording studio here and she’s looking for session players.”
I dug around in the gas mask bag I use for a purse looking for the deck and a Sharpie. (You see, I liked to hand out playing cards with my contact information on them instead of the usual business-type of card. More space to personalize them and a lot more memorable.) I shuffled through ten or so cards before I got a blank one for him, then snapped the bag shut.
“I don’t know how you never lose anything from that bag,” he said. “You’re playing with fire.”
“Hasn’t happened yet.” I looked across the fairway and spied the landjäger stand. “You better get back to your band before that studio gal finds another picker.” Boyfriend One’s brown eyes got big and he took the card and marker and skedaddled. I watched him until he was inside the tent, then peeked back inside to Boyfriend Two’s stage. His back was to the door so I hightailed it over to the landjäger stand and the adjacent beer tent. I slipped on a discarded corn dog along the way, jostling open the bottom grommet of the gas mask bag in the process, but catching any contents before they could escape. I blamed Boyfriend One. I’d surely have secured it better if he hadn’t been so owly about it.
It was dark inside the tent and it took a small while for my eyes to adjust. I blinked a few times and what to my acclimating eyes did appear but Mister Goldenhair Surprise. First things I noticed were those crazy gold and oxblood boots. Like Floss said, they were pretty. Well, those pretty boots were made for walkin’, and they walked right towards me.
“Hey there, sister.” Not exactly the Bard, but an okay line for a beer tent before noon. “Nice boots. Come here often?” The hits just keep on comin’.
“Nice boots yourself.” I know, I know, but I don’t want to be too dazzling or he’ll suspect I’m out of his league. I studied his neck. Yep, there it was. A mole, left side, just below the ear.
“Buy you a drink?”
“Sure. Jameson. Straight.”
He smiled and winked one of his beer tent blues. While he paid for the drinks, I made note where he kept his wallet. We adjourned to a vinyl-clad folding table. It wasn’t sticky yet from spilled beer. Floss was right. It was a good time to get there. The tent was filling up and pretty soon there wouldn’t be a place to sit. Goldenhair raised his glass to me.
“From One Good American to Another.”
“To the Circus of Life.”
We clinked glasses, but, since they were plastic, it was more like a nudge.
“So,” said he, “what brings you to the fair?”
“Midway,” says I. “I like the rides, especially the Zipper.”
“Zipper! Now that’s one I haven’t been on for a while. Probably not since I was a teenager, maybe before then.”
“It’s the best one,” I said. “Classic.”
“Maybe you and I could do some rockin’ in the old Zipper.” I braced myself. “And maybe we could do some other kind of rockin’ later on.” I successfully avoided a grimace.
“Maybe.” I downed my shot. “Next one’s on me.”
“Liberated lady. I like it.” I don’t know what decade this guy was living in but it wasn’t mine.
I made a deal with the bartender––with a nod and a wink––to give me tonic with just enough gin on top to make it smell. Then took it and a shot back to the table.
“Switching to mixed drinks?”
“As long as I’m paying.” Those blues lit up and Goldenhair winked again.
A couple rounds later we decided to get to the first kind of rocking. Strolling through the midway, the duelling sounds of the music tents merged with the bells and sirens of the rides. The wind had come up and food wrappers and napkins were blowing around in the dust like birds lost in a dirt devil.
We arrived at the Zipper. As soon as we were locked into our egg-shaped cage, Goldenhair started shooting me coy looks. The cage lurched up as more riders were loaded into pods. Once each was filled, the ride jerked into motion. The cages went up and around slowly at first and I thought about Orson Wells and cuckoo clocks; then it accelerated, surprising me with its speed. Riders in the other cages laughed and shrieked. I chuckled too, until Goldenhair put his hand on my knee. (I thought they only did that in Seventies sketch comedy.) He leaned forward to plant a Lon Perkerwicz on me. Now, Floss is a friend, but I’m not willing to land on Goldenhair’s Facebook page to help her out.
I started rocking the cage and laughing like ‘wasn’t this the funnest thing ever in all the wide world?’ Goldenhair did not approve. He scowled in a most fierce way and grabbed on tight to the crossbar. I was pleased his hand was no longer on my knee and rocked the cage with unabated zeal. Now, if you know anything about the Zipper, you know that once you start rocking it, your cage will soon start somersaulting and ours dutifully complied. I think Goldenhair would have slapped me but it would have required taking his hands off the crossbar.
The cage kept spinning. Even I was getting sick of it. Goldenhair lurched hard against me causing my gas mask bag to fly off my lap and against a side of the cage. The spinning continued. Round and round and round. The bag popped a grommet and the deck of cards spewed out dealing Fifty-two Pick-up throughout the pod. The centrifugal force of the spinning car then plastered the cards against the wire mesh walls.
The rocking lessened. The cards fell to our feet. Goldenhair lifted his mitts off the crossbar and made for my neck whereby I heaved forward and back and got the cage rolling again. Those wily cards found a hole in the cage and escaped, catching the wayward wind and flying out free throughout the fair. The carny must have noticed something untoward was going on and slowed the ride to a stop with our car resting at the disembarking spot.
As the car was just about opened, I rammed myself into Goldenhair and grabbed his wallet. When the hatch was up I popped out faster than a weasel and made tracks into the midway. Goldenhair made chase. By the time he caught up with me a crowd had gathered. Being that I’m of the female variety, the crowd tended to wall him away from me. Two members of the crowd stepped forward. I noticed there were no tunes lilting from the music tents.
“Fickster! What the hell?” Boyfriend Two looked from me to Goldenhair. Boyfriend One––holding one of my autographed playing cards––looked from Goldenhair to Boyfriend Two.
“He took Floss’s rent money!” I cried. “I’m trying to get it back. Call the cops!”
One did his best Corleone impression and stepped forward flicking the card at Goldenhair like a malevolent discus. That was enough. Goldenhair and his pretty boots took off for the vacant demo derby track. I remembered Floss’s policeman boyfriend. “Wait. Don’t call the cops.” Too late. Both a man and woman in blue had already set off from the Milk Can games and were closing in on their suspect.
I looked inside the wallet to see if there was enough green in it to cover Floss’s rent. There was indeed. Floss was going to have to think for herself when it came to her boyfriend on the force, but at least she’d be in good stead with her landlord. I withdrew the amount and secured it inside the gas mask bag, making doubly sure that both grommets were holding. Then I tossed the wallet to the ground.
“Must have fallen out of his pocket when he took off,” I said.
Seeing as how Goldenhair was on the lam, it must have appeared to the crowd that I had some kind of right to the dough and that the dirt was as good a place as any for what was left over. Mums the word. County fair justice. The crowd dispersed.
As for me, I was going have to do some fast thinking concerning Boyfriends One and Two and how to get out of my two-timing scrape. But then again, fast thinking is my best trait.
D. M. S. Fick is the author of the offbeat, big-hearted country music mystery Lewis Sinclair and the Gentlemen Cowboys from CamCat Books. She's an award-winning graphic designer, cartoonist, and animator and has worked on Peabody and Emmy-winning programs such as Liberty! The American Revolution, Newton’s Apple, and SciGirls. She grew up in a town of three hundred people, walked beans for her father, and was an extra in the movie Fargo. Her short story “Loco Motive” was published in the anthology Festival of Crime. You can find out more at https://dmsfick.com/