Carnival of Shadows (29 page)

22

Despite the lateness of the evening, Oscar Haynes had been all too willing to accede to Travis’s request for an interview. Travis met with him in the marquee.

“So what is it that you want to know?” Oscar Haynes asked.

“You were here when the body was found, Mr. Haynes.”

“Yes, I was,” Haynes replied. “I was not near the carousel, but I heard the commotion and came over. I hung around until the sheriff turned up, and I saw them bring the body out. I know it was akin to rubbernecking as you pass a car crash, but you sort of can’t help it, can you? Natural human curiosity wins over every time.” He smiled sardonically, and with a sweeping gesture of his hand, he added, “And that’s the reason people keep coming to things like this.”

“Meaning?”

“They want to know if we are real, Agent Travis.”

“If you are
real
?”

“We have been doing this for centuries. We are the caravan of lost souls and castaways. We are the ones who float at the edge of society and are viewed with equal amounts of suspicion and curiosity.”

“Can I ask about your own background, Mr. Haynes?”

“You can ask, for sure. Whether or not I tell you the truth depends upon whether or not you give me cause for concern.”

“I am sorry.”

Haynes leaned forward. As he did so, not only did he place his hands on the table between them, but he further exposed his wrists. They were so very thin, almost painfully so, and Travis reacted visibly.

“We upset you, don’t we? Me and Mr. Slate with his fourteen fingers, and Akiko when she turns herself inside out. But all of that is nothing compared to the way Doyle and his crazy woman seem to see inside your mind.”

“Crazy woman?”

Haynes laughed and looked directly at Travis, and there was something altogether disturbing in his expression. His face was a skull, near as damn it, and his eyes were shadowed and sunken. Haynes was right; these people did unnerve Travis, but not in the way that they believed. Each of them, for no explicable reason, made him feel transparent. They did indeed play his own insecurities against him, and that was the reason he had so easily been taken in by Doyle’s charms. That’s why he had shared food and wine with them. They made him feel as though he had to earn their cooperation. They were legally bound to cooperate. The law was the law, and they were obligated to uphold and abide by that law as much as anyone else. He—Michael Travis—was the Bureau representative here, and he would dictate the terms of play.

“So why have they sent you, Agent Travis? Tell me that much at least.”

“I am surprised you are asking me. You already know why I am here.”

“Apparency and reality are not necessarily the same. Why you think you are here and why you are actually here might not be similar at all.” Haynes nodded his head. “I know who you are, Agent Travis. Well, I say I
know
who you are, and that is not entirely true. I know of you. I have heard your name before.”

“You have?”

“I am from Chicago, Agent Travis. I ran with a certain crowd. I floated around the edges of that scene for a while, and then I got out.”

“What scene, Mr. Haynes?”

“The Chicago scene. The hoodlums and bootleggers and button men. I knew all of them—Capone, Bugs Moran, McErlane, Shorty Egan, and Morrie Keane. Hell, I did a handful of years in Menard Correctional, occupied the same cell that van Meter had occupied back in twenty-four. I even met Dillinger one time, a year or so before he was killed.”

“And you know of me because?”

“Because I heard about what happened to Tony Scarapetto…”

A brief flash in Travis’s mind. Standing there in the backyard behind the Jarvis farm. Gun in his hand. That sense of rage and injustice boiling inside his chest, how he could do nothing but pull the trigger.

God darn it, boy, you sure as hell is your father’s son.

Travis flinched, as if shocked by a current of electricity.

“You were the one who killed him, right?”

Travis focused on Haynes’s face, corralled his thoughts. “I did, yes.”

“I remember hearing about it, remember your name, not so different from Melvin Purvis, you see? You ever meet Melvin Purvis?”

“I did not, no,” Travis said, feeling his heart beating just a little faster.

“Hardheaded son of a bitch. No sense of humor. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that after killing Dillinger, after actually getting Public Enemy Number One, he’d lighten up, right? No, sirree, he was just as much of a ball breaker after that as he was before.”

“Why did you go to Menard, Mr. Haynes?” Travis asked, wishing to steer the conversation away from Tony Scarapetto.

“I was a smuggler, Agent Travis. Pure and simple. I drove those trucks down from the Canadian border into Chicago for more than ten years.”

“And you were caught?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Meaning what?”

“I got tired of the life. I gave it up. I had to give it up. I saw too many dead guys, too much blood, and it started to make no sense.”

“So you gave yourself up?”

“I allowed myself to be caught for something dumb, but it got me out of the loop. You don’t get out of that racket unless you get killed or go to jail, Agent Travis. I got myself busted on a seven-to-ten beef, did five years in Menard, got paroled, and stayed the hell out of Chicago until I was cleared to leave the state. Then I just traveled a while until I met this crowd of hobos and dropouts. I’ve been here ever since.”

“And you earn a living by being—”

“The skinny guy?” Haynes laughed. “Oh no, the skinny thing is just for effect, you know? That’s just to charm the ladies, right? No, sir. I am the illusionist. I am the one who draws a veil of disbelief and wonderment around you and will not let you go.”

“You do tricks?”

Haynes smiled at Travis as if he were a child. There was something almost
disappointed
in that expression. “Yes, Agent Travis. I do tricks.”

“I didn’t intend for that to sound derogatory, Mr. Haynes. I am just not quite sure what you mean.”

“Edgar tells me that you are considering permitting us to open the carnival again tomorrow night.”

“I am considering it, yes.”

“Well, you should let us do that, Agent Travis. You should come and see the show for yourself. It is quite a thing, let me tell you.”

“I will make a decision, Mr. Haynes, and I will let Mr. Doyle know that decision as soon as it has been made.”

“I think you might be surprised, Agent Travis, but then you might see some of what you have been looking for all along.”

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Haynes? I might see something that relates to the death of this man last Saturday?”

“Is that why you are here, Agent Travis? To find out who killed that man? I heard from Gabor that he was part of some foreign crime gang.”

“That may well be the case, yes. Can you please explain what you mean, Mr. Haynes? You say that if I allow the carnival to run on Friday night, I will see some of what I have been looking for. You also seem to be questioning whether my presence here is solely for the purpose of investigating this homicide. What are you trying to say?”

“I am not trying to say anything, Agent Travis.”

“You are implying something, Mr. Haynes—”

“Did you never tire of it, Agent Travis?”

“Tire of what?”

“The lies, the falsehoods, the pretense, the bullshit.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand, sir.”

“No need to be sorry, Agent Travis. Sorry is the very last thing you have to be here.”

Haynes looked away for a moment, as if his attention had been distracted by something, and then he turned back to Travis.

“Do you see a pattern here, Agent Travis?” he asked. “Do you see a common thread weaving its way through all of this? These people,” he went on, indicating beyond the tent with a wave of his hand. “These strange, crazy, inexplicable people. Do you not see the thread that ties all of us together?”

“I see a similarity in their background, perhaps,” Travis replied.

“The violence, right? The brutality of their lives. Gabor’s family, the things that Edgar and Valeria did during the war. The history I left behind in Chicago. You’re talking about these things, right?”

“Yes.”

“Those things might have been the catalyst, Agent Travis. The
force majeure
, if you will. Bodies at rest and in motion, right?”

“Explain what you mean, Mr. Haynes.”

“We take a path, Agent Travis. This road you are on, this career, this life you are living, did you ever stop to think why?”

“Yes, of course. We all think about why we do things.”

“That, sir, is where I beg to differ. I would say that the vast majority of people just sleepwalk through the entirety of their lives, following the rules and regulations that have been laid down for them, abiding by the consensus of opinion, never once challenging the way of things. What life is, and what people are fooled into believing that life is, are not the same thing at all, Agent Travis.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with the man who was killed,” Travis said, feeling a sense of exasperation clouding his thoughts.

“Oh, I disagree,” Haynes replied. “I think this has everything to do with the man who was killed. Who was he? Where did he come from? Where was he going? What external factor influenced his life to such a degree that his life was brought to an end?”

“Those are the precise questions that I am trying to get an answer to, Mr. Haynes, and that, whether you think it or not, is the precise reason I am here.”

Haynes smiled. “Of course it is.”

“Once again, simply by the tone of your response, you are suggesting that what I am saying is not true.”

“Quite the contrary, Agent Travis. I am doing no such thing. I have never once questioned what you are saying. You believe it is the truth, and there we have it. We all live the same way.”

“We are getting off the point, Mr. Haynes,” Travis interjected.

“If you say so.”

“So, here it is, a simple question, Mr. Haynes. Are you—or have you ever been—familiar with the deceased?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you see him on Saturday night before he was found dead?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“Before Mr. Benedek mentioned it to you, had you ever heard of this Hungarian criminal organization known as Fekete Kutya?”

“No, Agent Travis, I had not.”

“Has anyone said anything to you before or since this incident that leads you to believe that they know something of the origins of this man, where he came from or what he was doing here?”

“No, sir, they have not.”

“Do you possess any suspicion, substantiated or otherwise, that indicates that anyone within this community is aware of some fact relating to this case that they have not communicated?”

“No, not at all.”

Travis nodded. “Okay, Mr. Haynes. Those are the questions I wanted to ask you.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You do not want to know what I think?”

“If it bears relevance to this case, yes, of course.”

“Perhaps it does not bear an immediate relevance to this case, Agent Travis, but I believe it bears relevance.”

“Very well. What is it that you think?”

“Actually,” Haynes said, “now that I consider it, it might be a whole lot better for you to see what I think.”

“You have something to show me?”

“Oh, I think we all have something to show you, Agent Travis.”

“Mr. Haynes, whatever you have to say, just say it.”

“Let the carnival run tomorrow night, sir, and I think certain things might become a great deal clearer.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“I am saying that if you allow us to show you what the carnival is, then you might have a change of viewpoint that will allow you to see things differently. I believe that the Carnival Diablo might just light a fire among the last dying embers of your imagination.”

Haynes smiled. “And now, if there are no more immediate questions, I shall go.” He rose from the bench and walked toward the marquee doorway. “Perhaps you would like for me to send Chester Greene to speak with you?”

Travis looked up. “Yes,” he said. “Mr. Greene. That would be most appreciated.”

“I shall tell him now,” Haynes said, and then there was a knowing expression in his eyes, as if he knew very well that Travis was lost for words.

23

Despite his diminutive stature, Chester Greene possessed a strangely disarming charisma.

He took a seat facing Travis and waited patiently for Travis to speak, as if he possessed not a single concern in the world.

“This is just routine procedure, Mr. Greene,” Travis began. “I need to speak to everyone who was working at the carnival on Saturday night.”

“Ask away, Agent Travis.”

“Where are you from?”

“Originally? Originally, I’m from Oklahoma City. Wasn’t there long, however. My father had me shipped off as soon as he could get someone to take me. My mother was a dwarf, had worked in circuses most of her life. She got pregnant, my father stuck by her, but once she was gone, he didn’t want the problem.”

“They were not married?”

“No, sir, they were not.”

“And how old were you when your mother died?”

“Is this really necessary, Agent Travis? What does my personal history have to do with the fact that there was a dead man under the carousel?”

“Nothing, to be honest. I was merely interested, Mr. Greene. I am sorry if I have offended you.”

“Offended? Good God, no! It would take a great deal more than a few questions to offend me, Agent Travis. Besides, it’s only fair. I understand that you talked to Edgar, and you were willing to discuss a little of your own personal history.”

“But I spoke with him in confidence—”

“Hey, what you gonna do? Get a lawyer? Nothing is in confidence here, Agent Travis. They want to play their games, then they can go ahead. Let’s not let them in, eh? Best way to keep them out is to have no secrets inside, right?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Greene.”

“Pay no mind to me, Agent Travis. Most of what I say is nonsense, and you really shouldn’t take it seriously.”

“Well, okay. Now to Saturday night.”

“Hell of a thing, eh?”

“You had never seen him before? Not that night, or perhaps some other night earlier in the week?”

“No.”

“And nothing’s been said by anyone that suggests what he was doing here?”

“Oh, I think it’s pretty obvious what he was doing here, Agent Travis.”

“It is?”

“He was the reason, was he not?”

“The reason for what?”

“The reason for you being here.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Greene. Once again I seem to find myself taking part in a conversation that seems to be some other conversation entirely.”

“You’ll figure it out, Agent Travis, I’m sure. You just need to use your imagination.”

Travis inhaled slowly. The very worst thing he could do was let these people see that they were getting to him. Yesterday he had been willing to grant them the benefit of the doubt. But now the rules of this game had changed. They knew something. Perhaps not all of the truth, but some of it.

“You try my patience, Mr. Greene.”

“And you try ours, Agent Travis. We are not responsible for the death of this stranger. He came here to do harm, perhaps. He came here en route to somewhere else. Who knows? Certainly no one here. We are citizens of the United States of America, just as you are. We have livelihoods to maintain. You are preventing us from going on about our business because of something that does not matter—”

“You think a human life does not matter, Mr. Greene?”

“I think your dead man believed that, yes. Gabor told me that this man belonged to an organization that thought nothing of taking human life. In fact, his membership alone required that he be a murderer. Is that not so?”

“If what Mr. Benedek says is true of this organization, then yes, there is a good possibility that the dead man was a killer.”

“An eye for an eye, was it not? It’s been said that a man dies when he’s meant to die. Some say that Dillinger would’ve died outside the Biograph Theater irrespective of whether Melvin Purvis or Sam Cowley had been there to meet him. They say he would’ve been hit by a truck as he crossed the street. Maybe a piano would have fallen from the sky and crushed him like a bug. Oscar Haynes told me that he met Dillinger one time. Said that if ever there was a man carrying a bullet with his own name on it, then it was John Dillinger. Perhaps your carousel man had a rendezvous with fate, Agent Travis, and we were just the sideshow attraction.”

“I appreciate such a possibility, Mr. Greene, of course. Man has believed such things for as long as man has been around, but—”

“You don’t believe in destiny, then, Agent Travis?”

“I believe in the destiny that a man creates for himself.”

“Well, perhaps your Hungarian knew his time was up. Perhaps he finally saw the error of his ways and knew that the only way to curtail his own homicidal tendencies was to end his life.”

“He did not commit suicide, Mr. Greene. He was murdered.”

“A suicide can be a murder, Agent Travis, and a murder can be a suicide. People do allow themselves to be murdered, right? People do find ways and means to make others responsible for the most terrible things, simply to make them then carry that burden of guilt for the rest of their lives.”

“The only thing you need to assure me of, Mr. Greene, is that you have no information that would be of assistance in resolving this homicide.”

“I don’t know that for sure, sir.”

“Meaning what?”

“I have some ideas of what might have happened, though whether or not they bear any connection to the reality of what happened I do not know.”

“You have a theory.”

“Several, Agent Travis.”

“And are any of these so-called theories possessive of substantive or provable evidence, even a fragment perhaps?”

“I think we’d agree that hypothesis is the mother of invention, Agent Travis, not necessity. I would say that hypothesis is the mother and bravery is the father, wouldn’t you? Be brave with one’s hypotheses, and one might find the truth.”

“And that would be?”

“I don’t know. It is not my investigation, Agent Travis, and I don’t know what you are trying to learn here.”

“The identity of a dead man, Mr. Greene, and who might have been responsible for his murder.”

“That would be of no concern to me. I would want to know why fate brought him here.”

Chester Greene smiled, again without the slightest sense of sarcasm, and he maneuvered himself off the bench and stood up. He was no taller on his feet than he had been when he was seated. That, in itself, was disconcerting. Travis suddenly felt like a bully, as if he had taken advantage of the man’s stature and tried to overwhelm him. He had done no such thing, of course, but he couldn’t help but feel that way.

“I might be small,” Greene said, once again giving Travis the impression that his innermost thoughts were being divined, “but I have a big mind. Bigger than most people, I have to say. My mind encompasses what has happened, what is happening, sometimes what I believe
will
happen. If that’s what you want to know, then there it is. What you imagine is true, Agent Travis, though you are afraid to let yourself believe it. Come to the carnival. Let it open. Let us regale you, and then you can go away and think about it in a different light.”

“I am of a mind to disallow the carnival to open tomorrow night, I have to say, Mr. Greene. I have found your responses, and those of Mr. Haynes, to be obtuse, unhelpful and, as far as I can see, intentionally confusing—”

“Let it go, why don’t you? You’re not the first who’s tried this, and I am sure you won’t be the last—”

“Tried what, Mr. Greene?”

“To get at the truth, Agent Travis.”

“Of the dead man? What are you talking about?”

“The dead man? No, of course not! Open your eyes, Agent Travis. Open your eyes wide, and you might just see how far beyond one dead Hungarian this really goes. This is nothing more than a charade, a theater within which we are all appearing. It is very modern, perhaps, because none of us have been given lines nor character names. Perhaps we are all supposed to play ourselves. What do you think, Agent Travis?”

“I think, sir, that you are talking about something of which I have absolutely no understanding.”

Greene stepped forward. He grabbed Travis’s hand. His grip was firm and unyielding, and though Travis could have wrested free he did not feel the impulse to.

“Say that again, Agent Travis. Look at me directly and say that again.”

“Say what?”

“What you just said.”

Travis stared back at Greene. He did not even blink. “I said that you were talking about something of which I have absolutely no understanding.”

Greene did not respond for a moment. He simply continued to look right back at Travis.

Finally he nodded, released Travis’s hand, and smiled.

“I believe you,” Greene said. “Though that does not necessarily mean that this will be any easier for you to deal with.”

“Deal with what?”

“The truth, Agent Travis. Isn’t that what we are all looking for?”

“Yes, indeed. The Hungarian—”

“You still think this is about him? Seriously, Agent Travis, you really are very limited in your appreciation of what is actually happening here, aren’t you?”

“We are not here being friendly, Mr. Greene. We are here to talk about how someone’s life came to a brutal end at your carnival—”

“I think not, sir,” Greene said.

“You are saying that he did not die at the carnival?”

“That’s right.”

“How do you know that?”

“Am I right?”

“I am not disagreeing with your statement, Mr. Greene, but I want to know why you think he died elsewhere.”

“Because I understand some of the rules of how these things work.”

“Explain what you mean.”

“Not yet.”

“Mr. Greene—”

“If you’re asking me to tell you where he died, I have not the faintest clue.”

“I have no wish for further games, Mr. Greene. Not now, not later, not ever. I want you to tell me the truth of what you know. I want you to explain to me how you are so certain that this man did not die at the carnival.”

“I am not
so
certain, as you say, Agent Travis. I have a suspicion, and that suspicion is based on some considerable experience of what has been done to people like us.”

“People like you?”

“We are the outsiders, Agent Travis. We are the ones nobody wants because we cannot be explained. Society is compelled to label everything, and yet we not only cannot be labeled, we refuse to be. They cannot let us be. They see something here that scares them, but they see in it some kind of potential to use it to their advantage. And if you wish for further explanation, then do what I asked of you, and you will see.”

“Let you open the carnival again tomorrow night.”

“Yes, Agent Travis. Let us open the carnival.”

“And if I do, then what?”

“Then we will give you a show you will never forget, Agent Travis.”

“Is that so?”

“I believe it is.”

“And is there anything you can give me in return for my permission to do this?”

“You have had a hard life. It shows in everything you do, everything you say, everything you are. I am sorry you had such a hard life. Not for how you feel, Agent Travis, but for how it has limited what you permit yourself to feel. You are so closed, so narrow in your view, so limited in your perspective. You trust your eyes, your eyes, your certainties. I understand it completely, you know? I might not sound like I do, but I do. But sometimes what you see is an illusion, and illusions can be quite as convincing as any reality.”

“What are you willing to give me, Mr. Greene? If I let you open the carnival, what will you give me?”

Greene reached out and took Travis’s hand once more. There was a sense of electricity that seemed to emanate from his skin, and Travis shuddered.

“I will give you this, Agent Travis,” Greene said. His voice was low, and he leaned forward in such a way that Travis could do nothing but lean further toward him.

“You are not your father’s son, Michael Travis. What you most fear does not run in the blood, my friend. That is a myth. You are not him, and he is not you. You are free to be yourself.”

Travis snatched his hand away from Greene, almost as if he had been electrocuted.

“Wha—”

Greene stepped back.

Travis fell silent. There were no words to express what he felt.

Greene’s expression was implacable. “We are inviting you to the carnival, Agent Travis. In fact, you are the guest of honor. It will start at seven precisely. Don’t be late.”

Greene left him sitting there—speechless, almost without thought. Something had happened. Something he could not explain. Something he did not
want
to explain. He believed that if he allowed himself to, he would just cry. He did not dare, because he knew that it was out of his control, and he might just go on crying forever.

All he could see was his mother’s face—the way she looked back at him on the day before she died. That moment—that single, simple moment—when he made a connection to her, when the madness somehow released its grip for just a second and she became the mother he remembered and loved.

The pain was not physical. It was mental, emotional, and somehow even spiritual. It was as if there were two Michael Travises: the real one and the ghost of the past. The ghost of the past was nothing more than some representation of who he might have become had everything been different. His father had been good and kind and decent and he did not drink and fuck other women, and he loved his wife and treated her well, and Michael had grown up in a house where the things that mattered the most were kindness and decency and trust. He had gone to school, to college, and he had worked hard and gotten good grades, and he had never gone to the army or to the Bureau, and now he was married with children of his own, and he had a job someplace that mattered. He had a job that did not entail looking into the deepest and darkest recesses of the human condition, there to find the worst thing that human beings could do to one another. He did not know murderers and serial killers; he did not know sociopathic bank robbers and child abductors; he did not know thieves and liars and rapists and those who would stab you through the heart for a handful of dollars and never give you a second thought.