Free Nightmare Alley by William Lindsay Gresham

rock or a fence post. His diaphragm seemed to be pressing up around his lungs and keeping him from drawing his breath. On one of the telephone poles was a streaked election poster, carrying the gaunt face of the candidate, white hair falling dankly over one eyebrow, lines of craft and rapacity around the mouth that the photographer couldn’t quite hide.
    “Elect MACKINSEN for SHERIFF. HONEST—INCORRUPTIBLE—FEARLESS.”
    Stan drew back his arm and let the bulb fly. “You son-of-a-bitch whoremonger!” Slowly, as if by the very intensity of his attention he had slowed down time itself, the bulb struck the printed face and shattered, the sparkling fragments sailing high in the air and glittering as they fell.
    As if an abscess inside him had broken, Stan could breathe again and the knot of fear loosened. He could never fear again with the same agony. He knew it. It would never come again as bad as that. His mind, clear as the bright air around him, took over, and he began to think.

CARD IV
The World
     

    Within a circling garland a girl dances; the beasts of the Apocalypse look on
.
     
    S INCE morning, Stan’s brain had been full of whirring wheels, grinding away at every possible answer. Where were you when he was over by the geek? On my platform, setting up my cot. What did you do then? Practiced a new move with cards. What move? Front-and-back-hand palm. Where did he go? Under the stage, I guess. You were watching him? Only that he didn’t go outside. Where were you when Zeena came back? At the entrance waiting for her.…
    Now the crowd was thinning out. Outside the stars had misted over and there was a flash of lightning behind the trees. At eleven Hoately stopped the bally. The last marks left and the inhabitants of the Ten-in-One smoked while they dressed. At last they gathered with sober faces around Hoately. Only Major Mosquito seemed unaffected. He started to whistle gaily, someone told him to pipe down.
    When the last one was ready they filed out and got into cars. Stan rode with Hoately, the Major, Bruno, and Sailor Martin toward the center of town where the undertaker’s parlor was located.
    “Lucky break the funeral happened on a slow night,” the Sailor said. No one answered him.
    Then Major Mosquito chirruped, “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” He spat. “Why do they have to crap it up with all that stuff? Why can’t they just shovel ’em under and let ’em start falling apart?”
    “You shut up!” Bruno said thickly. “You talk too much for little fellow.”
    “Go frig a rubber duck.”
    “Tough on Zeena,” Bruno said to the others. “She is fine woman.”
    Clem Hoately, driving with one hand carelessly on the wheel, said, “That rum-pot ain’t going to be missed by nobody. Not even Zeena after a while. But it makes you take a good think for yourself. I remember that guy when he was big stuff. I ain’t touched a drop in over a year now and I ain’t going to, either. Seen too much of it.”
    “Who’s going to work the act with Zeena?” Stan asked after a time. “She going to change her act? She could handle the questions herself and work one ahead.”
    Hoately scratched his head with his free hand. “That ain’t too good nowadays. She don’t have to change the act. You could work the undercover part. I’ll take the house collection. We’ll throw the Electric Girl between your spot and Zeena’s, give you time to slip in and get set.”
    “Suits me.”
    He said it, Stan kept repeating. It wasn’t my idea. The Major and Bruno heard him. He said it.
    The street was empty and the light from the funeral parlor made a golden wedge on the sidewalk. Behind them the other car drew up. Old Maguire, the Ten-in-One’s ticket seller and grinder, got out, then Molly; then Joe Plasky swung himself out on his hands and crossed the sidewalk. He reminded Stan of a frog, moving deliberately.
    Zeena met them at the door. She was wearing a new black outfit, a