Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Forty-Three: Nomadic

It was later on that day, helping set up the struts of the stalls an the fabric canopies that I was approached by the carnival owner, I could see him ambling over out of the corner of my eye.

Lanky, skinny with a disordered tuft of light brow hair. He clothed himself in patchy and faded jeans and plain tops; rudimentary, but it was better than most of us could afford. He had a flash watch just to augment his otherwise bland wardrobe; the glass dial twinkled in the sunlight.

"You Hawkeye?" He drawled with a Southern twang, blowing a puff of cigar smoke into my face.

"Yes, sir! Mister Carson right?" Smudges of black oil were smeared across my face and with beads of sweat trickling down my face, I turned to shake his hand.

He clapped our hands together, gave it a pragmatic shake and leant away as he did. The moments our hands were unclasped, he wiped it off on his trousers and blew another lungful of smoke in my face.

"You the one who's been making me a fortune lately?" He questioned, leaning unhelpfully against the stall being constructed.

"I sure hope so," I agreed, giving him a crowd pleasing grin.

"Mister Duquesne has an eye for talent! Seems he found a rough diamond and polished it until it was the shiniest in the window!" He gave a jaunty grin. "Where'd he find you, boy?" He popped a hip and pursed his lips.

"Iowa, sir..." I repspoded, twirling a wrench between my fingers.

"Corn country, huh?" He snorted. "How you findin' the carnival?" His eyes narrowed at the question. I was in dangerous territory and I knew my answer was going to be scrutinised.

"Loving it! The people are great! The place is great! It's great, really!" I scratched the back of my neck, knowing my answer was full of stumbling and repetition.

"Glad to hear it..." he gave an unpleasant snarling smile. "Welcome aboard, partner," he offered me one final handshake. Once he had my hand, he snared me close, his hold fingerbreaking. "If you value your job, you'll stay the fuck away from my daughter." He gritted. "Got that, hombre?"

I nodded nervously, and he grinned again, patting me on the back and breaking away. "See y'around, Hawkeye!"

The thing is about being told not to do something, is it becomes like a big red button. And it took the maturer half of my brain to admonish the childish half to stop myself from running straight to Marcella's trailer and socialise.

Thing is, I didn't have to. Pre-show, applying makeup and adjusting my hair, there was a rapping at my door.

"Yuh-huh?!" I called over my shoulder, concurring that they could come in.

True to form, with a flurry of flaming red curls, Marcella strode into my caravan and posed in the doorway.

"Hiya, Marcy..." I chuckled nervously. "Didn't realise it was you!" I applied the last of the eyeliner to my lower lid and capped it.

"Is that a problem?" She chirped, tracing her red lips with her red nails. "You're the only decent company in this friggin' carnival..." She huffed. "The rest of them are prehistorically old or practically a foetus," she sneered. "A girl gets bored... Especially confined to that damn stuffy trailer." She sounded genuinely bereft, and she had a downcast expression to match. And as tempting as if was to pander to her mind games, I was reminded of the job I had to do.

I tried to shake her off like a flea. "What about the Carnival stalls? They're entertaining, right?" I tied my mask onto my face, winged like a hawk.

"I've played them all a million times. And I can win the top prize on most with my eyes shut!" She declared, slumping in the doorframe. "Besides, that's not the kind of entertainment I'm after..." She said, sashaying from the doorway and placing a hand on my chest.