Joyland

I didn’t dare take a hand from my slicker pocket to wipe it off. I could see how white his finger was on the trigger of the pistol. He sat down on the inside of the car.
    “Now you.”
    I got in. I didn’t see any choice.
    “And close the door, that’s what it’s there for.”
    “You sound like Dr. Seuss,” I said.
    He grinned. “Flattery will get you nowhere. Close the door or I’ll put a bullet in your knee. You think anyone will hear it over this wind? I don’t.”
    I closed the door. When I looked at him again, he had the pistol in one hand and a square metal gadget in the other. It had a stubby antenna. “Told you, I love these gadgets. This one’s your basic garage door-opener with a couple of small modifications. Sends a radio signal. Showed it to Mr. Easterbrook this spring, told him it was the perfect thing for wheel maintenance when there wasn’t a greenie or a gazoonie around to run the ground-side controls. He said I couldn’t use it because it hasn’t been safety-approved by the state commission. Cautious old sonofabitch. I was going to patent it. Too late now, I guess. Take it.”
    I took it. It was a garage door opener. A Genie. My dad had one almost exactly like it.
    “See the button with the up arrow?”
    “Yes.”
    “Push it.”
    I put my thumb on the button, but didn’t push it. The wind was strong down here; how much stronger up there, where the air was rare? We’re flying! Mike had shouted.
    “Push it or take one in the knee, Jonesy.”
    I pushed the button. The Spin’s motor geared down at once, and our car began to rise.
    “Now throw it over the side.”
    “What?”
    “Throw it over the side or you get one in the knee and you’ll never two-step again. I’ll give you a three-count. One . . . t—”
    I threw his controller over the side. The wheel rose and rose into the windy night. To my right I could see the waves pounding in, their crests marked by foam so white it looked phosphorescent. On the left, the land was dark and sleeping. Not a single set of headlights moved on Beach Row. The wind gusted. My blood-sticky hair flew back from my forehead in clumps. The car rocked. Lane threw himself forward, then back, making the car rock more . . . but the gun, now pointed at my side, never wavered. Red neon skimmed lines along the barrel.
    He shouted, “ Not so much like a grandma ride tonight, is it, Jonesy?”
    It sure wasn’t. Tonight the staid old Carolina Spin was terrifying. As we reached the top, a savage gust shook the wheel so hard I heard our car rattling on the steel supports that held it. Lane’s derby flew off into the night.
    “Shit! Well, there’s always another one.”
    Lane, how are we going to get off? The question rose behind my lips, but I didn’t ask. I was too afraid he’d tell me we weren’t, that if the storm didn’t blow the Spin over and if the power didn’t go out, we’d still be going around and around when Fred got here in the morning. Two dead men on Joyland’s chump-hoister. Which made my next move rather obvious.
    Lane was smiling. “You want to try for the gun, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. Well, it’s like Dirty Harry said in that movie—you have to ask yourself if you feel lucky.”
    We were going down now, the car still rocking but not quite so much. I decided I didn’t feel lucky at all.
    “How many have you killed, Lane?”
    “None of your fucking business. And since I have the gun, I think I should get to ask the questions. How long have you known? Quite a while, right? At least since the college cunt showed you the pictures. You just held off so the cripple could get his day at the park. Your mistake, Jonesy. A rube’s mistake.”
    “I only figured it out tonight,” I said.
    “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”
    We swept past the ramp and started up again. I thought, He’s probably going to shoot me when the car’s at the top. Then he’ll either shoot himself or push me out, slide over, and jump onto the ramp when the car comes back down. Take his chances on not breaking a leg or a collarbone. I was betting on the murder-suicide scenario, but not until his curiosity was satisfied.
    I said, “Call me stupid if you want, but don’t call me a liar. I kept looking at the pictures, and I kept seeing something in them, something familiar, but until tonight I couldn’t quite figure out what it was. It was the hat. You were wearing a fishtop baseball cap in the photos, not a derby, but it was tilted one way