“I can imagine. Ten o’clock, then?”

“Ten o’clock. I’ll be there.”

“Where exactly?”

He pointed over to a spot near the mark’s tent, between the exhibit with the giant rats and the House of Mirrors. The Winnebago camper was parked behind there, just fifty feet away, among many other such vehicles belonging to the carny people; in the background loomed the truck trailers, the rides, when disassembled, were transported in.

“Okay,” I said. “See you later.”

“See you later.”

I went on some rides, had my weight and age guessed and threw a few balls at a game tent, but not the mark’s. I ended up in Fun World, a king-size arcade in a long, narrow tent. The pinballs and shooting machines held my attention for several hours, and when I finally came out, at nine-thirty, night had replaced dusk; the rides, with their bright neons of every imaginable color, were tracing garish designs against the darkness, like ungodly jewelry or a hand-painted tie.

And at nine-forty, after going to the rental Ford for my silenced nine-millimeter and a light jacket, I had wandered over by the mark’s stall, where he was closing down. The rest of the carnival stayed open till one, but not this clown. He always closed up early, sometimes as early as ten o’clock. Tonight was a new record.

Which was a little disturbing. It’s always disturbing when a mark varies his pattern, even just a little. But even more disturbing when I looked over where Turner was supposed to be and he wasn’t. Well, it was early. He’d be along soon.

By nine fifty-five the mark’s tent was shut down.

Still no Turner.

And the guy was heading back toward his Winnebago.

I hesitated.

Shit.

Turner would be here momentarily.