I went over to his tent and threw some balls.

“Cool day,” I said.

“Cool,” he agreed. His voice was high-pitched, like it hadn’t changed yet.

I seemed to be his first customer in some time, but he wasn’t particularly excited about the prospect.

“How much?” I said, pointing to the pile of baseballs on the counter.

He pointed to the sign that said “3 Balls — 35? Everybody Wins.” His features were bulges in his puffy face. His thinning gray-brown hair was cut short and neatly combed to the side. He was in his early fifties. He wore a Hawaiian print shirt and white pressed slacks. He looked like the host at a country club luau.

I threw three balls and won a skunk.

I threw three more and won another.

“What do I win,” I asked, “if I play again and keep missing?”

“A skunk,” he said.

“I figured. Well. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I walked away, passing several other game tents where the pitchmen did everything but reach out and grab me to pull me in for a game.

Shriners were standing around in their fezzes like foreign cops. Some of them were ticket-takers; others just stood and in so doing reminded anyone who cared, that the Shrine was sponsoring all this family entertainment. One of the Shriners was Turner.

He was standing in a small open area between the House of Mirrors and the tent where the Bonnie and Clyde Death Car was being exhibited, and he was watching the pretty young girls in tight jeans go by He was tall, a good three inches taller than my five ten, and while neither of us was overweight, he was leaner looking. His hair was dark brown and shaggy, his complexion pale, almost pasty, with heavy five o’clock shadow; his eyes were dark as his hair and so close set they crowded his nose.