Joyland

Milo turned to look at her, then looked back at me with his bright black eyes. On impulse, I tore a piece from one of my pastries, squatted, and held it out to him. Milo came like a shot.

"Don't you feed him!" the woman called sharply.

"Aw, Mom, get over it," the boy said.

Milo heard her and didn't take the shred of croissant… but he did sit up before me with his front paws held out. I gave him the bite.

"I won't do it again," I said, getting up, "but I couldn't let a good trick go to waste."

The woman snorted and went back to her book, which was thick and looked arduous. The boy called, "We feed him all the time. He never puts on weight, just runs it off."

Without looking up from her book, Mom said: "What do we know about talking to strangers, Milo?"

"He's not exactly a stranger when we see him every day," the boy pointed out. Reasonably enough, at least from my point of view.

"I''m Devin Jones," I said. "From down the beach. I work at Joyland."

"Then you won't want to be late." Still not looking up.

The boy shrugged at me-whattaya gonna do, it said. He was pale and as bent-over as an old man, but I thought there was a lively sense of humor in that shrug and the look that went with it. I returned the shrug and walked on. The next morning I took care to finish my croissants before I got to the big green Victorian so Milo wouldn't be tempted, but I waved. The kid,

Mike, waved back. The woman was in her usual place under the green umbrella, and she had no book, but-as per usual-she didn't wave to me. Her lovely face was closed. There is nothing here for you, it said. Go on down to your trumpery amusement park and leave us alone.

So that was what I did. But I continued to wave, and the kid waved back. Morning and night, the kid waved back.

22

The Monday after Gary "Pop" Allen left for Florida-bound for Alston's All-Star Carnival in Jacksonville, where he had a job waiting as shy-boss-I arrived at Joyland and found Eddie Parks, my least favorite old-timer, sitting in front of Horror House on an apple-box. Smoking was verboten in the park, but with Mr. Easterbrook gone and Fred Dean nowhere in evidence,

Eddie seemed to feel it safe to flout the rule. He was smoking with his gloves on, which would have struck me as strange if he ever took them off, but he never seemed to.

"There you are, kiddo, and only five minutes late." Everyone else called me either Dev or Jonesy, but to Eddie I was just kiddo, and always would be.

"I've got seven-thirty on the nose," I said, tapping my watch.

"Then you're slow. Why don't you drive from town, like everybody else? You could be here in five minutes."

"I like the beach."

"I don't give a tin shit what you like, kiddo, just get here on time. This isn't like one of your college classes, when you can duck in and out anytime you want to. This is a job, and now that the Head Beagle is gone, you're gonna work like it's a job."

I could have pointed out that Pop had told me Lane Hardy would be in charge of my schedule after he, Pop, was gone, but kept my lip zipped. No sense making a bad situation worse. As to why Eddie had taken a dislike to me, that was obvious.

Eddie was an equal-opportunity disliker. I'd go to Lane if life with Eddie got too hard, but only as a last resort. My father had taught me-mostly by example-that if a man wanted to be in charge of his life, he had to be in charge of his problems.

"What have you got for me, Mr. Parks?"

"Plenty. I want you to get a tub of Turtle Wax from the supply shed to start with, and don't be lingerin down there to shoot the shit with any of your pals, either. Then I want you to go on in Horra and wax all them cars." Except, of course, he said it caaas.

"You know we wax em once the season's over, don't you?" joy/and "Actually I didn't."

"Jesus Christ, you kids." He stomped on his cigarette butt, then lifted the apple-box he was sitting on enough to toss it under. As if that would make it gone. "You want to really put some elbow-grease into it, kiddo, or I'll send you back in to do it again. You got that?"

"I got it."

"Good for you." He stuck another cigarette in his gob, then fumbled in his pants pocket for his lighter. With the gloves on, it took him awhile. He finally got it, flicked back the lid, then stopped. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing," I said.

"Then get going. Flip on the house lights so you can see what the fuck you're doing. You know where the switches are, don't you?"

I didn't, but I'd find them without his help. "Sure."

He eyed me sourly. "Ain't you the smart one." Smaaat.

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