Lebanese Gracie

The merry go round was silent, still. He could see the chipped enamel paint on the eyes of the horse’s heads. The Ferris wheel stood like a giant, frozen to the spot, eerily silent, except for the intermittent clang of metal. Ticket Booth’s shut up. Shutters closed. Chains padlocked. Queue barriers empty, flapping in the breeze. Just a maintenance man using a drill, as litter blew past him like tumble weeds.

It was like being at the farm sales yards after auction, with his farmer uncle, when everyone had gone home.

He strode in dress in faded stove pipe jeans and Cuban heels, worn on the outsides of each boot. He walked over on his boots that way; his mother said it was because he was a cowboy in a passed life, although with her strong Lebanese accent she could have been saying cardboard puss love. Maybe she was suggesting some packing for her beefy son's bad podiatry.

He headed for the maintenance man.

"Excuse me?"

The maintenance man kept drilling, didn’t turn or acknowledge until he was done. Then he let the drill slide to the ground, wiped his face with an old rag he had strung through his belt and looked in our man's direction.

"Ah." Eyebrows up. "Yep?"

"Do you know what happened to madam..." He looked over in the direction of the stall he thought his sister used to occupy.

"That fortune teller, Lebanese Gracie from stall 3?"

“Yeah, that’s her…”

“She's been bung for a while mate. Got it all wrong with Nostradamus and the coming of Fox to Sydney Show grounds. Mad, bad…”

“I don’t understand…”

“She's been put away. Didn't have a visa, or somefink…”

Our man looked confused. “But she’s Australian, I don’t think…”

“Oh buddy,” the maintenance man looked weary, pushed at his hair as if there was something in his fringe. “I got that from Josie.” He raised his eyebrows and grimaced. “Notoriously unreliable, so don't put too much chalk up on what SHE sayed.” He smiled a world weary smile. “But she and… um… er…”

“She’s my sister. Madam. I’m her brother Anton. I’m trying to find her…”

“I’m Keith.” He held out his hand to Anton, they shook, Keith held Anton’s hand a little longer than what was required. “Josie’s your girl, then. She and your sister.” Keith made O’s with the pointer finger and thumb on each hand and the rubbed each O together.

“Can I talk to her?” Anton said. “Is she around?” Anton smiled his most convincing smile.

Keith looked him up and down, almost checking him out on the downward look, so much so Anton moved his hand to cover the front of his jeans, involuntarily. Keith cocked his head. “She’d like you, okay.” Keith looked down Anton’s body again. “You know what she’d want for information…”

“I’m sorry?”

“And it’s strictly payment up front with our Josie…”

“What do you mean?”

Keith tipped his hand to his face, as if he was having a drink. “No what I mean?”

“No… not really.”

“A fine boy like you.” Keith looked him up and down again. “She’d be very keen...”

“I thought you said Josie and my sister were…”

“Josie likes ‘em young and Greek…”

“I’m Lebanese.”

“Whatever! You’re just her type.” Keith raised his eyebrows. “You go in there and tell her you’re Gracie’s bro.” Keith cocked his head again. “You’d be lucky to get out of her caravan without torn cloths and losing skin…”

“I’m sorry?”

“You got skin.” Now Keith was looking at Anton’s crotch. Keith looked up again. “Know what I mean.”

Anton didn’t quite know what to say.

Keith looked down at Anton’s jeans again. “Like chamois, I bet.” His tongue slipped out the corner of his mouth, running around the bottom lip surface.

“A fine boy like you…”

“Can you just tell me where to find Josie, please?”

“You’re a big boy, aren’t you?” Keith raised his gaze up to Anton’s again and looked at him with lecherous eyes. “What’s in it for me?”

“In it for you?” repeated Anton incredulously.

“For information on Josie. Supply and demand,” said Keith. “What do I get? What have you got to… um…er… show me, in exchange?” Keith smiled, then he dropped his eyes back to Anton’s crotch.

Anton shifted on his Cuban heels and felt something like the embarrassment that he always thought the bulls, at the show, must have felt when his farmer uncle was inspecting them for quality and size.