The Final Confession of Mabel Stark: A Novel (An Evergreen book) by Robert Hough

age and if you think that doesn't scent a person, think again.
    (Some free advice? You want to get yourself a good match in life,
you take a cue from animals. You walk on up, you lean close, and you
take a great big snootful.)
    Goddammit, there I go. Telling the story like time was gumballs
instead of flowing sand. Probably I'm confusing you already, not that
you're the type to confuse easily-don't think I meant that.... Where
was I? Oh yes. Levine. Dr. Levine. What always puzzled me was the
fact he never laid a hand on me, never even tried to lay a hand on me,
though most of the time he had me alone and helpless and up to my
armpits in hot water. This is a curious fact, and one that contradicts my
general opinion of the way men act when opportunity knocks.
Basically, my hope is he's someplace nice and has himself a distinguished grey beard and a wife still comely and a whole lick of grandchildren. I also hope he's still sitting behind people while listening to
them spill their guts and periodically saying, "I see. I see. But how did
you feel?" Hearing that'd indicate there's a fairness to this world, and
that's a concept I wouldn't mind coming nose to nose with these days.
    My next husband?
    That was the Texan.

     
CHAPTER 4
THE SOUTHERN COTTON MOGUL

    I FIRST LAID EYES ON HIM FROM A BALLY PLATFORM IN BEAUMONT,
just over the Louisiana border. I remember because he was the
sort of man you couldn't help but notice, there being something in the
shoulders and the slow sure manner of his walk that drew the eye. Plus
he wore a big brushed-suede ten-gallon, and because he and his hat were
so noticeable I watched as he took his seat, alone, in the back of the
Superba tent, which I thought was strange as it was an afternoon show
and the crowd was small and usually the men get as close as possible to
the action. Maybe he didn't want to block anyone else's view, for lie was
real partial to that hat and showed little inclination to take it off. That or
he didn't want to be seen, which didn't work because, like I say, he had a
silent iceberg presence good for nothing but drawing attention to itself.
    The show started, and because we were curious (we being me and
the four other Dancing Girls of Baghdad) we kept peeking through the
backdrop at him during the first half of the program. He sat there
unblinking through the sword fighters, the knife throwers, the Moroccan tumblers, the Whirling Dervishes of Constantinople, the
midget who could stand on his head while circling the ring on camelback and finally the old white-bearded swami who lured a cobra out of
a basket while playing something tinny and horrid on a frigolet. The
educator, a man named Ned Stoughton, then came on and announced a
brief intermission to be followed by the beautiful and enticing Dancing
Girls of Baghdad. "And in the meantime, gentlemen, if you'd care and
if you'd dare, the Parker Amusement Company is pleased to offer you
various diversionary pastimes...."

    Grifters, in other words. Three of them, setting up on little folding tables called tripes, one with the shell game, one with a numbers
board and one with three-card monte ("Keep your eyes on the lady,
gentlemen, it's as simple as that-just keep your eyes on that pretty
pretty lady"). By the time the plants made a big show of winning the
rubes were lined up five deep, except for my future husband, the man
in the big hat, who seemed content to sit perfectly still at the back of the
Superba tent, hands folded and thinking about who knows what. The
price of cotton maybe, or where he'd tell his wife he was at all day. The
grifters went on for about twenty minutes, stopping just before the
mood started to turn ugly. Then Stoughton sprang back on stage and
said, "Showtime, gentlemen, showtime."
    Meaning us. We went out, and while Sanjay and a bongo drummer played something whiny and Oriental we stomach danced, it being
considered a talent back then to wiggle your belly while