than that. Guts're screwed up. If I was a car, I'd be ready for the scrap heap.'
'Oh,' Billy said lamely.
The bartender turned away from them and began loading beer glasses into a dishwasher. Enders looked at the ten-dollar bill. Then he looked at Billy.
Halleck explained again while Enders' tired, too-shiny face looked dreamily off into the shadows of the Seven Seas and the arcade bells bonged faintly, like sounds overheard in a dream, next door.
'They was here,' he said when Billy had finished. 'They was here, all right. I hadn't seen any Gypsies in seven years or more. Hadn't seen this bunch in maybe twenty years.'
Billy's right hand squeezed the beer glass he was holding, and he had to consciously make himself relax his grip before he broke it. He set the glass down carefully on the bar.
'When? Are you sure? Do you have any idea where they might have been going? Can you -?'
Enders held up one hand - it was as white as the hand of a drowned man pulled from a well, and to Billy it seemed dimly transparent.
'Easy, my friend,' he said in his whispering voice. 'I'll tell you what I know.'
With the same conscious effort, Billy forced himself to say nothing. To just wait.
'I'll take the tenspot because you look like you can afford it, my friend,' Enders whispered. He tucked it into his shirt pocket and then pushed the thumb and forefinger of his left hand into his mouth, adjusting his upper plate. 'But I'd talk for free. Hell, when you get old you find out you'd pay someone to listen ... ask Timmy there if I can have a glass of cold water, would you? Even the one beer's too much, I reckon - it's burning what's left of my stomach something fierce - but it's hard for a man to give up all his pleasures, even when they don't pleasure him no more.'
Billy called the bartender over, and he brought Enders his ice water.
'You okay, Lon?' he asked as he put it down.
'I been better and I been worse,' Lon whispered, and picked up the glass. For a moment Billy thought it was going to prove too heavy. But the old man got it to his mouth, although some spilled on the way there.
'You want to talk to this guy?' Timmy asked.
The cold water seemed to revive Enders. He put the glass down, looked at Billy, looked back at the bartender. 'I think somebody ought to,' he said. 'He don't look as bad as me yet ... but he's getting there.'
Enders lived in a small retirees' colony on Cove Road. He said Cove Road was part of 'the real Old Orchard - the one the tips don't care about.'
'Tips?' Billy asked.
'The crowds, my friend, the crowds. Me and the wife come to this town in 1946, just after the war. Been here ever since. I learned how to turn a tip from a master Lonesome Tommy McGhee, dead these many years now. Yelled my guts out, I did, and what you hear now is all that's left.'
The chuckle, almost as faint as a breath of predawn breeze, came again.
Enders had known everyone associated with the summer carnival that was Old Orchard, it seemed - the vendors, the pitchmen, the roustabouts, the glass-chuckers (souvenir salesmen), the dogsmen (ride mechanics), the bumpers, the carnies, the pumps and the pimps. Most of them were year-round people he had known for decades or people who returned each summer like migratory birds. They formed a stable, mostly loving community that the summer people never saw.
He also knew a large portion of what the bartender had called 'drift trade.' These were the true transients, people who showed up for a week or two weeks, did some business in the feverish party-town atmosphere of Old Orchard, and then moved on again.
'And you remember them all?' Billy asked doubtfully.
'Oh, I wouldn't if they was all different from year to year,' Enders whispered, 'but that's not how drift trade is. They ain't as regular as the dogsmen and the doughthumpers, but they have a pattern too. You see this fellow who comes on the boardwalk in 1957, selling Hula Hoops off'n his arm. You see him again in 1960, selling expensive watches for three bucks apiece. His hair is maybe black instead of blond, and so he thinks people don't recognize him, and I guess the summer people don't, even if they was around in 1957, because they go right back