“Sorry, guys,” said Mrs. Ames. “Val? This is the judge I told you about.”

He smiled and said he was glad to meet me, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes and he didn’t stick out his hand to shake mine.

He did offer me the disks, though. “Want to try? No charge.”

“Sure,” I said. I’d watched his demonstration and I was doing just fine till I dropped the last disk and left a tiny arc of red no bigger than a fingernail clipping exposed.

“Not bad,” said Mrs. Ames as we moved on through the crowd to the Pot O’Gold.

“Just two tickets to ride,” chanted the wiry man taking tickets and handing out ride sacks. “Land in the pot, win a prize or a free slide.”

“Herve,” said Tally Ames, “this is Judge Knott.”

All the warmth lacking in Val’s was in his smile, even though several of his teeth were missing. “You the lady judge took care of those jerks that tried to wreck this ride?”

I nodded.

“Want to try it out?” Mrs. Ames gestured toward the opening in the vinyl “tree” that led to the stairs. “On me,” she added, brushing away my string of tickets. “You and your friends, okay?”

I was game since I, too, was wearing cutoffs and sneakers, but Sylvia wasn’t about to risk her pale pink slacks. “Besides,” she said, reaching for the big stuffed dog, “somebody has to hold Mr. Dots.”

Portland patted her thickened abdomen and blandly said she’d hold Mr. Tuna, so Avery handed over the goldfish. The air was stuffy inside and smelled like warm plastic as I climbed the spiral iron staircase ahead of the three men.

From below me, Dwight asked, “Hey, shug. When was that woman in your courtroom?”

“A few weeks back. Some jerks put a knife in this slide.”

We emerged through the painted cloud doorway atop the thirty-foot-high arch and could see the whole carnival spread out below us. Above the colored neon and flashing lights, the moon floated in a cloudless sky. I don’t have a great head for heights and the ground looked a lot further away than I expected.

We positioned the burlap sacks we’d been given, then pushed off, aiming for that very small pot of gold sponges at the bottom. As we slid down, the bow twisted and rippled beneath us. My legs got tangled with Dwight’s, then we both crashed into Reid and ended up in a heap at the bottom. Only Avery managed to slide into the pot. When the number on the bottom of the sponge he’d picked was matched to the prize board, he’d won a fluorescent yellow kazoo, which he immediately put to his lips and began blatting out “Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead.”

While we were climbing and sliding, more customers had plunked down tickets and I heard myself called from above. Four young men had come through the clouds and were getting their slide sacks in place. One of them was yet another nephew, Haywood’s Stevie, home from Carolina for the weekend, and his friend Eric Holt, who’s at Shaw. Eric’s Uncle Cletus and Aunt Maidie work for my daddy and I’d heard Maidie say she was expecting Eric for Sunday dinner. Eric and Stevie had graduated from West Colleton High together, but I didn’t recognize the other kids who were with them.