Funland Read Online Free PDF

walnut she figured she could crack open with her teeth. One man ranted incoherently. Another simply glared at them and muttered about assassins. Only one seemed fairly rational, and he claimed to have spent a peaceful night sleeping in the dunes.
    Joan had spent a lot of time sighing and rolling her eyes upward. She’d told Dave that it would be a waste of time, questioning the boardwalk’s panhandlers.
    But it hadn’t been a total waste.
    After speaking to a few of them, he was half-convinced that Enoch “biting the weenie” had no more basis in reality than the diamond in the rock, the albino attack, or the peculiar feast of the lizard alien.
    He heard applause from the banjo-picker’s audience. Only a couple of people wandered away from the edges of the circle. Most stayed. Several passersby joined the crowd. A few people moved inward, apparently to contribute money in appreciation of the performance.
    As Dave and Joan approached the group, the next number began. “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The melody twanged out, strong and lively, with such complex chords and runs in the background that Dave decided there must be at least two banjos. He was listening to a duet, or even a trio of street musicians, banging out a version of “Saints” so fine that those in the audience who’d been clapping along at the start went silent to listen.
    Joan stayed at Dave’s side while he roamed the perimeter of the group, searching for a gap so he could watch the performance.
    A couple of grubby bikers, seeing that they were cops, broke away from the circle and wandered off. Dave and Joan stepped into the opening.
    Not a trio. Not a duet.
    All that music was coming from the banjo of a lone girl who looked no older than eighteen.
    She stood straight-backed as if at attention, her weight on one leg, her other leg forward, heel on the boardwalk, toe tapping as she played. The banjo looked heavy, bigger than some Dave had seen, with thick shiny metal surrounding its tambourinelike body. It hung against her belly by a broad, brightly colored strap. Its neck was tilted upward at a jaunty angle.
    The banjo case, open a short distance in front of her, was littered with coins and dollars. Beside the case rested a backpack.
    “Saints” ended. Applause exploded from the audience. The girl bowed her head and dropped her arms to her sides. While the clapping went on, several people (mostly kids on behalf of their parents) hurried forward to toss money into the banjo case. Though she kept her head down, Dave heard her murmur thanks to each of those who contributed.
    When she raised her head, she stared straight at a kid standing near Dave, wiggled her eyebrows at him, and began playing “Puff, the Magic Dragon.”
    “Damn good,” Joan whispered.
    “I’ll say.”
    The girl’s left hand flew up and down the banjo’s neck, fretting and sliding with astonishing quickness. Her right hand hung nearly motionless while its fingers picked the strings. Except for her tapping foot, her body was rigid and motionless. She gazed straight ahead as she played.
    All through the song, the pink tip of her tongue protruded from the right corner of her mouth.
    To Dave she seemed very young and very vulnerable.
    The backpack showed that she was a wanderer.
    He scanned the people gathered around her, trying to spot someone who might be with the girl. Nobody quite seemed to fit the role. That didn’t necessarily mean she had no companion, but Dave suspected that she was traveling alone.
    Probably hitching rides. Probably sleeping outside.
    Sooner or later, a sure victim.
    It would be dangerous enough if she were male. The fact that she was female increased the risk tenfold.
    From a distance, she might be mistaken for a male. Her blond hair was cut very short. She had a slim body, and her breasts were apparent only because of the way the banjo rested against her shirt, pulling it taut. Her face hardly looked masculine, but it might be the face of a