Carousel
The twirling horses climbed and fell on silver rods with the mechanical jingle, and Jude made another lap around the grounds of the Mount Carmel festival in Brooklyn’s old Italian neighborhood. He was explaining to his daughter Amelia, heavy-hearted and heavy in his arms, the reason why couldn’t let her take the shot at the bottle toss. Then someone caught his wrist and slipped something between his arm and his body. It was that garish, red-lipped woman again, “No, I’m still not interested, thanks! Parlor tricks and thievery, all of it, Amelia, I’m telling you.” Before he could hand the brown paper box back, Madame Magdalena had disappeared into the crowd or some other dimension.