by Marvin Kaye
“Yes. And I can’t abide the ending. The murderer gets off Scot free.”
“Indeed. It is one of my pet tales. The two men winding through the gloom of the catacombs, much like us.”
“The end of similarities, I’d hope.”
“Yes.”
We laughed, though I longer than him. We were as friends. I knew the roles now, no Providence needed. I was the trusted Montresor leading Sam’s Fortunato down to his doom as in Poe’s tale. This cheered me greatly. It was all black theater, wasn’t it? As he said, only the details change.
“Is this vault near?” he asked.
“It’s just beyond the archway, Sam. Can you see it?”
“No.”
“There.” I pointed to a small opening at the end of the corridor. “It’s the width of a man and half the height. We can just squeeze through.”
He muttered something, gritting his teeth, a skeptic by nature. Beyond the archway, I would do it. Choir or not, we would be too far in, I hoped, to be heard.
“Here we are,” I said as I ducked under the low arch. “You will marvel at the beauty on this side, Sam.”
“I should hope it’s worth the effort.”
“My hope as well.” I shoved my candle into a nearby crevice, blew it out. “Ah, I’ve lost the flame.” I shouted from the other side. “Will you help me relight it?”
Crouching in the darkness, I pulled the knife from my pocket, and waited for Sam to emerge through the gap.
A backlit silhouette appeared in the opening—I stabbed—but struck only cloth, his bag pitched ahead of him as he tried to force his body under the archway. The power lost, the blade ripped up to Sam’s shoulder, grazing him and severing his carrying strap. The bag fell between us. Sam shoved me away and overextended I tumbled to the floor, my breath rushing out as I hit the earth. I whipped the knife around, but he was gone in that instant, back through the archway.
The tunnel turned black.
I listened to Sam’s screams for help, his fleeting footsteps echoing down the corridor as he sprinted away. Pursuit? No, he had too much of a lead. Cursing, I scooped up his bag, retreated deeper into the catacombs.
Pulse pounding, panting breaths echoing all around me, I struggled to think, to grasp this turn of events. What would Sam do when he reached the surface? He would seek help from the priests, from the police. Yes, but it would be difficult to make himself understood, to find someone who knew English.
I had time. I’d flee into the lower tunnels; find an exit far from the cathedral.
But I made a foolish error. In my haste and panic, I’d forgotten to retrieve my candle. I knew it impossible to go back. If Sam’s calls had already been heard…
Instead, I sped into the inky depths of the Earth, cradling the bag in one arm, my free hand extended out to deflect any unseen wall or overhang. In this absolute darkness, I missed the turns I knew, blindly ricocheted from wall to wall, and lost all perception of direction. When calmness at last reached me, I spent hours in systematic attempts to map my progress through the maze, but I only became more and more hopelessly lost.
Hours passed, perhaps days. It was impossible to know. I grew tired and hungry. The air was desert dry and a horrible thirst overtook me. By chance my opened palm came across a damp spot in the wall. I hoped it touched some underground stream. Picking at the rock with my knife, I carved out a finger-length trough to collect moisture, even pressed my mouth to the stone and tried to suck water from the earth. I split my teeth on that rock, and earned not even a drop. Useless. I moved on, thirst unabated.
Three times I slept in these passages, haunting the bowels of the Earth like the damned in Hades. “This will be your tomb,” a voice said. But I drove it away.
At last there was a hope. My groping fingers came across two familiar indentions on the wall, my initials! The long, straight first letter, the second curved, I had found the spot where I’d carved them after my first robbery, my self-made marker for the exit, a safeguard for lightless passage. Circles! I had walked in circles all this time, never journeying far from the entrance. The cathedral yard was near.
Relief washed over me, the voices slowed. I would soon be free. A close call, but I had kept my reason in the maze and survived. If Sam had missed his ship, I might have revenge. Yes, revenge…
Yet, all was not as it had been in this familiar passage, the very corridor where I’d dumped the bodies of previous crimes. My searching hands found no remains; no skeletons, no tattered clothes left in the abyss. Gone. Unless the dead walk, someone had cleared them away.
The children’s search party? Sam’s police? Who else could it be?
I crept cautiously towards my escape.
At last, I reached the low archway where I’d assaulted Sam. I gripped the welcome stone edge, but my fingers pressed on a texture of wood beyond. The exit was sealed, a thick door fastened snugly across it.
No…
I pounded on this obstruction, kicked it, threw the bag harmlessly against its pane. How? How could it be sealed? There wasn’t time…
I pressed rough fingers to my temple, tried to recall the date of the notice, the one the priest had torn away. What had it said? What were the priest’s words? Or was it Sam? Sam and his avenging police, accelerating the sealing? Yes…Enough of the catacombs for the governor, he would solve the problem forever. Seal it tight as a drum.
I pummeled the door, battered it until my fists were bloodied and raw, then collapsed to the floor, lay there for uncounted time. On the ground were bits of wax, the fashioners of this barrier having burnt candles during its construction. Starving, I devoured the remnants of the wax, even ate pebbles to fool my stomach. With my knife, I scraped at the base of the door, cut away until the blade snapped in my hand. Yet, the door remained steadfast, scarred but little diminished by my efforts.
At last, there were voices. New voices. A rescue party? I would face the gallows for a scrap of food, a single drop of water. No…their words were too pretty, too harmonious. My heart sank. It was only that damnable distant choir, their hymns so faint and far away I knew my calls would never be answered. I sobbed in despair, my cries unheard by man or God.
Two days at the door I lay. I learned to judge time by their performances. I had never experienced such hunger, yet, it was the thirst that would finish me. My tongue sat fat and immobile in my mouth, my lips swollen, saliva as thick as pudding, I could scarcely swallow.
Sitting in endless solitude, I tried to distract myself from my coming doom. I dug deep into Sam’s bag, discarding clothes, letters, a matchbox. At the bottom, I gripped something hard and rectangular bound in leather. I imagined it his billfold, and though it wouldn’t bring salvation, there was a bittersweet satisfaction in having taken it from him. Perhaps he would be stranded in Russia, moneyless as I had been. But it was only Sam’s notebook. I cast it aside, felt my strength ebbing, collapsed forward onto my belly, hoarse breaths rising from my throat. This was the end. I was fading into a sleep from which I would never wake.
But I wouldn’t die face down like a beggar. I rallied, rolled myself over, shoved the bag under my head, tried to reach comfort in my last moments.
I found only injustice.
Wasn’t I Montresor, oh, Providence? I raged. Wasn’t I meant to leave the tunnels unharmed and triumphant? Sam had switched it. Instead, of his perishing here, it would be I who would rot into…
A palsy took my hands. I pressed them to stillness against the floor, my fingers touching on a lost strip of wax melted into a crevice. A portion of wick remained.
It seemed an answer.
With one of Sam’s last matches, I lit the wick, pulled his notebook near. With shaking fingers I turned the pages, vowing to know the mind of my murderer.
The book was filled with the routine observations of a travel journalist, simple sketches of foreign cultures, a f
ew caricatures of politicians and pilgrims; tucked inside was a photograph of a pretty young woman, and towards the back, the outline for a novel: a nostalgic book about a boy in Missouri, his friend, his sweetheart, and a murderer entombed forever in the caverns named Injun Joe.
A FRESH START, by Janice Law
Alvin loved the casino; it raised his spirits the minute he reached the parking lot with the lights of the gambling buses and hotel towers against the dark woods. Inside, glowing rows of slots rose like the cells of a giant hive above the florid red carpeting, a world away from everyday boredom and aggravation and trouble. He always bought a handful of tokens and played a few machines just in case Lady Luck was looking his way. You never knew when you’d hear the welcome rattle of a big payoff, and couldn’t it be tonight? Sure it could.
Then off to the tables. Tonight Alvin felt lucky in spite of the fact that the slots had gargled his tokens and produced squat—two dollars to be exact. No use when what he needed was a stake for a serious poker game. Alvin knew that if he could get his hands on a few thousand, he could parlay the cash to a big win. He knew he could. And then he’d have Sammy off his back and his debts settled.
He would still be in the red to the business, but Alvin chose not to think that far out. As long as Megan didn’t know about certain discrepancies, he was in the clear, and it was just a matter of time before he could repay himself—and Megan, who owned one half of Rosewood Flooring & Carpet. But didn’t he do the real work of laying the flooring and selecting the carpets?
Megan handled the customers, took the orders, and kept the shop front in order. Fortunately, he did the books, though lately she’d been making noises about handling the finances herself. She’d had a course at the community college, a pernicious institution in Alvin’s estimation, and she was beginning to show a real interest in double entry and accounts payable.
Alvin eyeballed the floor to see if he could spot a sympathetic face, someone who would loan him a few hundred—even a few hundred would help. Thinking about Megan and the books made him feel uneasy and began to bring down the confidence he had felt in the slot parlor. Get to a table, that’s the thing, he told himself. Maybe start with a few hands of blackjack, because being lucky tonight, he’d be lucky there, too. Sure he would.
Stick to the cards; Alvin told himself that regularly. He was a pretty good poker player when he had a real stake, but he hated to waste his time on the casual tables. He needed big time action to bring up the pressure of his life in a positive way, to flip the switch and turn on his personal spotlight. That’s how he felt at the tables with a big pile of chips and a serious pot on the line.
The problem was that he couldn’t run Rosewood Flooring & Carpet and be at the casino, too. Back in the real world, life flattened out and smelled of formaldehyde and construction glue and was studded with housewives who whined and whose husbands delayed his checks. After a busy day of laying sheet goods and wall-to-wall broadloom, he would find himself on the phone with Sammy, dithering about the over-under for the Knicks game and deciding whether the Heat could beat the spread.
Alvin thought of his sports bets as essential therapy, a little something for his mental health. Like some guys need extra sun in the winter, right? He needed a little excitement, and a bet on a game (not terribly interesting otherwise) was better than Prozac. Why support some pharmaceutical giant when you could deal with Sammy and have a lot of fun? It was a no-brainer.
Or at least it had been. But don’t think about losses and ham-handed shooters and defensive dogs, because tonight he was lucky. He had a run at the blackjack table and when he doubled down on his last bet, Alvin walked away with five hundred dollars. Could have stayed, the Lady was with him, but he needed big money fast, and he headed for the poker rooms. Just keep cool, he told himself, grow the stake, and things will be fine.
In this euphoric mood, Alvin began mentally paying off his debts: ten grand to Sammy—though the bookie would maybe take five and let the rest ride. He knew Alvin was good for it. And fifteen, maybe fifteen, he could put back in the business. Wouldn’t be the whole debt paid, but, hell, he was paying himself, wasn’t he? Making a start was the key thing. And he would. As soon as he got to the table and got some good hands and kept the luck going.
That’s what he told Sammy when he saw him leaning against the wall, right outside the partition that separated the serious poker tables from the realm of small bettors. The bookie was not a welcome sight, and Alvin had an impulse to slope off to the roulette tables, even though the house had itself covered every which way on the wheels.
“Alvin.” Sammy’s voice was hoarse, his vocal chords tobacco cured. His face was smoke cured as well, dark as a Virginia ham, thin and bony with bags under his eyes and lines over his cheeks. His stiff black hair was brushed straight back and beginning to gray. He weighed in the neighborhood of 135 pounds, and there was nothing fearsome about him except for his expressionless black eyes and his heavy mob connections.
“Sammy, my man!” Even Alvin could feel his bonhomie was forced.
“We need to talk,” said Sammy. “I need from you a timetable. For certain debts.” He had a way of pausing between words, of adding weight to every syllable so that the consequences of an unwise flutter on a Wizards-Bucks over-under came out sounding like the national deficit.
“You see me working on it,” Alvin said, stepping confidently toward the doorway.
Sammy blocked the way. Alvin could have moved him with one good push, but that wasn’t to be thought of; Sammy came with backup.
“I’d have it faster if you were to advance me—not much, not much,” he added, seeing Sammy’s expression, “a couple thousand’s all, just to get me into one of the better games. I’m lucky tonight—even at blackjack and you know that’s not my game.”
“This is Friday. Sunday you pay me in full or you expect a visit. Got that?”
“Sure thing,” Alvin said. “Reason I’m here.”
“Reason you’re here is to lose your shirt,” said Sammy, and he added a few other things that set up bad vibes all round, deflating the good casino feelings and threatening to drive away Alvin’s luck. It was almost as if Sammy didn’t want to be paid, Alvin thought. He had to spend several minutes calming his breathing before he could get himself into a game with a decent hand and every prospect of a good night.
* * * *
Soon, he was doing well, really well, in fact, with chips enough to cash in and pay off Sammy. Alvin was pleased about that. Then he thought that he could raise the bet and maybe—not maybe, certainly—clear up what he’d borrowed from the firm, too. He knew enough bookkeeping to confuse Megan. “Late payments,” he’d tell her. Put in a big order, slide the money in somehow. Maybe tell her he’d returned some stuff. There were ways.
He threw his chips into the pot. Every one. And lost on the next hand to a full house. The descent from euphoria to despair was so rapid that Alvin had trouble processing the information. He laid his cards down, pushed his chair back, and stood up. He walked to the outer room like a zombie, past tables playing for five-dollar bets, and on to the slot parlors. Physically he hardly knew where he was; metaphysically, he recognized that he was in deep trouble and sinking further. Rosewood Flooring & Carpet was his only possible hope, but there was no way he’d be able to get cash out on the weekend. That meant trouble with Megan, a confession, even.
Alvin was standing in the middle of the slot parlor with tokens rattling and machines beeping and hooting around him, when he heard a groan. He thought at first that he had voiced his trouble and anguish. Then there was a scream, followed by a sudden shift in the light and the sound of wood and metal parting from cement. The glass walled gallery above listed toward the floor and, with a horrifying thud, a cloud of dust, and an explosion of sparks, the whole construction settled on top of the high stakes poker rooms and plunged the casino floor into darkness and terror.
Alvin had a moment of disbelief and shock before his whole mental system re-calibrated for escape. In clouds of smoke and dust, he pushed his way past the slot players, stunned at their machines or scrambling out of their chairs, shouting for lights and wailing about lost purses and canes. He lunged across the floor, tripping over the fallen and kicking out at debris. A metal walker upended him, and he fell to the carpet in danger of being trampled before he clawed himself upright in the smoky confusion. Some of the disoriented players had panicked, but Alvin knew the casino; he had spent so much time there that he could have found his way blindfolded. Which was about the situation now.
He knew that he had to reach the stairs. To do that, he had to pass under the other gallery. Which had to be still intact, because he, Alvin, lucky tonight, had to reach the stairs, the exits, safety. Though a distant amplified voice pleaded for calm, he fought his way forward, knocking people aside, pushing and kicking until he felt, felt rather than saw, the partition between the slot parlor and the corridor.
Somewhere ahead was the faint red glow of an exit light; behind him, a newly sinister redness and hot fire breath. People were running beside him, the fit and agile making a charge for the wide stairs up to air and night and lights. Alvin got knocked into the wall and bashed his knee against one of the casino’s big wooden sculptures.
Why the hell they’d needed artwork in the first place and why they’d laid out enough cash to bribe every artist in the state in the second place were twin mysteries Alvin had sometimes pondered. But not now, because he was lucky, indeed, and while the mob rushed forward he found himself squashed against what he could feel was a door. He guessed that it was one of the private casino doors labeled, Employees Only.
He felt for the handle and thrust it open. Sure enough, an alarm shrieked though just about every light in the place was out and every circuit was useless or worse, with broken wires throwing blue and white sparks around the rooms and setting carpeting on fire. Struggling for breath, Alvin stumbled into a hallway. It was pitch dark, but there seemed less smoke and certainly less confusion. He groped forward until his ankle connected with a stair riser. He felt for the banister and started up, one landing, two.