The Tournament Trilogy

by B. B. Griffith

  “What?” Dianne sputtered, coughing.

  “Now you threaten us?” Mark blustered.

  “Me? No. But your daughter very well may.”

  Mark made a snuffing, walrus-like sound and moved towards Max. Dianne backed into the kitchen. Ellie saw these things but they felt secondary to her because she suddenly became uncomfortably warm and distant from the living room. She tried to force air through her mouth, but she felt vacuum-packed and could hear only her heartbeat, far too fast. She saw Max shake his head in exasperation and pointedly ignore her father even as Mark shook his fist in his face; a brazen and ridiculous gesture, and one that someone who’s never been in any real confrontation might brandish. Ellie was embarrassed for him and Dianne both in the way she might be for characters in an awkward sitcom. The scene seemed a bizarre underwater opera, and it was her life.

  “Fine,” she heard Max say. “I’m leaving.”

  And so the bubble popped. She stepped out from behind the shattered glass and could see clearly.

  “I’m in,” she heard herself say.

  Everyone froze as one, including Ellie. Mark’s face went slack and Dianne dropped her cup and its shattering reverberated around the living room. She let out a small, delayed “Oh!” and bent to pick up the pieces.

  “What are you talking about, Ellie?” Mark growled.

  “I don’t know, I... I need some air.” Ellie moved to the door. She fumbled sloppily with the throw bolt as if someone was chasing her and then she threw it open. She again froze. There were people, two other people, buried in heavy coats against the snow and standing still on the sidewalk underneath the streetlight where she’d first seen Max. They turned to her, but she couldn’t make them out. From somewhere behind her Max spoke, his voice floating over to her.

  “I had them wait outside while I sorted this out. It’s as I said: every team is three strong.” Max came up beside her, but she couldn’t look away from the two in shadows.

  “On your left we have your striker, the enforcement position and main gunner. Cyrus Bell.” The young man unzipped his coat and cast off his gray hoodie under the light to get a better look at her. He was a light skinned black man with a trim cut of dense, black curls. He had a wide, flat ridge of a nose and a slightly downturned mouth. He watched her with open skepticism.

  “And I believe you know this next one,” Max said, gesturing to her right.

  The second wouldn’t step fully into the ring of the porch light, but he did inch his way out of the deeper darkness. He stood as if accused, but squared fully to face his verdict.

  “Tom Elrey,” Max said. “Your sweeper. The closer.”

  Ellie couldn’t tell if Max was openly mocking her, or if he knew what Tom had done to her. But Tom Elrey knew... that much was clear.

  Max swept out his hand towards her. “Boys, this is your captain, Ellie Willmore.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  TROYA PARKER GLANCED UP at the clock on the wall before she turned back to her phone. For ten minutes that clock had ticked away while she sat, each second like the clack of fingernails on the table. The second-hand jarred forward with each tick, as if it, too, was desperate to see what the next second held.

  He was late.

  He’d promised to call at five-thirty in the evening, this day and every day he was on this damn fool trip. That was one of the conditions. Another was that he dial 911 and keep his thumb over the call button when he met this Max. Another was that he remember what he had here in New York City: a job, an apartment, a dog. Student loan debt. A fiancé. A life.

  Off in the TV room Chester whined softly and Troya heard him ruffle himself and turn about before flopping down again on the wood near the heating duct. Even Chester knew his daddy was late in calling.

  She rose. She was no woman to sit and stare at a phone until her man called, like some pining teenager. She was nearly thirty, for God’s sake. She walked around the kitchen, wiped off some smudges on the refrigerator door with her sleeve. Glanced at the phone. Opened the silverware drawer for no reason. Glanced at the phone. Closed the silverware drawer. She cussed and shook her head.

  “Damn fool,” she muttered, before striding haughtily out of the kitchen and away from the phone altogether. Chester popped an eyebrow at her, head on his paws. The heat ruffled his fur about. Bits of it floated through the air. He didn’t like the cold that had settled like a wet blanket upon the city. He whined at nothing and sat near the grate all day. For a guard dog, he was remarkably needy. Cy had insisted upon buying him when he was at Columbia University. He hated the idea of her at home, alone, in New York City, while he was holed up in one of the practice rooms at the Department of Music, second-guessing whole sections of his compositions, so he went out and bought a German Shepherd, as if they lived in a fine house in the suburbs with a big lawn and a wrought iron fence instead of in one half of a split duplex with a strip of concrete for a yard. And they’d had to move a few miles north of the city proper even for that.

  Turned out Chester was about as effective as a scarecrow at guarding things. Even less, sometimes. At least a scarecrow sits in one place and looks mean. Chester might burrow under the bed frame during thunderstorms. Ironically, it was ultimately his floppy uselessness that endeared him to Troya. If he was a mean bastard, she doubted she’d love him nearly as much. He had a mean bark, though, when he chose to use it. That was something, at least.

  “What you lookin’ at?” She swatted floating bits of dander out of the air as she sat down hard on their old felt chair. Chester looked like he might get up to plod over to her, but thought better of it. He gummed half-heartedly at a nearby pig’s ear. He glanced out of the window as a bird shot by through the spitting sleet.

  “I know. What kind of a woman lets her man get on an airplane because of a folder some punk-ass white boy flopped on the table? Not a smart one.”

  Chester yawned hugely.

  “But he gave me that look, Cy did. That quiet look where he says nothing and sits back and waits for me to say no. To throw the whole thing out the window. Send him back to looking for a temp job so he can maybe get to a point where he’d at least have half a shot at getting a gig to pay for you.” She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed him. Chester snuffed at the pig’s ear again.

  “Well, not you, mostly,” Troya conceded. “Mostly other things, like those bloodsuckers at the Columbia tuition office. Still, though. You think I pick those pig’s ears off of some pig’s ear tree out back?”

  Her phone rang.

  Troya jumped up so quickly Chester sprang up as well. He backed himself up against the wall, his paws slipping on the wood as she dashed by him and into the kitchen. She snatched it up like it was the antidote.

  “Hello?”

  “Baby.”

  “You’re late.”

  “I know,” Cy began, his voice low, almost whispering. “But—”

  “—But what? You scared me half to death, thinking the worst thing I ever did was go along with this stupid idea. Then you don’t call? For all I know they gave you that free flight just so they could chop out a kidney and leave you in a bathtub of ice.”

  “Will you listen? I think... I think I may have something here.”

  “Shit. Cyrus Bell, don’t tell me I was thinking right just then.”

  “No, this may really be something.”

  Troya paused. Her fiancé sounded strange and distant, like he was talking in his sleep.

  “They didn’t actually drug you, did they?”

  “They said they’d wipe out the debt, Troy.”

  Without knowing it, Troya had been pacing as she talked, going from room to room. She paused where she was and found herself in Cy’s music room, more of a music closet, actually, where one gleaming trumpet sat proudly on display like a prized bottle of wine.

  “The debt?” she asked.

  “All the debt.”

  “You mean like Columbia?”

  “Columbia, the rent, the car, all of
it.”

  “They’re lying. You’ve got a hundred grand at Columbia alone.”

  “One hundred and seventeen grand at Columbia. Plus our rent! Plus the car!”

  “They’re lying. The better this sounds, the worse it’s going to actually be. You come home right now.”

  “That is exactly what I said, but then they did it.”

  “What.” She stopped again, this time back by Chester, who eyed her warily. She double checked the lock and peeked out behind the blinds at the frigid night beyond, not knowing why. “What do you mean they did it?”

  “This guy, Max, he said they could do it, then he talked on the phone, and then he told me to go check my account online. So I did, and the Fed loan balance was zeroed out.”

  “Then they used some sort of trick.”

  “This isn’t a trick. They said it was a gift, from them. I could stay or go, but the debt was paid either way.”

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “I’m afraid it’ll go away. Like if I speak it aloud I’ll wake myself up.”

  “You do need to wake up. Nobody gives anybody a hundred grand for free.”

  “You don’t know these people. I don’t think they care about a hundred grand. I don’t think they’d care about a million.”

  “You don’t know these people either, Cy. Nothing on this cold earth is free.”

  Cy spoke normally for the first time. “Why are you so against this? I thought you’d jump at a chance not to have to eat Ramen noodles every week. Not to have to ever ask your dad for money to fix a headlight on the car. To have a normal wedding! With good food and good booze and a brass band!”

  “What I want is a chance to have a normal life with my future husband, who plays trumpet better than anybody since Dizzy Gillespie hit the Cotton Club in the forties. I know why they chose you. You have an eye. You see things in music and in life that nobody else sees. But I’ve seen what people are saying about this thing, this Tournament. You can create beautiful things, Cy, or you can get caught up in some war game that only destroys things and hurts people.”

  Cy was silent. No sound could be heard at all, and Troya knew he’d covered up the speaker and turned away from the phone, same as he did all too often when his parents called him out on his future wedding, or his schooling, or his finances, or why the most expensive thing he owned outright was a piece of burnished brass that hung from the wall in his closet, and how he expected to support a family with that.

  “...Well I don’t want just a normal life.”

  The tears lurking just below her eyes welled to the surface, but she refused to let it show in her voice.

  “Do you even know what they’re asking of you? These news stories talk about people dying. They have flowers and little stuffed animals on memorials. Would that be you?” The tears dripped down her face, but her voice was as sure as a surgeon’s hand.

  “He told me. Max did. He told me some things you aren’t gonna want to hear.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ll tell you in person. We’ve got to make some plans. Figure some stuff out between you and me.”

  At this, her resolve finally broke. She let out a ragged breath and a soft moan. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ll talk to you soon, once I know more of where things stand. I love you baby.”

  Troya was silent, willing herself to breathe smoothly over the pain in her chest. It was like pressing evenly on a bruise, harder and harder, until you have to suck in from the pain.

  “You there, Troy? I can’t go until I hear you love me back.”

  Still silence.

  “Baby?”

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  “See you soon.” He hung up.

  Troya set her phone down and was able to hold herself together for barely a moment before she sobbed. Chester opened his eyes and mustered himself to standing, his head cocked at her, but he stayed by the grate where he was.

  Chapter Fourteen

  LOCK AND FRANK WERE engulfed by a writhing mass of celebrating Russians, weaving about, slapping each other’s backs and passing bottles from person to person, one swig at a time on down the line into the distance. It was warmer here, too. The sheer mass of humanity kicked up the temperature in the park fifteen degrees. Frank was just able to unzip his jacked before he and Lock were pressed close together, hemmed in. Behind them more people jumped and swayed, some linked their arms together and sang rough Russian folk songs or chanted into the night. The sleet had lessened as night fell, leaving behind a diamond clear winter sky.

  They could do nothing but shuffle slowly forward, bumping against others until they could move no further and their momentum bounced back. Frank leaned down to Lock, who had taken the brunt of the jostling, as short as he was.

  “If there’s a fire, we’re all in big trouble,” he muttered, half smiling. “You claustrophobic?”

  “I’m fine,” Lock hissed, but he didn’t sound it, and he kept fixing the lay of his coat and smoothing the part in his hair. “And you should shut up. It could be very bad here if people start paying attention to us. Hearing us speak English.”

  Frank shook his head. “No one can hear us. I can barely hear myself. And what do these people care anyway? They’re just out to see a spectacle, whatever it is.” Frank was briefly able to get on his tip-toes but shied away when a girl nearby popped a flare and was hoisted on the shoulders of a bull-necked man. She wore black feathers in her hair, and was greeted with raucous cheers as she waved the flare all about, casting everyone in a harsh copper glow.

  Frank turned to Lock and raised an eyebrow and mouthed ‘fire danger’ with a knowing nod. Lock snuffed as the smoke wafted over him. The flare roared like a fire hose.

  Frank leaned down again. “Not sure what our plan is here, chief, but if it’s to get to whatever’s up there at the front, I think we’re shit out of luck.”

  “It’s funny that you think we have a plan.” Lock tried to squeeze forward and was rebuffed without so much as a glance. “Look. You’re large. Get us up there. We have to see what’s going on.”

  “I don’t like confrontations.”

  “You’ll kick in a door without a second thought, but you won’t nudge a few people out of the way?”

  “A few people?” Frank gestured as grandly as he was able.

  “Go on, there looks to be some sort of aisle just up that way. It’s not far. I’ll follow behind.”

  Frank muttered to himself but set off at a slow waddle, his girth softly pushing people aside like a boat bumping buoys. Nobody seemed to care; they were making a lateral move, not a forward one, and they weren’t the only people snaking around. Eventually they reached a clear corridor that ran down the middle. It was a few arm-widths across and flanked by police at intervals, dressed in black and carrying heavy black flashlights. They scanned the crowd attentively, lights flicking from face to face. They allowed people to pass across every few minutes, but no one was allowed to walk down. The few that attempted to move forward were roughly pushed back and out again. For the first time Frank and Lock could see all of the way down: it was a straight shot, perhaps a hundred meters long, and not a soul was walking along it. At the end stood a stately building, a cross between a courthouse and a mansion. It was lit from below and seemed to loom out of the ground, surrounded by a brick wall that stopped the crowd. Three flag poles stood outside of the wall. On the highest flew the flag of Russia; on the two lesser poles pure black flags fluttered softly. A single torch burned brightly in the distance.

  “Now this is a bit much,” Lock conceded, “even for them.”

  “You want to chance the aisle?”

  “Nobody is walking down this thing. They’ve been tackling anyone who tries.”

  “That kid is.”

  “What?”

  “That kid, he’s walking down.”

  Lock turned and followed Frank’s gaze up the row, back towards the street where they’d come. A young bo
y was indeed walking down the aisle, a young boy dressed in a raincoat and yellow galoshes. A small golden charm hung from a chain around his neck, and glinted in the hazy flare light. He, too, carried a big, black flashlight. It was almost as long as his arm and he held it in both hands, shining it in the faces of everyone he passed.

  “Oh no,” Lock whispered.

  The boy snapped a light in Lock’s face. Lock tried to cover himself but the boy walked quickly to the nearest officer, tugged on his pant leg, and pointed. The officer was oddly deferential to the small boy, and soon was aiming his own light squarely in Frank’s face. Then another light hit him, and another fell upon Lock, and still others, until both men were glowing amidst a sea of black. Those nearest them stepped away, pointing and murmuring. Neither of them could see anything anymore; all was awash in contrast as they shaded their eyes. Beads of sweat began to pop up on Frank’s face.

  “What the hell did you do,” Frank whispered.

  “The kid. He’s with Black.”

  “I thought he’d be taller.”

  “No, he’s not part of Black, he’s just one of their eyes. If you see him, they can’t be far.”

  As if on cue, the young boy stepped out in front of them and appraised them stoically for a moment before allowing a small, creeping smile. He pointed silently down the long aisle that parted the masses. Most of the flashlights followed, beckoning.

  “Are you kidding me?” Frank whispered loudly.

  “These police officers, the flashlights, they were looking for us the whole time.”

  “How?”

  “There is no how here. And put your hands down. They’re not arresting us.”

  Frank dropped his arms to his sides and looked around. The crowd nearest them was a microclimate of silence, a bubble of air in the middle of a pond.

  “Well what the hell is going on, then, if they’re not arresting us?”

  Lock straightened himself and brushed his sleeves. He seemed to transform in front of Frank’s eyes, snapping his posture to form and breathing deeply. He became a Tournament Courier. He had certain immunities, like a wartime medic.