The Tournament Trilogy

by B. B. Griffith

  Ian stood faster than he should have and was struck by a wave of vertigo. Mary was up in an instant to steady him, but he pawed her away and moved over to the liquor cabinet. He was acutely aware of her watching him as he reached for the bottle of whisky, but in the heat of the moment he used his left hand and as soon as he squeezed the bottle to pull out the stopper he hissed in pain and dropped it onto the kitchen counter where it broke and a wave of booze poured out. He swore as a steady line of amber dripped down onto the floor. The house was awash in the smell. Ian hung his head as his mother patiently pulled a stack of towels from the drawer. He picked a smudged glass from the sink and held it under the stream with his right hand. When he looked up again Mary was smiling, laughter in her eyes. He held out the glass to her and she took a slug and handed it back to him. He refilled it from the spill and took one down himself.

  The next day, just before supper, Ian came downstairs in his puffy black jacket with a thick woolen scarf around his neck that he could pull up to cover his face. He carried a small duffel bag. His mother nodded in approval, and again he felt the weight of her expectations. He rolled his neck around.

  “Pyper and her dad and sister are coming today,”

  “And they’ll be welcome.”

  “I don’t think it’s smart to have both of us here at the same time anyway, what with everyone on the lookout.”

  Ian stood awkwardly as his mother gave him a big hug, but he eventually rested his head on her shoulder for a few moments. Then she grasped his shoulders and stepped back from him.

  “You don’t have to make excuses. I love you, kiddo.”

  “I know ma. Love you too.”

  He left the house under cover of darkness, and only looked back twice.

  Chapter Six

  FRANK AND LOCK WALKED the narrow streets on the far side of the park, opposite the Black House. Here there were no grand buildings of any sort, only a series of offices and shops with modest flats above them. Before Team Black claimed the house across the green, this area was lightly trafficked. The businesses there were shabby and vague: laundries and pawn shops and brokers of dubious character. The park didn’t even have an official name. Now every vacant or underused space was open and blazing with light and sound, all catering to the ten-fold increase in foot traffic that came out despite the damp spring cold.

  “This way,” Lock said, moving in and out of traffic, walking a jagged line through the crowd. Behind him, Frank glanced over his shoulder again and paused. Lock walked another ten steps before he backtracked. “What is wrong with you? Falafels are this way.”

  “Are you sure?” Frank asked, distracted, scanning the crowd as they ambled along.

  “Of course. It smells like a dog food factory.”

  Frank turned back around and set off after Lock, but he was perturbed. “I think we’re being followed.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” Lock replied, glancing around. “Who is it? The men from the library?”

  “A girl.”

  They turned down a familiar street and Lock saw the grimy lights and painted windows of the kebab shop at the far end. Really more of a counter than a restaurant, one step up from a stall.

  “Every news agency on Earth knows who we are. Probably a cherry-picking reporter or one of these Gamers I keep hearing about. It’s getting darker here. Meaner. It used to be one big outdoor barbeque, but it’s changed.”

  “People sense power and money,” Frank observed. “It brings out the rats. Back when I worked insurance claims I saw a lot of that.”

  They slowed as they approached the kebab counter. A long line of people snaked out the door and along the brick wall outside where people lingered on the sidewalk, eating. A sooty wooden sign above flickered erratically and pronounced the shop Brodkeischtski. Underneath the name, in smaller numbers neither man had noticed before, was painted 1972. Frank elbowed Lock and nodded at the date.

  They waited for fifteen minutes to get to the front door while the weather slowly turned on them and they felt the first specks of rain. Inside it was hot and heady with the scent of spiced meat and damp wool. The windows dripped with condensation. There was a Plexiglas display case up front that doubled as a countertop and cashier. A middle-aged man with sleepy eyes behind the register took orders and dispensed change purely from muscle memory. An old woman wearing a purple shower cap stood patiently beside him, pulling baked goods from the case and hot food from a small window behind them where the kitchen was hidden away. Lock noted that most of the locals skipped the hot food and went straight for the case.

  As they reached the front of the line the cashier looked at him without seeing him. Lock tapped his teeth together then spoke.

  “Hi. Do you speak English?”

  The man shrugged. He made a small twirling motion with his finger.

  Lock powered on. “How long have you worked here?”

  The man furrowed his brow and gestured towards the kitchen and then the case.

  “No, I was just wondering if you could tell me about your neighbors at the Black House. Across the park. You know it? Do you have a minute?”

  The patrons behind them were staring. An older woman with a young child spoke sharply to them and flicked her hand. The cashier gestured at the kitchen again, then at the case again.

  “I don’t think he has a minute,” Frank whispered. The line grew restless. “Maybe if we bought something ...” Frank offered.

  “Fine. One of--”

  “Two,” said Frank.

  “Two of those things.” Lock pointed at a faded picture of a dripping meat sandwich. The cashier rang them up, took their money, dispensed the change, and the crowd shuffled them along. The old lady handed them their food and smiled toothlessly. Despite Lock’s weak protests they soon found themselves outside again in the misting rain. Frank had a sandwich wrapped in butcher paper in either hand.

  “Well that went great,” Lock said. “Thanks for all of your help. The point wasn’t to feed you. It was to talk to the staff.”

  “It’s pretty clear the staff wasn’t interested in talking,” Frank said, between bites. “You probably sounded like a braying donkey to him anyway.”

  “I had the translation software—”

  “Even if there weren’t twenty people behind us, nobody wants to talk through a computer.” Frank tapped a light fist on his chest and winced after swallowing the last bite of one gyro sandwich a touch too fast. His gaze flitted down the growing line of people and caught.

  “The girl again?” Lock asked. “Where?”

  Frank squinted and looked quickly about. “I swear I saw her.”

  Lock flopped his hands to his sides. “You’re seeing imaginary women. I should have figured. And it’s not helping us stay relevant, here.”

  “It’s like she has a ... a flutter that’s catching my eye or something.”

  “A flutter,” Lock muttered, shaking his head. He whipped his bag around and pulled his handheld from it. “I’m going to talk to that old lady with the purple cap. And if that doesn’t work I’m going to have this talk to her.” Without a pause he sidestepped his way against traffic and back into the serving area.

  “Wait!” Frank watched him go and then briefly eyed his second sandwich before cursing and tossing it into the nearby bin. A mist of rain had begun to fall and he held his fingers out to the sky to wet them as he shouldered his way back inside, wiping his hands on his jeans and displacing several people until he caught up to Lock.

  “—Any English at all? No? Can you understand this?” Lock held his handheld out to her and pressed play. A nasal, robotic voice mumbled incoherently out of the tiny speaker at the bottom of the device. The old woman smiled benignly at Lock and shook her head, her purple cap rustling. A man near the front of the line yelled at them, gesturing with a flick of his hand.

  “Lock, she can’t even hear the thing.”

  “Please?” Lock asked, holding it out closer. His eyes were wide and his head down low, as if e
xpecting to get something thrown at him at any minute. The man near the front yelled again and Frank swung around to face him.

  “Hey! Back in line, guy! Nobody’s gonna take your food!”

  Between the rain outside and the heat inside and all of the people pressing around him, Frank began to buzz. Lock’s frantic insistence upon the old lady seemed desperate from a man he’d come to see as a lodestone, and all of this combined to set Frank adrift. He put his hands out to steady himself on the counter even as the man he’d rebuked began to shove forward. Frank knew he wasn’t a fighter, but that he did have leverage as a large object. He prepared to bounce himself off the counter and into the man when a girl stepped in from the rain and between them. In Frank’s spinning head she seemed to click at the man, or shoot a single syllable his way; whatever it was, the man slowed, then stopped, then threw both hands up in exasperation and turned away.

  She also wore a hair ribbon: black, with white polka dots. It fluttered as she moved and it caught Frank’s eye and brought him back to himself. The girl turned to face him and gave him a brief once over. She was thin and small and wore a long sleeve striped shirt with holes in the cuffs for her thumbs. She’d seemed girlish in profile, with the bow holding a bouncy sprig of dark brown hair, but from the front she looked older, almost imperious. She approached Lock with a deliberate gait.

  “She’s deaf,” said the girl, in loud, thick English.

  “What?” asked Lock, his hand still outthrust.

  “I said she’s deaf. And she doesn’t speak English anyway.”

  “But you do!”

  “Yes.”

  “And Russian.”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you help us? We’ll pay you.”

  “Start by getting out of the shop before somebody beats you. There. I helped. No charge.”

  Frank, who had been staring wide eyed at the girl, roused himself and tried to get Lock’s attention by blinking rapidly from behind her shoulder. When she turned his way he stared like a deer at her.

  “Outside,” Lock said. “Yes. Outside.” He reached over and gripped Frank’s shoulder and tugged him along. Then he turned back and held his hands open, pleading wordlessly with the girl. She drolly stared at the two of them for a moment, then pulled a cigarette from her purse. She walked past them outside and just under the awning and lit up. The two men followed.

  “Do you know that woman?” Lock asked, glancing at the spitting sky. She took a long drag and watched the crowds. Frank was about to speak when Lock cut him off.

  “Let’s begin again. My name is Allen Lockton. You can call me Lock.”

  “I won’t, but thanks.”

  Lock pressed on. “This man is Frank Youngsmith. You may grow to like him. I think that is what I’m doing, although I can’t be sure.”

  The girl took a second drag and made no attempt to blow the smoke away from the men. Frank tried not to cough and ended up sneezing. After a moment Lock spoke again.

  “And your name is?”

  The girl wrestled with herself, both men could see it. But she eventually spoke.

  “Claudia.”

  “Claudia!” Lock nodded. “That is great. That is a great name.”

  “I don’t translate,” Claudia said.

  “She doesn’t translate,” Frank echoed. “Let’s let her get on her way, Lock.”

  Claudia took another long drag. Frank cleared his throat.

  “We can help each other,” Lock said. Frank had never seen him this eager. He was used to Lock in consistent, even motion. Like a regatta. But these days he seemed to be unraveling in step with the Tournament.

  “She doesn’t want our help, Lock. She’s doing just great. Look at her.” Frank tried blinking furiously again. No dice.

  “Frank here thinks he saw you at the Hall of Records,” Lock said. “That’s why he keeps dancing around behind you.”

  Frank flared his nostrils. “Well, it could have been anyone—”

  “And maybe before that, too. Isn’t that right Frank?”

  “It’s not like I was looking. It’s an old habit. Things sometimes catch my eye and I can’t stop thinking about them.” Frank spun a hand in the air trying to pull the words from the rain. Claudia studied him. “I mean, there are a lot of pretty girls. Ladies. There are a lot of ladies, pretty and not so pretty. Both. In Russia. I may have made a mistake. That’s all. It could have been anybody.”

  Lock looked at Frank like he was a strange stain. When Frank fell off, he stepped in.

  “Forgive my friend. It’s his first international trip. He’s a little ...” With his index finger, Lock etched small circles. Then he leaned in to her as far as he dared, which wasn’t very far. “If you’re a reporter, we can help each other. Trust me. If it’s money you want, we can do that too.”

  Claudia flicked her eyes back and forth between the two of them. She stubbed her cigarette out on the damp brick of the alley and dropped it in the gutter. Without it between her and them she seemed more anxious. She crossed her thin arms over her striped shirt and looked at the ground.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said. “Alone.”

  “Understandable,” said Frank.

  “We’ll give you five thousand dollars,” said Lock. Frank backhanded him in the gut. “It’s all we’ve got,” Lock sputtered.

  Claudia considered this, cocking her head. “How long?”

  “A week?”

  Claudia studied falling rain as the two men waited. She shifted her shoulders, pursed her lips, then nodded.

  “Money up front.”

  Lock nodded vigorously and pulled a zipped sleeve from inside his breast pocket. He thumbed through it and his face fell. “How about five hundred now? How much do you have on you, Frank?”

  “Five bucks.”

  “Five hundred and five now, then we’ll go to a bank.”

  Claudia sighed. “Fine,” she said, as she pocketed the wad. “Wait around the back.”

  “What? But—”

  “Do you want my help or not?”

  “Yes!” said Lock. Frank said nothing.

  “Then wait out back. I’ll come to you, in a minute.” She turned the corner and ducked back into the restaurant.

  ————

  Frank and Lock waited a minute. Then five minutes. Then ten as the rain picked up. Frank stamped in the cold and wiped water from his eyebrows.

  “I’m gonna go around and get her,” Frank said, again.

  “She told us to wait. We should wait.”

  Frank shook his head. “Five thousand bucks? How are we gonna pay for the hotel? Food?”

  “We’ll find a way,” Lock said, glancing back down the alley towards the front. “Maybe Greer will wire us some more cash.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Look, Allen, you’re getting a wild look in your eye. This isn’t like you. You’re the one who sniffed at me for buying a slice of pizza on the Tournament dime not too long ago.”

  “This is different.”

  “Yeah, I’d say so! This is paying some random Russian girl five grand to take us back behind an alley. Couldn’t you have started at, I dunno, a couple hundred bucks? That’s like a billion rubles!”

  “I can’t let them beat me, here.” Lock said, close to a whisper. “They’re everywhere. Swarming. People looking to find the truth, just like us, and they’re gonna use it against us if they find it first. If I can’t beat them to it, what good am I to anyone anymore?”

  “Wait a second. You’re worried about your job?” Frank asked, wringing the moisture from his hands.

  “How many times do I have to tell you? This job is my life. I know nothing else.”

  “Never make your job your life,” Frank said. “Trust me on that one. It doesn’t matter how great your job is.”

  Lock flicked a drip of water off of the tip of his nose and spoke. “A while ago you told me this is the only thing you’ve got going for you. Well it’s the only
thing I’ve got going for me, too, I’m coming to realize that. And it’s an amazing thing. A beautiful thing. And we’re in danger of losing it all to Mazaryk. We gotta keep it together or it’s lights out. For the Tournament as I know it. For both of us.”

  With these words hanging in the air, heavy and dark like the creeping damp on the brick walls, the back door swung open. Light and the sizzling smell of spiced meat rolled out from the kitchen as Claudia walked the old woman in the purple cap outside, handing her a cigarette. The old woman took it with the same benign smile she wore when fetching cookies and cakes. After they both lit up, they watched the men, waiting. Both men were caught flat footed for a moment; a small part of Lock and a much larger part of Frank was convinced they’d been left outside to soak. It was Frank who recovered first.

  “Hello. I’m Frank, and this is Lock.”

  Claudia turned the old woman towards her and spoke where she could read her lips. What followed was a long string of bobbing syllables.

  “What did you say?” Frank asked. “You said more than hello. That was a lot of talking.”

  Claudia rolled her eyes. “The Black House, yes? That is what you want to know? I should have charged by the hour.”

  “Yes,” said Lock. “How long has she been working here?”

  “Thirty years,” Claudia said without asking.

  “And the house? What does she know about the house?”

  Claudia turned to the woman and gestured with a slight roll of her hand. After a drag the woman spoke in creaky Russian for a time, the smoke mixing with the mist that settled in the alley. It had a lulling effect on the men, such that when Claudia spoke again they were startled.

  “It was empty. Closed. For years and years, and then all of the sudden this.” Claudia gestured vaguely around them. “She says it’s good for business.”

  “But was it always empty? Back as long as she can remember?” asked Frank.

  After a moment’s conference, Claudia spoke again. No. There were parties. Or meetings. Many people, with guards outside. She says the guards were like Cheka, but there were no Cheka anymore by then. Just special guards.” Then she fell silent as the woman spoke again, punctuating her words with her cigarette, eyes unfocused.