Devil's Arcade

by Robert Bucchianeri

  You don’t have a choice, Max.

  You can deal with this, with them. Leaving would be worse than stupid.

  I have to say, in my defense, I was a little out of my mind.

  But, even then, when I didn’t have an inkling that the whole sordid slippery mess would come to a final resounding conclusion less than a chaotic twenty-fours later, there was a bother, a tick I could almost seize, its inflamed tip buried in my brain. Something I knew was vitally important, but that I was too damaged or dense to lock down.

  I felt like I was on some weird amalgam of mind-altering substances.

  It had to be the blow to my head.

  It would take the police detectives time to figure out I had been there, that it involved me. I hadn’t given the desk clerk, Frank, my real name.

  Unless they had the outside help I was sure was coming their way, the same help that had probably brought those sirens to the Beachside Motel.

  I got up, stumbled to the door, stepped outside. The strobes of flashing lights from the howling sirens lit up the street like cluster bombs from enemy aircraft.

  I ran or staggered to Ruby, my bike. Frankie had named her after her blood-red color, and I liked it. I turned the key, pressed the start button, and the computer started her up for me.

  I turned the throttle, lurched sideways to the back of the motel. I roared down the slope to the creek bed and came up the other side, straddling a rutted hill covered with tall grass.

  What am I doing?

  Where am I going?

  I had the barest outline of a plan and a thought about where I had to begin, but I needed to sit down and think it through. The only way I could do that was to put as much distance between me and the Beachside Motel as possible.

  It was risky, but what is life without risk?

  Or was it just plain foolhardy, reckless, bold, but utterly stupid?

  All of that.

  I glanced backward in time to see a half dozen squad cars pulling into the parking lot.

  I turned, revved the throttle, and pushed off, glancing down at Ruby’s dashboard—as the digital clock clicked precisely to the witching hour.

  A moment later, I disappeared behind that line of elm trees back dropping the Beachside Motel before the cops could get out of their cars.

  Seventeen

  Things at my home, Acapella Blues, seemed normal, which surprised me.

  I was ready for something else, expecting it, primed, operating on a razor’s edge of tension after the night’s shocking turn.

  I approached her stealthily along the pier, surveying the surroundings with a jaundiced eye.

  The boat floated peacefully, calmly, unaffected by the bad luck and trouble that had battered me, casting me adrift.

  It looked like home, like a sanctuary.

  I knew it wasn’t. Not now.

  I couldn’t stay long.

  In the galley kitchen, beneath the sink, I lifted out cleaning supplies and the broken fluke of an old anchor covering a rubber mat I pulled aside to access a large safe embedded beneath. I dialed the combination lock—5…19…75…AS. Alexandra’s birthdate and initials.

  I removed three untraceable burner smartphones and a five-figure wad of cash I kept for emergencies. I removed and loaded two pistols, a subcompact Glock 30 and a semi G29.

  I don’t like to carry. Don’t much like the things. But I go to the firing range every month, and at times like this, they come in handy.

  I also strapped on a calf holster holding a Cold Steel Leatherneck blade.

  My head was still ablaze, lit with hurt and confusion, but I acted by rote, performing actions that required nothing but practiced ritual.

  I activated one of the burners and called Marsh to set up a meeting and arrangements. Marsh being Marsh, I didn’t have to explain a thing. He asked no questions. He knew, by my voice and manner, that something serious had gone down.

  Marsh can be maddening, but at times like this, I knew how lucky, doing what I do, I was to have him as my partner and friend.

  I love the guy and would do just about anything for him. I’ve seen what he will do for me, proving more than once that there is no limit. I’ve tried to match that level, but probably lack his particular unwavering ethos, the code he lives by, which puts true friendship, something he offers few, above all other values.

  I moved to the cabin, sat down, closed my eyes. Tried to quiet my mind while taking stock of things.

  I could start in one of two ways.

  Either big or small.

  Big was seductive and how I was naturally inclined by temperament.

  Start with a bang. Hit hard. Shake things up. Force the truth out by attacking the head of the snake.

  But this approach, particularly with the myriad uncertainties, in this case, was more than likely to blow up in my face with untold collateral damage to me and mine.

  Starting smaller, slower, in accord with the tenets of the trade I am only loosely affiliated with, would take more time.

  Time I didn’t have.

  And yet it was the prudent course, the way to be sure that when I went big, I would be operating with at least a modicum of understanding that would improve the odds of getting at some measure of the truth, if not the whole truth, so help me all great and powerful Oz.

  It was just after 2 a.m.

  Time for my first rendezvous.

  Eighteen

  The rear supply door to the Kabuki theater was unlocked, and I slipped in and closed it quietly behind me. I followed a dull glow of light in the darkness to a large dressing room behind the main stage.

  I found Marsh lying on a mauve yoga mat in Shavasana, or corpse pose, his eyes closed, his hands and feet open and splayed out, his face calm and relaxed.

  I sat on a black stool against the back wall and closed my eyes for just a moment. When I opened them, Marsh was sitting up, his legs crossed at his ankles, his hands on his knees, alert, his attention focused powerfully on me.

  I could hear nothing but the quiet solemnity of the great theater. Marsh had told me that a Kabuki theater was a place of tradition and cultural importance. He believed it should carry an almost spiritual aspect and that he wanted it to convey this sacred ritualistic tradition. He and Dao had incorporated this desire into the architecture, the design, and the materials, as natural as possible, that had been used.

  Despite my addled state, I felt it. Something here conveyed a sense of history, of permanence in a sea of evanescence.

  This too shall pass, I thought, nonsensically.

  “Any problems?” I asked.

  “None,” he answered.

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded. Waited.

  I sighed and summarized the events of the past several hours.

  “Shit-storm,” he muttered when I concluded.

  I laughed, causing a rumble of pain to wrack my skull. I winced. Then said, “And I got shit-hammered.”

  “Your head,” he said, “should be looked at.”

  “You’re looking.”

  He got up, ran his fingers gently through my hair, found the bump, traced his fingers over it, then knelt and took my face in his hands. His eyes bore into mine with focused intensity. I felt a little awkward, intimidated. He moved my face slowly back and forth, then raised a finger and told me to follow it with my eyes. I did the best I could.

  He rose and returned to his yoga mat. When he’d resettled in a lotus position, he said, “Still, you should have it checked.”

  I pursed my lips and nodded my chin. It would have to wait, and he knew it.

  “You really think it was Angelique?” he said.

  “Likely. Not a hundred percent sure, but I’d bet more than a nickel on it.”

  “That why you bailed?”

  “One reason. You think I was wrong?”

  “Probably,” he said, holding my eyes. “I would’ve done the same thing though,” and then he added a refrain that we have had cause to use more than once: “Whether ti
s nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.” He stopped.

  I finished it for him. “Or to take arms against a sea of troubles.” I paused, then murmured, “And by opposing, end them.”

  The grim smile that passed between us fortified me.

  “How long before they figure out I was there?”

  He shrugged. “Could be a while, unless they have outside help, which sounds like they will.”

  “Did you reach your contact?” I asked.

  “He was none too happy. With the time of my call or my request.”

  “Turned you down flat, eh?”

  “We’ve got twenty-four hours, not a minute more.”

  That wasn’t much time, but it gave me cover when the moment came for me to explain myself to the powers that be.

  “Plenty of time then,” I said.

  “Yes. I hear the bass are biting.”

  “Maybe we should wait until later in the week?”

  “Spoilsport,” he quipped.

  “Shit-storm,” I said.

  “Quite,” he responded and got up again, retrieved a leather satchel, and handed it to me. Inside, I found a blond wig, a mustache in a little plastic wrapper, a bottle of black hair dye, and a folder with two fake driver’s licenses. He handed me a set of keys for a late model Mazda SUV, one of the more non-attention-grabbing autos in his large collection.

  I’d parked Ruby in an underground lot not far away in Ghirardelli Square.

  After I zipped the satchel closed, I looked up and said, “Why?” I was speaking to myself as much as to my friend.

  “There's the rub,” he said, continuing the Shakespearean allusions.

  “If they’re framing me for murder, why? If it’s Jewel’s gang, I can follow the line of thinking. If Poe is involved, I don’t have a clue.”

  “Strange, either way. The thieves may just be trying to buy time until they disappear. And Poe’s motives, as usual, are depthless. We need to untangle the mystery enough to at least point our finger at the right target.”

  I nodded. “So, you’ll get me enough to catch Jewel’s scent any moment now?”

  “Soon, if all goes well. I’ve got people at both casinos. Trying to be subtle at Pirate’s Cove, not so much at Fred’s. Hope to stir up a photo and more soon. The only luck we have is that they’re open 24-7. Give me the burner number and, with any luck, you’ll be able to identify her and know where to look within a few hours.”

  “Thanks, buddy. You know, don’t you?”

  Marsh looked away. “I’ll be ready. 24-7, just like Fred’s,” he murmured, and I knew it was true.

  Nineteen

  Alexandra looked beautiful with her long, auburn hair spread out around the pillow beneath her. The lavender-colored comforter was drawn up to a few inches beneath her collarbone revealing more than a glimpse of lush cleavage.

  She could still take my breath away even after three years together. My heart felt as heavy as my head. For some reason, I was afraid I might lose her.

  I whispered her name, “Alexandra.”

  Her soft breathing altered, and she stirred beneath the covers. I touched her hair with the tips of my fingers. Her eyes flashed open, a startled look on her face. “What…” She flinched in fear, found my face in the darkness, relaxed.

  “Oh,” she mumbled. “Max.”

  “Alex, I’m sorry, but we need to talk.”

  She frowned and said, “Now?”

  I knew she thought it was about our relationship as if I’d come to discuss the state of it in the middle of the night. But if she gave it even a second thought, she’d realize that wasn’t the case. I normally avoided all “relationship” talk as if it were bubonic.

  Her response threw me off for a moment, and my heart sank as I realized I had no right to ask her to help me now and that she might well turn me down.

  She pulled herself up into a sitting position, bringing the covers over her chest, holding it there with her hands, resting back against the green fabric headboard. “Our flight is later this morning, Max. We’ll be alone for a week in Hawaii.” She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips, took a deep breath, trying to shake off the sleep.

  “About that.”

  Her forehead furrowed, and she gave me a sharp look.

  “This was your idea. You insisted. It wasn’t easy for me to take time off from work.”

  “I know,” I said with an outtake of breath. “Something happened.”

  “Are you saying we’re not going?”

  “Let me explain.”

  She cast the covers aside and naked, overwhelmingly naked, walked to her closet and removed a white cotton bathrobe. She tossed it over her shoulders, tied the stays, and turned back to me.

  “Max, please, this was a big deal for me to—”

  “Babe, I don’t have much time.”

  She sat down on the bed, her back to me.

  “Please, Alex. Can you give me five minutes? I wouldn’t have come here if it wasn’t an emergency.”

  Her shoulders rose as she took a breath in, and then they fell, and that little action, the drooping of her shoulders, touched me and I felt lousy. Lousy about what had happened to Bobby and Paula, lousy about what I was about to ask of this woman I cared for so deeply, lousy about my distance from her and Frankie lately.

  She turned, lifted her legs off the floor and onto the bed, wrapped her arms around her legs, and put her chin on one knee. Her eyes found mine. They were full of disappointment, or more precisely, melancholy, sadness that filled me with more of the same.

  “Go ahead,” she murmured, in a soft voice, like a little girl, or so it sounded, and that made me want to grab her and hold her in my arms and tell her how I felt and that I was sorry and how I would feel without her.

  Altogether a whole mess of feelings I was uncomfortable with and had no time for.

  So I just rambled, recounting again what had happened since I talked with her last, which seemed like a long time, but in reality, was less than a day.

  She listened without reaction until I got to the discovery of the dead bodies at the motel when she looked up and said, “Max,” with a horrified expression on her face.

  I described the scene with a minimum of detail and then finished up with my current conflicting theories of who might be responsible for the murders and why.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, when I’d finished.

  “No. No reason to be. I startled you awake in the middle of the night.” I paused, studied her face, which was full of concern, for me, I hoped, and for what had happened. “Look-it, babe, I know I haven’t been here for you and Frankie, at least not really…emotionally lately, but, and that’s why I wanted this Hawaii trip, I’m aware of it and—”

  “Not now,” she said, sharply. “You were right. This is an emergency. I’m still not sure why you left the motel. Even if Marsh agrees. Marsh isn’t always right. In fact, he’s wrong a lot. I think you should go to the police. You can explain everything. No matter if someone’s trying to frame you. They won’t succeed. By running you look guilty. At least in their eyes.”

  She got up, walked around the bed, sat beside me. Put her hand on my thigh. “I think what you’re doing is a mistake. It’s too dangerous. You don’t know enough. Let the police handle this. I know it’s not your way. That’s the problem. Once you get your teeth into something like this, you never let go. Nothing else matters as much. Not me. Not Frankie.” She paused, shook her head. “You’re not invincible. You’re just a man.”

  I ignored the insult and told her about Marsh’s contact in the Mayor’s office, a key player in politics in the city along with being involved in just about every major criminal case. He had strong connections with the top command in the police department.

  “So this guy is going to protect you when the police find out that you were at the motel and your DNA is all over the bodies?”

  “Not exactly.” I explained what precisely would happen when the story hit th
e morning news.

  “You’re kidding.”

  I just looked at her.

  “My God! You and Marsh are crazy.”

  I couldn’t disagree, and it made me smile and feel a little ashamed, so I looked away from her shocked gaze.

  “I don’t know what to do about you, Max.”

  I looked at her, and there was that glint in her eye that she gets when I’ve disturbed and confounded her, but also engaged her, excited her, made her think I’m one of a kind and she isn’t going to ever find anyone like me.

  At least that’s my take.

  Watching her, I detected a hint of a smile she was trying to suppress and then, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was about to say, she looked directly into my eyes and said, “What can I do to help?”

  I curbed another smile, but inside, my chest blossomed with feeling. I reached down to the carpet where I’d placed Marsh’s satchel, unzipped it, and took out the blond wig and false driver’s license ID. I held them up for her in my right hand, feeling guilty as hell about what I was about to ask her to do.

  Her eyes flashed as she registered the items in my hand.

  I saw an opening, leaned in, and placed a soft, lingering kiss on her lips.

  She let me.

  Twenty

  The Pelican Inn wasn’t.

  An inn, that is.

  An inn should be a lovely but modest little establishment along a country road, preferably with an Anglo-Saxon feel or decor, offering both comfortably humble rooms, a kindly manager-bartender, and big portions of hearty home-made food.

  The Pelican had none of these, and no discernible connection to water birds other than the lopsided plastic facsimile thrust into a spot of lawn out front, but what it offered was what I needed even more: anonymity, privacy, and location.

  In other words, it was cheap, took cash, and required no ID. Hardly anyone was in residence, and it was a stone’s throw from where the whole damn mess had started less than a day ago—Matthew’s Manufacturing Muscles and Fred’s Flapjack Casino.

  I needed to wait somewhere for Marsh to provide me with a trail of crumbs to follow and for the morning news to announce the murders that would shake things up, hopefully, in the bad guys' dens of iniquity.