Devil's Arcade

by Robert Bucchianeri

  I, again, found Leslie at his desk. I got a surprised look from him, same as Selma had given me, but lacking any hint of her warmth or welcome.

  Out in the gym behind us, there were a few guys pumping iron silently. Grunts proliferated. I didn’t see Carlos. More importantly, I didn’t see Jewel Allen. It wasn’t a big place, but there was a back room behind the office that I assumed was used for storage and a bathroom that I guessed was gender neutral.

  I, again, silently questioned Leslie’s insistence that the gym was too full to take on the likes of me.

  “I’m back,” I said, cheerfully.

  “Why?” he responded straight and to the point.

  “I have a couple of questions.”

  “I told you everything I know about Bobby.”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “Do you know a woman by the name of Jewel Allen?”

  There was a long pause, and something flickered across his eyes. “No,” he lied.

  “I have it on reliable authority that she was here this very morning. A couple of hours ago. I don’t think you could have missed her.”

  “I said I don’t know her.”

  “Maybe she was using another name. She’s known to do that. Can I describe her for you?”

  “Ladies hardly ever come in here. There was no lady by any name here this morning. End of sentence. Period.”

  “Pardon, but I think you have that reversed. The saying goes: Period. End of sentence.”

  “You are an asshole.”

  I nodded. Fair assessment, from his point-of-view.

  Leslie looked formidable. Lots of times with body builders, they appear tougher than they are. Their strength is all on the surface, in the muscle, but they don’t have a clue as to how to use it effectively, and they’re not quick or flexible. I had a feeling that this wasn’t the case with Leslie. He was built like nobody’s business, but he had a sleepy-eyed but tense quality to him, to the way he held himself, and unless I was wrong, he might present more of a challenge than the average man in his station.

  After the blow to my head, I wasn’t feeling tip top, and I had the impression that if I used force to try and convince Leslie of my seriousness, I might come out with even more damage that I could ill afford, even if I prevailed, which I expected to do.

  While I studied him and contemplated the risk/reward ratio, I stepped around his desk and toward the back of the room. Leslie rose to stop me, but too late.

  I was at the back-room door, turning the loose, tarnished knob.

  Leslie shouted, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, asshole…” But he didn’t have an interrogatory tone. As he charged toward me, I opened the door and stepped quickly around it, keeping my hand on the side jamb, waiting a precise moment, and then slamming it into Leslie’s charging face.

  He screamed, grabbed his nose, stumbled back. I stepped into his space and delivered one sharp jab with my right hand directly to his much-abused snout. I felt and then heard the crack of bone beneath my knuckles, confirming the break. Blood gushed from his face, and I danced away as Leslie collapsed backward on the ground, groaning and cursing in equal measure.

  I went to the bathroom, found a roll of paper towels, wet and wadded up a bunch, and then brought it and the rest of the roll out. I knelt beside him, laid the wet clump over the hand that was clutching his face, and left the rest of the towels beside him.

  I stood over him and waited for the cursing to stop. I felt bad although the punch, despite the pain that resulted in my hand, felt good. I had needed to hit something. I was feeling more ornery than usual as the result of the previous night’s cataclysms and the throbbing pain in my noggin’. I didn’t have much time, and Leslie was lying and wasting what precious little I had.

  “Fucker, I’m going to have you arrested,” he mumbled, stanching the flow of blood with the paper towels.

  Not even a thank you for the first aid I’d provided.

  “Get in line,” I muttered back.

  I left him there and returned to the back room, flipped on a light switch, and took its measure. It was a bigger-than-expected space, almost as big as the gym itself, and primarily a burial ground for retired exercise equipment: dumbbells, squat racks, kettlebells, bench presses, and more. Most of it was even more worn and damaged than the old stuff in the actual gym. The air was stale and full of dust. One corner contained a few boxes of office supplies: typing paper and its brethren, towels and Kleenex and TP.

  I spotted another door at the south end of the room and marched toward it. I felt a rumbling of hooves behind me as I passed a nest of rusting kettlebells. I reached down and lifted one with a grunt, swinging it and me around into a crouching stance, cast iron weapon at the ready.

  I counted three hulking behemoths clomping toward me.

  I pounded the kettlebell three times hard against the concrete floor, feeling like the proverbial bull, wishing I could exhale hot steam through my nostrils to heighten the effect.

  Still, it made my pursuers pause.

  They stopped in their tracks and exchanged looks that were meant to reassure each other.

  There are three of us, man, one of him. Kettlebell be damned.

  What I had facing me was a trio of pseudo-alpha males. Even though one was black, one was Asian, and one white, they were all cut from the same mold. They’d all been inhabiting planet earth for roughly thirty years and were either bald or buzz cut, probably because it made them seem more intimidating. And they’d all spent too much time in gyms and too much money on steroids.

  Just to show me that I wasn’t the only one who could use handy tools, the Asian lifted what looked like a fifty-pound dumbbell and shook it at me, his eyes ablaze. That didn’t bother me as much as the fact that he’d expended about as much effort as most people would in lofting a cupcake.

  The other two followed suit, each of them handily snatching nearby heavy weights. On the plus side, I hadn’t seen any guns yet.

  Since I never believe that violence should be a first recourse, I called out to them. “Fellas, let’s not do something we might regret later. I have a proposal,” I said. I didn’t but thought it might buy me a few seconds of time while I assessed.

  That stopped them again and furrowed the brow of the white guy.

  I dropped the kettlebell, and it clanged to the floor, which made Asian guy flinch. I put my hands up, palms out, to show my innocent intention, and then used my words. “Really. What happened to Leslie was just an unfortunate accident. No harm meant. I even gave him the towels he’s using on his nose. Honest. He told me it was okay to be back here as I’m looking for someone. Maybe you guys know her? Jewel Allen. I think perhaps you’re friends of hers. She’s in a pickle and maybe we can work together to help her.”

  They watched me with semi-slack jaws, my reasoning, berserk as it was, serving to give them pause. Once again, they exchanged looks, perplexed this time, temporarily unsure about what I was saying and maybe even reconsidering whether violence was the answer.

  I didn’t really expect to convince them of anything. I was just hoping for a little more time.

  “How do you know Jewel?” the bald black man said, doing a bicep curl with the dumbbell he’d lifted.

  “Al, what the hell you doing?” White guy said. “He busted the boss’s face open. He’s after Jewel. He’s trespassing. We gotta kick his ass.”

  “I know. I know, Earl. Just trying to figure out who this dude is before we kick his ass. Maybe he knows something. Something that can help us. Help Leslie and Jewel.”

  “Shut up, Al!” the Asian shouted. “You shouldn’t be saying anything about anything in front of this guy. He could be a cop for all we know.”

  “Fucking right,” Earl concurred.

  “Jewel hired me,” I said, “to help her out.”

  I was stating the God’s honest truth.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Earl snarled.

  “Just what I said. She thought I could help her find someone s
he needed to find. Guy by the name of Bobby.”

  “What the holy fuck!” Earl said, his face all scrunched up in what looked like horror.

  I was on a roll and reaping a whole lot more grist for the mill than I’d ever expected from the responses of these intellectual titans.

  “From what she told me, this guy had double crossed her and cheated her out of a lot of money. I’ve been looking for him, and I’m getting close, but I haven’t been able to reach her for the past day, and I’ve got important information about where he might be hiding out.” I was riffing like a crazy man now, inspired like Thelonious Monk improvising on a totally angular melodic twist.

  And just like Monk, it made sense only in a hallucinatory way.

  “Do you believe him, Earl?” Al asked, continuing to do bicep curls that I don’t think he was even aware of.

  Al looked at Earl as if the creature from Alien had just burst out of his chest. “How could you ask that question?”

  Al’s arm stopped the bicep curl in mid-motion and frowned. “I don’t know. Just seems like we should be careful, in case Jewel needs this guy.”

  “In case Jewel needs this guy?” he said, and then, as if maybe he hadn’t been heard, repeated it. “In case Jewel needs this guy? You have to be shitting me. I know you’re kind of out-of-the-loop, Al, but I thought—” He stopped, shook his head. “Damn it. Nobody say nothing anymore. This guy’s playing us. We’ve said too much. He’s no friend of Jewel’s or Leslie’s. Fuck him. Let’s take him out and let Leslie decide what to do with him.”

  At that moment, there was a knock at the back door.

  The trio was just getting ready to charge me again. I held up my hand and said, “Wait just a minute, fellas. We have company.”

  They stared at me uncertainly.

  Which was a mistake.

  I walked to the door, unlocked it, and let Marsh in.

  Twenty-Three

  I no longer needed a kettlebell, which is just as well because somebody might have gotten hurt.

  More than they actually got hurt.

  Marsh insisted that I sit on the sidelines. I protested but not too much. I sat down on a cardboard box supposedly full of rubber mats. It sagged but didn’t totally give way beneath my weight.

  As Marsh turned to face them, the three fellas looked totally confused, their eyes moving from me, sitting passively out of the action, and this new guy, who really didn’t look all that intimidating, ready to battle in my stead.

  “What’s going on here? Who the hell is this?” Earl asked.

  To his credit, Marsh gave them a fair chance.

  “Gentlemen, my associate and I have some questions for you. You are going to answer them honestly and to the best of your ability and then we’ll be on our way. I would advise that you just sit down here,” Marsh looked around, curled his lip up in an expression of distaste, and continued, “somewhere, and it should just take a few minutes of your time.”

  “You two are both out of your ever-fucking minds,” Earl shouted.

  “There may be some truth in that. But, I warn you, it will be a lot less painful if you answer our questions right now rather than after I mop up the floor with you.”

  Marsh glanced down, shook his head. “I’ve a mind to just mop up the floor with you anyway because it is disgusting. Why would the proprietor tolerate this?”

  Earl and Al again looked at each other again, vexed, dismayed, and irritated.

  I could have advised them that it’s best not to let your emotions get carried away with you when dealing with Marsh. But I could tell it was already too late.

  They charged. Led by Earl, with Al and nameless Asian right behind.

  Marsh angled his left foot forward and waited. Earl came hurtling onward, ready to grab my friend in a headlock. Marsh let him close in, waited until Earl’s hands were verily touching his shoulders before hooking his leg, his ankle, and simultaneously forking the tip of his fingers into his opponent’s Adam’s apple.

  Earl’s body twisted, jackknifed, as he grunted, grabbing his throat, gasping for breath. Marsh spun his body around and launched him into Al, and the two of them tumbled end over end with Al ending up on top of Earl, horrified, still trying to catch a breath.

  The Asian, showing more agility and quickness than his comrades, dodged the falling bodies, dived to the ground, then attempted to launch himself upward at Marsh with a flashing knife that suddenly appeared in his hand.

  Marsh grabbed his wrist and twisted, the knife clattered to the floor, and I heard a snapping sound as the Asian screamed. A moment later, he was on the ground with Marsh’s foot on his throat, holding his wrist, writhing in pain.

  Marsh left him there and ambled over to Al, who was trying to get out from under the struggling-for-breath, Earl. Marsh rolled Earl over and told him to relax and breathe through his nose. While holding his foot down on Al’s solar plexus, he asked, “Do we have an understanding?”

  Al nodded.

  The whole thing was over in two blinks of an eye. It was like watching LeBron James dance and muscle his way through a slew of bulky defenders in the paint, before slamming a dunk shot through the hoop.

  I put the closed sign on the gym door and locked it and returned to the supply room where the four wounded warriors sat up against the back wall, eyeing Marsh nervously.

  Marsh had his hand loosely splayed on a small revolver lying on the box he was sitting on while he hummed a variation of “To Dream the Impossible Dream” from Man of La Mancha.

  I sat down beside him on a matching cardboard box and looked at the motley crew in front of me.

  Leslie had his eyes fixed on me, while his left hand held the wad of wet towels against his nose. They were stained to a reddish black color, but it appeared that he’d stemmed the flow of new blood.

  Earl, breathing a tad more freely now, stared humbly down at his cowboy boots. Al was looking at Marsh with awe in his eyes. The Asian guy was shaking his head back and forth, holding his wrist with a woe-is-me expression on his face.

  “Fellas,” I began, “sorry it had to come to this, but we don’t have much time here. I have a few questions for you, and, if I think you’ve been honest in your answers, we can all proceed on to the tasks of the day. Is that acceptable to you all?”

  None of them bothered with even a grunt of assent. Nevertheless, I persisted.

  “First of all, a three-part question. I want you to tell me what Jewel Allen was doing here earlier today and what your involvement with her is and has been. And the bonus question of the day, for five hundred dollars and a chance at Final Jeopardy, where has she gone to from here?”

  None of them laughed or rushed to answer me.

  I decided to go for broke. After all, I was going to be named any time now in the local media as having died at the Beachside Motel with Bobby and Paula. We’d hoped to fool the killers, to stir up action, to buy time, but if the men in front of me were responsible for the deaths, then none of that mattered as they obviously were aware I was still breathing. None of them, excepting Leslie, seemed to recognize me, so I didn’t think we’d found our killers quite yet.

  “Leslie,” I said. “C’mon, man. you’re going to talk to me or the police. Your guys here have already let the cat out the bag. They know Jewel. They were probably accomplices with her in what went down at Pirate’s Cove. Maybe they murdered Bobby and Paula. I can go to the police, or, even worse, tell Poe that all of you were involved in killing his brother.”

  Leslie looked at me for a long time with an expression in his eyes of utter contempt. I understood. I’d humiliated him, and he’d had enough of that growing up. I didn’t feel good about it.

  Finally, he turned to the others and said, “What the hell did you tell this jerk?”

  Al mumbled, “Nothing, boss.”

  Earl muttered, “Al believed this guy’s BS. He was telling us that he was helping Jewel. That she hired him to find Bobby. Al let on that we knew her. I told him to shut up but—”


  “Christ,” Leslie groaned, closing his eyes. He dropped the paper towels from his face and opened his eyes. His nose was swollen and bent at a slightly different angle than before and there was dried blood encrusted beneath his left nostril.

  Just then Marsh’s phone rang, and he said, “Excuse me, gentlemen.” He got up and walked away to take the call.

  “Leslie, I’m beginning to think that you and Jewel were associates. That you had something to do with the scams at Pirate’s Cove and maybe even the killings of Bobby and his daughter. Maybe somebody panicked. You were afraid that Bobby was going to go to the cops or, even worse, Poe. You went a little crazy and killed them and somehow thought you could pin it on me, and that’s really…”

  Marsh sat back down next to me, leaned in, and whispered the news of the day into my ear. That stopped me in my tracks, and I pulled back and looked at Marsh. “Really?” I said.

  He nodded. I looked back at Leslie, studying him.

  “Marsh,” I said, “can you finish up with our friends here? I don’t care what you have to do, just make sure that they come clean about everything they know. If you think they’re lying, employ whatever you used at Guantanamo until they’re begging you to fess up.”

  “Okey-dokey. Sounds like fun,” Marsh replied, clapping his hands with relish.

  I gave the trio the evil eye. I didn’t know if Marsh had ever been to Guantanamo Bay during his occasional secret forays. The point was to put the fear of God in the minds of Earl and Al.

  “This is all bullshit. Don’t tell him a thing,” Leslie barked to the men.

  Marsh twirled his revolver by the handle like a gunslinger and slid it smoothly back into a case inside his jacket. He reached down and lifted his pants leg and removed a very intimidating looking knife with a hooked blade. It was a Kukri, an ancient weapon employed by the elite Nepalese Brigade of Gurkhas. A multi-use instrument perfect for simultaneously slicing and chopping.

  Marsh held it up to a fluorescent overhead bulb and examined it nonchalantly. Beads of sweat broke out on Al’s forehead.