End Game
By Ricki T Thues - 2026
The motel was lost on a frontage road. Some of the neon sign was flickering out, so it read “notel motel notel motel.” Edgar was running late as he drove into the parking lot. The brakes squealed with regret as the car pulled into a space. The engine coughed to a stuttering stop, the car door squealed open, and Edgar stepped out.
A bell jingled as Edgar opened the office door. The manager did not look up. The room was stuffy in spite of the whirling and clattering swamp cooler. The floor, walls, and reception desk had not been cleaned, maybe ever.
“Is she here?” asked Edgar in short staccato.
“Who?” said the clerk. “Oh… it’s you,” he said, looking up. “Room 6.”
Edgar tossed the man an envelope and left the room.
Six doors down the strip of rooms, the metal “6” on the door had spun down to be a “9”. Edgar pounded hard with his usual “shave and a haircut, two bits” knock.
“It’s open,” said an edgy woman’s voice. The door stuck a little, scraping along the worn linoleum floor, as Edgar pushed it open and stepped inside. Margaret sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap, eyes burning a hole through Edgar’s head.
“You came,” she said, her voice grating and impatient. “This is a real dump you chose. Is it where you brought that floosy of yours?”
“You should talk,” Edgar snapped. What about that weightlifter you’ve been fucking?”
“Bruno is an old friend from the gym. He really cares for me. More than I can say about you.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Edgar’s voice was a loud growl.
“You can’t talk to me like that. The women. The gambling. One job after another. When was the last time you touched me when you didn’t hit me? You know what? I’m going to file a complaint with the police.” Her voice was a scream now.
There was a loud pounding on the thin wall coming from room 5. “Keep it down in there!” a deep, rumbling, drunken voice boomed.
“Why don’t you come in here and make me?” Edgar yelled back through the wall.
The door in the next room opened and slammed shut. In the next moment, the room 6 door flew open with a loud screech. A big man, shaved and scarred head, muscles rippling, eyes vacant and burning, stood in the doorway.
“Bruno?” was the soft, startled sound that Margaret made.
“Are you OK, Maggie?” was Bruno’s chest-deep rumble, like gravel dragging over steel.
“No,” was her small, quiet answer. “What are you doing here?”
“I followed you here after you told me about your meeting with this asshole. Thought you might need some protection.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” said Edgar. “She doesn’t need your help.”
“You're gonna need help if you don’t leave… right now,” said Bruno with slow, measured words… eyes welded to Edgar’s.
“I will do whatever I want. You leave.”
Bruno took one stride toward Edgar, his massive right fist circled Edgar’s neck. “If you don’t leave RIGHT NOW, I will KILL YOU,” he bellowed.
“OK. Ok.” Edgar’s plea was a whisper. Bruno let him go. Edgar ran out of the still-open door, dashed into his car, and locked the doors. He stared down the row of rooms to number 6. The room door slammed closed. Edgar waited for twenty minutes. Bruno came out of the room, walked alone to a car parked outside, and drove away.
It was a dark and stormy night. The shabby Brownstone leered at the alley outside my office. I sat at my desk sifting through a pile of bills. There were no case files, just bills. The old oak desk looked like it had survived more bad decisions than I have. I took another drag on my Lucky Strike and balanced it on the edge of the desk for the second time tonight. The cigarette joined other burn marks from other late and lonely nights. I picked up my empty, stained coffee cup and frowned. The rain beat a blues rhythm on the window. Little rivulets of water ran down the frame, timber-tapping onto the floor. The steam radiator crackled and hissed an atonal melody. The sound of cars and sirens gave the whole sound a rhythm. A sudden knock on the door interrupted the song.
A man opened the door, uninvited. He stood in the doorway, water dripping from his fedora onto a loose-fitting second-hand suit and unpolished shoes. He wore glasses that hid what he was thinking. His mouth was set in a horizontal line. “You the private eye, Sam Cutter?
“That’s what it says on the door,” I said.
“Name’s Edgar. My wife is missing.”
“Sit down,” I motioned to my laid-off secretary’s chair at the empty desk. Edgar drug the chair over to my desk and sat down.
“When did you see her last?”
“Two days ago at the Park View Motel.”
“I know that joint. No Park. No View. What were you doing in that dump?”
“We were separated. I asked her to meet me there to try and work things out. She said she would think about it, but we got nowhere, so I left. I’m afraid I slammed the door behind me.”
“Anyone see either of you?”
“The manager might remember us. I don’t know. I will say that we pissed off a man next door with our arguing. He pounded on the wall and yelled at us. Said he wanted to kill someone, but then he got quiet. I think he was drunk.”
“Did you call the cops?”
“Not yet. Joey, down at the Last Call bar, said you could find her, so I came to you first.” Edgar reached into his suit coat and pulled out a thick envelope. He tossed it onto the desk with a soft, dead slap.
I looked inside, then shoved the envelope into my trench coat.
“Tell me more about Margaret,” I said.
As Edgar talked, the light from the neon bail bonds sign across the alley played on his face. The rain-streaked window bent the light. Shadows deepened his cheeks. The red light bent his mouth into a smile. As the sign flickered and buzzed, the sound of the night was a counterpoint to Edgar’s story.
I unconsciously patted the envelope in my pocket, looked down at the bills on my desk, and dismissed my doubts with a nod of my head. I stood and shook Harald’s hand. His grip was strong, his hand large for his size.
“I’ll look into it,” I said.
The Park View Motel hid on the edge of town, crouching in the shadow of the night. I had been here before. It was a favorite of the seedy side of town. The office door jingled as I walked into the depression of the place. The manager was behind the desk, staring at a black-and-white noir movie on the TV. He did not look up.
“Long time no see, Phil,” I said. Phil looked up. A frown bent his face. He shook his head.
“What do you want, Sam?”
“Nice to see you too. What kind of larceny are you up to?”
“Very funny. What do you want?” he repeated.
“Ever see this woman?” I asked, showing him a picture of Margaret.
“Our clients like a level of privacy here.”
“That’s obvious, but you owe me, Phil.”
“Ok,” he said, taking the photo.
“Yeah. A few days ago. Her husband and her checked into room 6, just for one night.”
“Anything unusual happen?”
“Now that you mention it, there was a lot of yelling. Sounded like the big guy in room 5 was pissed.”
“How so?”
“I heard the big guy, looked like a weightlifter, threaten to kill someone. He sounded drunk.”
“What happened?”
“Nothin’. After a while, someone left one of the rooms and slammed the door behind them. It got quiet after that, so I let it go.”
“How about the next morning?”
“Both 5 and 6 were empty. Nothing missing, damaged, or unusual. Neither bed was slept in.”
I stared questioningly into Phil’s eyes, but there was nothing there. “Call me if you think of anything else,” I said, handing him my card.
Edgar’s house was in an unassuming suburban tract on the run-down side of town. The lawn was too tall. Large piles of leaves from the Sycamore covered the sidewalk, like bad news that you could not sweep away. I knocked on a front door in need of paint.
Edgar opened the door and invited me in. The house was furnished like a rental, plain, worn furniture. I sat in the easy chair. Edgar asked if I wanted some coffee. I nodded. While Edgar was in the kitchen I stood and looked at the desk in the corner. It was covered with papers and bills. Overdue rental and utilities bills were in a neglected pile. A pawn ticket for Margaret’s wedding ring and a parking stub for the downtown Park and Pay also littered the desk. Edgar flipped off the light in the kitchen, so I quickly returned to the chair. When Edgar reappeared in the living room, he handed me a burnt-smelling cup of coffee.
“Any news?” he asked.
“A lead I need to follow. Did you see a big man at the motel?”
“I saw one enter the room next to us. Later, we were arguing, and he yelled through the wall that he would kill us if we didn’t shut up. He sounded drunk.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing. Margaret and I argued some more, but couldn’t work it out, so I left. That was the last I saw of her.”
“Ok,” I said and stood up to leave.
“Do you think the big guy has something to do with Margaret missing?” asked Edgar.
“Don’t know. I’ll look into it,” I said, and left the house.
The Pay and Park is on Main Street, an old parking garage that serves the small downtown storefronts. The Iron Fist Gym is three doors down. I walked into the smell of sweat, leather, caulk, and old blood. In the center of the gym was a sagging old boxing ring. Two men were sparing. One was on the ropes. A withered man with fading muscles walked up to me and asked, “Help you?”
“I’m not one for boxing,” I said.
The man eyed me up and down and said, “I see that. Name’s Mick Malone. This is my place.”
“Sam Cutter,” I said, showing Mick the picture of Margaret. “Have you seen this woman?”
“Oh yeah. That’s Bruno’s girl, Maggie.”
“Do you know his whereabouts?”
“Haven’t seen him for about a week. He was arguing with Maggie about her ex.”
“What about?”
“Her ex wanted to get back together. Bruno was really mad about it. Couldn’t understand why she would meet with that loser.”
“Then what happened?”
“Nothin’. They just left together, still talking.”
“Ok Mick. Thanks a lot. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, give me a call.” I turned and left the gym.
Two days later, Margaret’s body was found washed up on the riverbank. The newspaper article said that she was beaten, strangled, and neck broken before she was thrown in the water.
Back at the gym, Bruno was talking to Mick. “They found Maggie dead in the river,” said Mick.
“I heard,” said Bruno, the hint of a tear in the big man’s eye.
“A private dick came in here the other day asking questions about you. I think he might suspect you of the murder.”
“That’s crazy. I love Maggie.”
“You’ve got a record, Bruno. I’d lie low for a while if I was you.”
Bruno nodded and left the gym.
I sat at my desk in the dead of the night, rereading my notebook when a knock came on the door. Edgar walked in, solemn as ever. He sat down, glanced at his watch, and raised his eyebrows.
“It all lines up,” I said. “Angry boyfriend argues with Margaret after you leave the motel. The argument gets out of hand. Strong man strangles and breaks Margaret’s neck. He drags her to the car and dumps her in the river.”
Edgar put his head in his large hands and made a show of sadness and despair. “OK. OK… here’s the rest of your fee.” He took a fat envelope from his pocket and threw it on the desk, a little too hard.
“I’ll make my report to the police first thing in the morning. Go home and get some sleep. You look like shit.”
Edgar stood up without a word and left the office.
On the street, Edgar climbed into his car. He drove down the alley toward Interstate 5, the Mexican border, and freedom. “Check and mate” he thought as he smiled up into the rear-view mirror. The bail bond’s neon sign faded into oblivion.
Author’s note:
This story was written to fulfill a topic challenge from my writer’s group. Previously, on a different challenge, I prompted the ChatGPT AI to write a noir mystery. I believed that I could write a better, more human story with an interesting twist, without the help of the AI. This story is the result.