The End Game by Brian Brown

       The End Game

     His shift at the gift shop ended at 6:00 that evening, still plenty of time for a walk in one of the most beautiful National Parks in North America. His arthritis and his bad disc made it mildly painful, but he still relished this time of the evening. This was his life now, the small pleasures of living in or on the spectacular landscapes of the nation. Walks in the evening or early mornings, hikes and little adventures on his days off as much as he was still capable of. Solitary and profound moments of silence at a sand dune or a red rock canyon or a seashore. He was nearing the decision.

     He had a reliable vehicle and a comfortable little travel trailer that he pulled behind it, following the pleasant weather around the U.S. with the seasons. The desert southwest in the winters, the Northwest coast or up and down the Rockies during the summers. Occasionally he even traveled to the  parks in the east, the cannonball parks, but he preferred the west. He had become part of a little vagabond subculture of good-natured gypsies, people who had decided to forego, or cash out of the suburban dream. They had sold houses or never acquired them, used the proceeds to purchase some variant of a motor home or travel trailer and sturdy truck and hit the road. They followed the tourist seasons of the national parks, taking jobs as campground hosts, cashiers, motel clerks, maintenance workers. The pay was modest, but the rent was even less, a couple of hundred bucks a month for full hook-ups for their traveling apartments. The payoff was spending their lives in the glorious outdoors during the prime seasons. No mortgage, no traffic, little crime, zero parking hassles, an endless stream of relationship possibilities for the young, a predictable and safe routine for the older gypsies. 

     He had not aspired to this life, but he had ended up here. In his youth in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s he had plunged head long into the hippie phenomenon. Like many, he had believed it was a new order, that this was the way to live your life. It had not occurred to him then that it was simply one more of an endless stream of societal trends, that by the mid 70’s it would be replaced by the incredibly cheesy disco culture, and that mischievous drug usage would turn mean and dangerous. He had lived the life long after many others had moved on, keeping his long hair and becoming a Dead Head, following the band around in the requisite VW van for a couple of years, attending several dozen of their concerts. He had once actually shaken Jerry Garcia's hand. 

    He held onto the dream until he realized that it was no longer a dream, that it had turned into work. By his mid-thirties he was aware that he was an anachronism, his old friends were gone; married, joining corporations, buying houses, laughing about the good old days. But for him it was not a dream, it was life, and he was silently contemptuous of those who had given up; who had cut their hair, settled down and had kids, and become exactly what they had all laughed at when they were younger. In his forties he was still at it, smoking weed and carrying on, though he could not help but notice that he was by far the oldest person in most situations. The younger girls seemed grossed out by the possibility of coupling with him, though occasionally one still did. No matter, he had had enough sexual encounters and partners by then that he could go with or without someone else. He was fine on his own, at least most of the time. 

      The counter-culture finally withered away completely and was replaced by.. what? He held a series of jobs earning decent money, traveled the world when he wanted to, and could feel himself changing, finally. His graying hair no longer mattered. Any clothes that were practical would do. Old friends now had children in college. He had never really been poor, but had not acquired much wealth, and  he began to think about that. He also began to think about religion, and the possibility of God. 

     He read the Bible, at least the New Testament. The Old Testament had proven to be tedious and mostly meaningless to him, so he dismissed it after a few dozen pages. The New Testament was better, and he liked the message of hope and the promise of a secure and happy afterlife. He took a look at Buddhism and the Hindus and the Muslims, but eventually decided that they were not of his culture, and so did not seem applicable. Maybe God gave each culture a religion that was relevant to them? Or, did each culture create a religion that was culturally relevant? This was one of many troubling questions he had about God and religion, especially His Christian variety. Such as, If there is a God, why does it need to be worshipped and praised 24/7? It’s God, after all, was it also an infinite ego? And why didn’t it make just one, undeniable, verifiable appearance, and settle the debate? Why this hide-and-seek game called faith? If it wanted better behavior from the human race all it had to do was just show up once, I mean really show up, and most sin would probably be greatly diminished. 

     The nonsense about a scheming devil that fundamentalist types were always flailing about was the most annoying. Were we supposed to believe that every stupid action or biological impulse was the result of an evil spirit lurking around, and that it and God were involved in a daily battle over the fate and behavior of each of the billions of humans on the planet? Ridiculous, he had decided. Why didn’t God just whack this clown and be done with it? It’s God, after all. And the myriad theologians over the centuries tying themselves in philosophical knots trying to reinterpret every nuance of scripture. Millions had perished in the name of the loving Christian God, to say nothing of the Romans and the Muslims or Mongol animists or others. It simply made no sense. 

     He explored the sciences, and their take on God and the universe. Astronomers told provable stories of fantastic galaxies, millions of light-years away, and billions of cosmic furnaces, stars that were being born and imploding and being reborn and vanishing into black holes. He learned that we are all literally made of stardust, from elements and particles that are created in the stellar furnaces before being flung into the cosmos to meet their fate. The Biblical verse had almost gotten it right:  Remember man that you are stardust and unto stardust you shall return. Every molecule of everything that has ever existed is simply in a giant recycling program, just not on a time scale that humans can grasp. The calcium in our bones or the tissue of our muscles may have had many previous lives as a volcanic boulder or a slime mold or a dinosaur or the content of a maggots gut, or all of them. Our bodies on the atomic level do indeed go on, just not as us. Recently he had taken some odd comfort in that. There really was no endgame, we just go on and on in different forms. So then what will it be like after we die? The best explanation he had heard was that it will be just like it was before we were born, a state of non-existence. He decided he could live with that. 

      He reconsidered these things again as he walked along, It was a lovely evening in this splendidly preserved piece of the American Southwest. He also thought about the highlights of his younger life, and the things he had done. He had climbed Kilimanjaro. He had seen Everest, from a distance. He had hiked and boated and trekked to many other of the most astounding places on earth. He had had many loves and many friends and very few real enemies. He had surfed and skied and motorcycled until he wasn’t interested anymore. He had told his stories over the years to anyone who wanted to listen, and many did, until recently. He supposed that to the young people around him now he was just another old windbag snowbird, their eyes drifting off when he began a tale about how it was in the 1960’s. 

     Now, in his mid 70’s with thinning white hair and a limp and  almost constant back pain, he realized that his journey was nearing the end. He was generally content, but he had no children and no siblings left and no family to speak of. His friends from the old days were either dead or had lost contact and  interest in him, he suspected because he continued to be  “Unconventional” long after they had settled in. He had his gypsy friends, they frequently crossed paths in their migrations from park to park throughout the season. He would leave someone a note about what to do with his stuff. His life had been a long and wonderful journey, he figured he had done about everything he had wanted to. What else was there? Old age and decline and some unknown, unpleasant agency in charge of him had no appeal. His body wasn’t used up yet, but it was headed that way. 

     The next morning he rose early and treated himself to a big, overpriced and delicious breakfast at the tourist facility near the park entrance. He drove his sturdy truck out of the park and onto a nearby dirt road that led to a spectacular overlook on Public land. The road ended without warning or markers at a sheer cliff. Locals had named it Thelma and Louise Point, as it was quite possible for the uninformed to simply follow the road right off a 200-foot cliff. It cried out for cautionary signage or a barricade, but as was often the case the Federal Bureau of Land Management could not get around to it, at least not until someone was killed or a lawsuit was filed. It was a magnificent place, the straight walls framing a sweet little trickling stream and some greenery down below amongst the gravel and boulders. He parked his truck and walked to the edge. It was a fine day, swifts or swallows sailed by below him, busy with their affairs. The sky was cloudless, and he could already feel a little warmth from the morning sun, 93 million miles away. As good as it gets, he thought. He would miss this place, he thought, then realized that was impossible. Then he tilted  forward and stepped off the edge. He experienced two or three tor three seconds of exhilaration, a brief moment of terror, an even briefer flash of pain, then it was done. Non-existence. Stardust again.

The Mask by Mike Freeman

 The Mask

By Mike Freeman

My college water polo teammate, Dirk, is very creative. After practice one day, he tells me about his plan to build a full-head mask for Halloween. Intrigued, I ask to join him. He invites me over to his house to develop our creative monstrosities.

He shows me how to build a monster mask that covers my entire head using papier-mâché. I decorate mine with lizard eyes that I can see through. Green scales are a nice flourish. Lumps for ears and a round mouth with a long section of surgical tubing hanging out finish my masterpiece of horror. I paint the papier-mâché head with ghoulish colors. I am going to scare the bajebbers out of small kids!

My amphibious creation is a hit at the team Halloween party. Wearing a full-body wetsuit for extended periods is hot. And my mask muffles my speech. I begin using pantomime to communicate. The long surgical tubing becomes dual-purpose. I can breathe through it if needed. I can place the tube in someone's drink and silently sip whatever is in their glass as they converse with others. I slither from conversation to conversation. Free drinks everywhere! No one notices my dastardly deed. Now, I wish every party a Halloween party!

The following weekend, I gather with my high school friends who are famous for high-adventure, low-judgment activities. They distinguish themselves. Teenstupid is pulsating through their veins and brains.

We determine it is a good idea to roll several bowling balls down a long, steep hill to destroy a fence at the bottom. We plot our scheme.

Where can we get some bowling balls? No one owns one. We can't afford to buy them at a bowling store. We decide to "liberate" them from a bowling alley.

We find a bowling alley near Irvine. How do we "extract" the balls from the bowling alley? We can't just carry them out. We need a significant diversion.

Inspiration hits! I can wear my Halloween mask at the bowling alley for the diversion. It is in the backseat of my station wagon. Driving two cars, we proceed to the bowling alley. We establish a backup rendezvous place to meet if things go askew.

I put on my mask and enter the bowling alley. Immediately, a buzz ripples through the bowling venue.

Children run to me, shouting, "Monster Man, Monster Man!"

I use the pantomime routines I learned at my water polo party to amuse the children. They start screaming for candy. I do not have any.

I look away from the swarm of children surrounding me. My classmates are walking out of the bowling alley with bowling balls. One of them, Tom, takes two at a time.

"Our beautiful plan is working," I think to myself.

Then the trouble starts. Children are getting angry about my lack of candy. Adults are noticing teenagers stealing bowling balls. I am surrounded by children, unable to move or run. My friend, Joe, gets caught before he makes it out the exit door. A herd of adults drags him over to me.

One of the adults turns to a man and says, "Gus, you hold these guys here. We will be back with the others."

The complaining children dissipate. Joe and I stand with Gus. Gus is very elderly and heavily built. I am sure he has not run a quarter mile in three or four decades. Joe is a high school track star in the 100-yard sprint. I am in great water polo shape.

I look at Joe. Joe looks at me. No words necessary. We will sprint away from Gus and the tantruming children to freedom in three seconds.

Gus looks at us. He knows what we are thinking. He can't stop us.

Gus says, "You guys get out of here!"

No further encouragement is required. Joe and I are gone. Sprinting and wearing a full-headed Halloween mask through a bowling alley is a lifelong memory. We make it out to the parking lot.

It is utter chaos. Adults are screaming instructions to each other. None of them is fast enough to catch teenagers carrying bowling balls. Our car drivers calmly exit the parking lot. They have some out-of-breath teenagers holding bowling balls in the backseat. Those of us on foot are on our own.

Several minutes later, we all meet at our backup rendezvous point. We get in our cars and drive to a nearby hill.

The hill is perfect. It features a paved downhill road ending at a four-lane cross street. The road is straight and isolated, with a chain-link fence at the end. Everything is perfect for our scientific experiment.

Scientists Greg and Rick go downhill to the four-lane cross street to ensure there is no cross traffic present when the bowling balls smash into the fence. Joe, Tom, twin brothers Mike and Mark, and I fetch our bowling balls and get ready to roll.

The "no cars coming" signal flashes, sent by Greg and Rick at the bottom of the hill. Many bowling balls are released and rolling downhill. They gather speed. They continue to roll. More speed. More rolling.

Seconds seem to turn into minutes, then hours. The bowling balls continue to roll. I am beginning to feel as if I could time these bowling balls with the calendar. They continue to roll.

All of us are getting nervous. Even our less fully developed teenage brains know this is taking too long.

We hear an engine in the distance. The car travels the four-lane road to the intersection point with the bowling balls. The car gets closer and louder. The bowling balls continue on their downhill path.

"This is going to be close!" we all think.

The car and the bowling balls continue to close.

No one is breathing except the car's driver. He is the only one unaware of the imminent danger.

The car headlights illuminate the road where the bowling balls will hit the fence. We see all of the bowling balls rolling directly in front of the speeding car. They all miss the swift automobile.

There is a huge, palpable sigh of relief from everyone.

Then it happens. The bowling balls bounce back off a sidewalk curb into the street again. The curb protecting the chain-link fence was not seen or integrated into our planning.

There are several thuds as the bowling balls strike the car. The engine growls and dies as the vehicle goes over a ricocheted ball.

Time to panic! The guys at the bottom of the hill start to sprint up to us. The top of the hill gang runs around getting into cars like chickens with their heads cut off. Ready to go, we realize all of the car drivers with their keys are the ones running up the hill towards us. We panic, exit the vehicles, and shout encouragement to our uphill running comrades. Their sprint uphill is long, tedious, and takes too much time.

We get in and out of the cars a few more times before our friends with the ignition keys arrive. We pile in and hit the road.

After driving for a few minutes, we stop to talk. Our actions have damaged a car and possibly injured someone. We decide to drive to the crime scene. Everyone is quiet. As we drive by, we see a man carrying two bowling balls back to his BMW. I can't imagine the insurance report.

Relieved that we only caused property damage, we continue onwards. We still have a few bowling balls left. We drive into a neighborhood and talk again. We decide we have had enough with the bowling balls. We throw them out of our cars in case the police stop us. We drive down the neighborhood street. A few of us look back.

God must be punishing us for our deeds. Lord knows we deserve it. The bowling balls we dumped out of our cars are now rolling downhill behind us. We accelerate to get ahead of them. They are gaining speed as the sidewalk gutters guide them towards us.

I cannot help but appreciate the irony of our dilemma. We get to the end of our road and take a sharp right. A car passes us to turn into the street we just left. Brake lights go on.

We leave the neighborhood not knowing what happened.

Twenty years go by. My high school class is celebrating our reunion. One of my bowling ball schemers, Tom, announces to the crowd that our high school had an unknown bowling team. He asks all of his conspirators to join him on stage. As we gather around him, he tells our bowling story. Then the coup de grâce occurs. He pulls out an article from his local paper in Northern California. The article conveys that some high school kids tried to roll some bowling balls down a hill through a fence. In the article, police say, "It's been 20 years since we've seen anything like this in California."

Hopefully, Teenstupid ideas like this are a once-in-a-generation occurrence and not contagious.

I never wore my amphibious monster mask again.

Well, Men! by Don Taco

                                                    Well, Men!                                                

by Don Taco

  There are three events that qualify as Holiday Turkey Dinners. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. I know that some folks bake a ham, or do uncivilized things like getting a pizza or going out for Asian cuisine, but I have to assume that they just don't know better, and try to forgive them. I come from quite a large family, and, while someone might bring a ham, as 'extra' food, similar to green beans or pie, the heart of the discussion is about how many people are coming and, therefore, how many turkeys will have to be baked. After the carcasses (carcassi?) are stripped clean by the ravenous hordes, soup is made, and when it's about time to stop drinking, the coffee and the soup are ready, and you drive home. Unless it was your turn to host the gathering of the clan, in which case you can just collapse and try not to consider all the things that will have to be cleaned and put away again later. 

  As the big holiday dinner was winding down, my mother would stand up, and declare, (and I choose that word very carefully,) declare, "Well, men! It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my father would stand up and say, "Well, Men! The women cooked us this wonderful dinner, so let's get into the kitchen and get all these dishes washed!" It does represent, in actual fact, a lot of dishes. And my mother was perfectly willing to admit that her father saw himself as the breadwinner, and these occasions were the only time he ever washed any dishes. Times change. 

  And that was the signal for all the men to head for the kitchen, and, willing or not, get busy with the prodigious task of getting all the dishes done. Even as times got more modern, and electric dishwashers became part of the plan, there was a lot to do. 

  And the day came when, as a young 'responsible' adult, I beat my mother to the punch.

  I stood up after the big holiday dinner, before she did, and I declared, "Well, Men!"

  My mother was absolutely beside herself! This was the day she'd always dreamed of. The passing of the torch! The acceptance of responsibility. The new generation honoring the old, and walking in their footsteps.

  Only it didn't go exactly as she hoped or expected.

  I stood up at the end of the big holiday dinner, and declared, "Well, Men! It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my mother would stand up and declare, "Well, Men!  It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my father would stand up and say, "Well, Men! The women cooked us this wonderful dinner, but, since we have to re-wash all the good dishes when we get them out of the cupboard again, let's just scrape them clean and put them away dirty. It'll save a lot of time."

  Gales of laughter. Especially from the men.

  Expostulations and protest from all the female heads of households.

  My mother is chagrined. (Isn't that a great word? How often do you get to use it?) She's been taken, hook, line, and sinker. 

  When the hilarity dies down, the men head for the kitchen, and life goes back to normal. Soup is made, coffee is poured.

  It's just the beginning.

  At the next big holiday dinner, I again stand, and declare, "Well, Men! It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my mother would stand up and declare, "Well, Men!  It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my father would stand up and say, "Well, Men! The women cooked us this wonderful dinner, so let's get in there and break a few of the smaller plates and bowls, so that we're never allowed to touch the good china again."

  Hilarity again ensues.

  This continues, through several other variations on the theme that I just can't recall, to the point where the clan is anticipating me, rather than my mother, towards the end of the meal.

  That's when it really gets good. After one of the big holiday dinners, one of my cousins stands up, and declares, "Well, Men!"

  Everything stops. All eyes on him. Even I am surprised. And, of course, delighted. Tradition is being born.

  "Well, men! It's a tradition in my family that after the big holiday dinner, my cousin stands up and declares, "Well, Men! It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my mother would stand up and declare, "Well, Men!  It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my father would stand up and say, "Well, Men! The women cooked us this wonderful dinner, so..." 

  I wish I could remember all the variations. "Let's just get drunk and watch football instead." "Let's toss them all in the pool and let the chlorine and the filter do the work. We'll dive for then in time for the next dinner." And so on. 

  Now, numerous members of my generation get involved, each putting their own twist on the game. Always funny. Always irreverent. You remember that there are three of these dinners per year. Years have been passing by. And we still always wash the dishes.

  And then one day, one of the youngest clan members stands up from the kid's table (Kid's Table,) and declares, "Well, men!"

  A hush falls over the room. This ought to be good.

  "Well, men! It's a tradition in my family that after the big holiday dinner, one of my uncles stands up and declares, "Well, men! It's a tradition in my family that after the big holiday dinner, my cousin stands up and declares, "Well, Men! It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my mother would stand up and declare, "Well, Men!  It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my father would stand up and say, "Well, Men! The women cooked us this wonderful dinner, so..."

  A virtually unbeatable level of reflexivity has been achieved. And he was funny, too.

  My mother imagined a tradition being carried on. Instead, one was born.

Calm Before The Storm by Don Taco

 Calm Before The Storm

it’s the calm before the storm
the wind holding its breath
as the sun sinks into angry clouds out west
all the fisher folk have put away their nets

stow our oars and furl our sails
mend our nets and tell our tales
count the blessings that the mother ocean sends
for there’s nowhere else to go
when the ocean tells you no
tend your fire, tend your family, tend your friends

here’s a tale my grandpa told
I was probably eight years old
the island’s version of a lovers' plight
it touched me so, I couldn’t sleep that night

now the grey is in my hair
grandpa’s tale is mine to share
to hear or tell it now still makes me weep
some nights I tell it, and I still can’t sleep

now, the ocean gives what she will give
and the ocean takes what she will take
she is wide and rough and vast and cold
and strong and fierce and deep
and the mother ocean keeps what she will keep

she was young, a village child
tender, true, with dreams grown wild
but a lady of the island like the rest
till the ocean laid her hopes and dreams to rest

he, an older village lad
shared with her the dreams he had
he was just as tender, hopeful, just as true
but the ocean calls his tune, there’s work to do

ship the oars, unfurl the sails
cast the nets and cease your tales
thank the ocean when she’s in the mood to share
there’s a lot of work to do
there’s a lot of danger, too
take advantage, take your chances, but take care

show your love each way you can
knit a sweater for your man
from the hard-won wool of barren rocky soil
for it’s no less than the men do the women toil

knit a sweater, light a lamp
proof against the cold and damp
in a pattern used by your village alone
a glance will tell you where a man calls home

raise our oars and praise our sails
bless the breezes, curse the gales
sieze the day if it brings ill or it brings good
for there’s little you can do
when the ocean beckons you
and the sea provides your only livelihood

but among the things you fear
what you hope to never hear
is the news that fortune, like the tides, has turned
the news that all, save one, have safe returned

when you live your life this way
things don’t change much day to day
but some things are more important than the rest
and the ocean took the one that she loved best

now, the ocean gives what she will give
and the ocean takes what she will take
she is wide and rough and vast and cold
and strong and fierce and deep
and the mother ocean keeps what she will keep

when the sea returns a man to you
when she spits him up upon her shore
when the rocks and birds and fish have had their fill
you can only guess his name, try as you will

when you recognize the patterned wool
match it up against the missing souls
if you knitted every stitch by your own hand
while the sea, relentless, slaps against the land

the ocean sends another wave
every stitch by your own hand
the ocean sends another wave
every stitch by your own hand
the ocean sends another wave
every stitch by your own hand
the ocean sends another wave
every stitch by your own hand

help me gather my witnesses
help me gather my friends
help me gather my wits, and face
the day the story ends

End Game by Ricki T Thues

 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.