Paul Melko - The Walls of the Universe

The next day-a week before Christmas-John spent in the factory. He’d left the device at the apartment, unwilling to have the temptation nearby. Their cash box was empty, save a couple rolls of quarters he had to deposit. He’d swing by the machines later, but with school out he doubted there’d be more than a few dollars’ worth of coins. Having all their machines near campus seemed like having all their eggs in one basket. Sure, it was easy to service the machines and collect coins. But they had saturated the market. And they were at the whim of the local climate: When school was out, they wouldn’t get any traffic at all. Furthermore, they were under the thumb of the Toledo municipality, as seen by the hearing they had with the Department of Gambling Control.

The nibbles from the casino in Las Vegas hadn’t come to anything yet. A company called Typhoon Gold wanted to take a closer look, however; they supplied casinos with games. If Pinball Wizard could get a larger order there, there’d be no complications with local laws. They could ship the machines anywhere.

Working on a machine in gloves and winter coat proved too cumbersome. He moved all the equipment into one of the smaller offices, which had a woodstove in it. The chimney pipe fed through the window. Using cardboard as tender and broken pallets as fuel, both of which the factory had in oversupply, he stoked the woodstove enough so that he could work without a shirt.

The door banged open after noon, and John jumped up from his wiring, startled. He peered around the doorway to see Steve-the high school champion of the first tournament-standing there stamping off a dusting of snow from his feet.

“Hello?”

“Steve, what are you doing here?”

“Grace said I should come over and help.”

“Don’t you have school?”

“No, water main break,” he said with a smile. “I’m here to help. I can solder, I can game test, I can-”

“Can you sweep?”

“What?”

“We have customers coming in three days after Christmas, and this room is a mess.”

Steve’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah, I guess.”

John smiled at him. “Then you can help me with the soldering.”

“All right!”

By evening, they managed to get the room cleaned out, swept, and half-painted with a utilitarian light gray. John realized that Steve had ridden his bike through the slush to get to the factory, so he threw the bike in the trunk of the Trans Am.

“What are those two guys doing?” Steve said.

John saw the black car then, parked in the alley that led to the factory. Two blond men wearing dark glasses sat in the car. John wouldn’t have noticed them if Steve hadn’t said anything, but now that he saw the car, it seemed out of place for the location.

“Watching,” John said.

“Why?”

John had no idea. Maybe they were private detectives hired by Ray Paquelli. Maybe they were innocent bystanders, just waiting. Maybe they were employees of the Department of Gambling Control. No, not in that car.

Suddenly bold, John pulled right next to the car. He stared at the two, but they kept their heads facing straight ahead, as if they didn’t see John and Steve staring.

“Maybe they’re like one of those fake security systems,” Steve said. “You don’t spend the money on the system; you just buy the sign. They couldn’t buy real security teams, so they bought some manikins.”

“But they aren’t manikins,” John said.

Finally he pulled away.

Kyle called the next morning.

“Good news,” he said. “Able Swenson saw no need to close the machines down.”

“So we’re good until the fifth of January?”

“I think so,” Kyle said. “But he did say something interesting.”

“What?”

“He said you had some odd enemies,” Kyle said.

“What does that mean?”

“I dunno, but I assumed he meant he butted some heads with the Department of Treasury. But he wouldn’t say for sure.”

“Maybe Paquelli pulled some strings,” John said.

“Maybe,” Kyle said.

Immediately after, John dialed up Henry and Grace, giving them the summary.

“So both legal items are deferred until next year,” Grace said. She sounded relieved. “Now we can focus on Typhoon Gold.” They’d hinted at an order of one hundred machines.

“Steve and I painted the ‘showroom,’ ” John said with a chuckle. “We’re building three demo models, including another stand-alone one.”

“You and that stand-alone model,” Henry said.

“I’m a purist!”

“Yeah, but everyone likes the head-to-head ones,” Grace said.

“Just because we built that one first,” John grumbled.

“Three demo units,” Henry said. “That should be fine.”

“I’ll be back the week after Christmas,” Grace said. “In time for the Typhoon meeting. I told my parents I wanted to start studying early.”

“Did you even sign up yet for classes next quarter?” John asked.

“I think so. Did you?”

“Uh-huh.” Though John wondered how they would juggle time between Wizards and class.

John drove to the factory afterwards. Unlocking the door, he immediately noticed the drift of snow under the far window. Someone had broken the window. There were tracks in the dirt. Someone had broken into the factory.

John rushed to the showroom. He couldn’t tell if anyone had been there. Steve’s sweeping had left the floor dirtless. The machines were all as John had left them, as far as he could tell.

He returned to the main door and looked up and down the alley. The car with the two men wasn’t there. Could it have been them? He shook his head. It was just kids. Especially in this neighborhood. He found an old piece of plywood and nailed it to the open window frame.

He kept expecting Steve to walk into the factory, but he was alone with the machines and the tools all day. He found himself drifting off into a daydream of Casey, and he shook his head. What was she up to? John wondered. Not that it mattered. She and he were finished.

He sighed and put the wrench down.

He put everything down, locked the factory, and drove to the nearest gas station. From their pay phone he called Casey’s parents’ house in Findlay. Surprisingly, she answered.

“Hello?”

“Uh. Casey.”

“John,” she said. She didn’t sound angry or even interested. Perhaps resigned.

“You free tonight? You wanna see our factory?”

There was a pause. “Yeah, I’m free.”

John Prime had been in police stations before. There’d been the time he’d been arrested for vagrancy. Just the once, but that was amazing given the number of times he’d slept in the open, unable to obtain local currency and too scared to move to the next universe without trying to make a go of it. Then there’d been the time he’d been pulled over in the rental because he’d thought the speed limit signs were in miles per hour instead of kilometers an hour. There’d been a lot of almosts too: the time he’d skipped out just as the treasury agents bashed down the door of his hotel room and the times Casey’s father had called the cops.

This time was different. There was no easy way out. Worse, he’d done it, with no mitigating circumstances. He’d killed a man, and they had him. His only hope was to trust Casey.

“Look at me, Rayburn,” Detective Duderstadt yelled.

Prime continued to stare at the floor.

“You think this is all going away if you ignore it? Is that it?” Duderstadt turned to the one other cop in the room, a uniformed officer, standing by the door with his arms crossed. “He thinks I’m not here. Thinks I don’t exist.”

The other cop said, “Don’t I wish. You haven’t showered in seventy-two.”