Authors: David Grand
Before I know it, the audio of the television cuts off, Mr. Bender dissolves, and the television fades to blue. With that, an image of the skyscraper eclipsing the setting sun returns to the screen, and the screen turns black. I look into the void, staring at the pale glimmer of my distorted reflection.
Mr. Beeles opens the door.
“Let me show you the way out, Mr. Louse,” he says.
“Yes, thank you.”
I get up from my seat and walk out into the hall feeling disoriented.
Mr. Beeles closes the door behind me.
“I hope you found that informative.”
“Yes, very.”
“See you tomorrow. Same time.”
“Yes,” I say. “Tomorrow.”
Mr. Beeles walks me past the wall of television monitors. He opens the entrance and deposits me into the hall.
“Until tomorrow, then.”
“Until tomorrow.”
WRITTEN CONFESSION OF MORTIMER BLANK -/-/- 3:49:57 A.M.:
Where do I begin? I turned away from my wife as she softly said things and cried things and asked me questions I couldn't answer. Some hours later, I found myself driving on the interstate away from her. I trailed in the wake of a semi that rocked my small car back and forth. I was shaken far into the middle of the night until I reached the outskirts of the City of R. where I came across a flashing neon sign for the Queen of Spades Motel. The parking lot was empty. It was lit by the Queen's sad yellow eyes and the rest of her royal vestiges. Her red robe was faded pink, her golden tiara flickered like a dusty tin can, and the neon surrounding the spades in the corners had escaped, turning the inverted black hearts into large black holes. The letters T E QU E O S ADE M T L pulsated one word after the other into the sky and onto the barren landscape.
. . .
A nicely shaped woman in a strapless red velvet dress walked across the parking lot. The neon lights shimmered off the velvet and the sheen of her blond hair. She held heels in her hands and walked barefoot across the asphalt. Her figure became darkened and then disappeared when she swung open the door to the casino. The casino was a one-story shoe-box-of-a-building with a boulder facade framing green plate glass windows. The light from inside cast a green glow onto the parking lot and onto the dust and moths that hovered around a large wagon wheel hanging over the front entrance. The wheel silently rocked back and forth in the night's gentle breeze.
I parked my car. When I reached the casino's entrance, a few figures in cowboy hats shadowed past the window and I could hear, “Let's get some reeeed roses / For a / Bluuuue lady⦔ I stepped inside to find a feeble place with tattered brown carpeting and faded green craps and roulette tables run by a couple of old sleepy-looking men. The woman in the red strapless dress sat on a stool in front of a row of slot machines. She wasn't playing. She was just staring at a stained glass mosaic of horses grazing beside a generic wagon train. For the most part, the bulbs backlighting the glass panels had burnt out, and where they hadn't, around the tails of the horses and the heads of the wagoneers, gnats and moths circled. I sat down next to the woman, reached into my pocket, and held out a dollar coin. “Go ahead,” I said. She turned her head and looked me over, as I did her. She had put her shoes back on and was gently scratching
her heel with the point of her toe. As she looked at me she bit at her lower lip. “You broke?” she asked. I looked into her eyes, which were a translucent blue and full of curiosity. “Yeah,” I said, feeling as tattered as the carpeting at my feet. “Me, too,” she said. She smiled and nonchalantly slipped the dollar into the slot. She graciously offered the handle to me with her arm extended and fingers splayed. I pulled the handle down and let it go. Together we watched the wheels quickly and then slowly turn and turn until they clicked into place. To my astonishment each wheel stopped on 7. For the longest time, the machine sounded with bells and clinks of metal. A few of the cowboys came by with “gosh darns” and “god damns” and left before the machine paid out. She and I sat there silently, both of us stuck within our own thoughts. When the machine finally spit out its last dollar, we just stared at all the silver coins, and stared some more. And then we looked each other over again. “Would you like to take a ride with me?” I asked. “I know where to go,” she said. “So do I,” I said. “G.?” she asked. “How did you know?” I replied.
It turned out the two of us had received the same brochure on the same day the week before. We got in my car and drove through the City of R. We drove onto the interstate through the long desert valley and at around dawn we exited onto a narrow road leading to G. When we arrived, we parked the car in the vast lot circling the tower and immediately went to the roulette tables. We and thousands of others stood under the giant chandeliers at the center of
the casino where dozens of silver balls simultaneously spun on their tracks. Everything we played for hours on end came easily to us. We played until one of the hosts approached us and offered us a complimentary suite in the VIP wing. We took it, showered, had a nice mealâwe did all the things you're supposed to do when you win. When we woke up, we got dressed and went directly to the blackjack table. As these things so often work out, however, our mood had changed, the way we looked at each other had changed. It was apparent to the both of us that together, for the time being, we were losers. Recognizing this, we amiably parted company and continued on alone. I don't know what became of her. All I know is that shortly thereafter all my money, with the exception of a few hundred dollars I still had left on my wife's credit card, was stacked up and lost. At this point, however, something extraordinary occurred. A man in a gray flannel suit approached me and took me aside. His name was Quarry. He said he had been watching me play the day before and he told me that his luck was down. He asked if I'd play with his money if he offered me a share. “Of course,” I said. He handed over a tray of chips and we journeyed forth into the gambler's tale of the up and down suspense variety, with one exception: As I stood there losing Quarry's money, Quarry didn't really care. In fact, he seemed to take pleasure in my losing his money. I'd look over my shoulder, and there he was with an innocuous grin on his face without one crooked line suggesting the slightest bit of regret or malice, nothing. He didn't even watch what bets I put down. Yet, at the same time, I could feel a
host of eyes observing my actions. And with that, I was able to catch myself long enough to give Quarry back his money and move toward the front door to the cashier, where I took out the cash advance on my wife's credit card. Quarry was perfectly satisfied with my decision and let me go, except he started following me from table to table placing the same bets I placed. This went on for several hours until I lost everything again. Quarry continued to reach into his pockets and pulled out chips, offering them to me. It was at this point I realized that he started resemblingâ¦I don't know what to call it. He had the confident gestures of a benevolent benefactor but he didn't seem to be acting out his own will. This scared me, and suddenly I felt guilty and longed for the comfort of my family. I said good-bye and thanks to Quarry for the opportunity and walked away from him, getting as far as the slot machines at the front entrance. I shadowed him from across the room, and then he saw me. There was no space-age beaming, just a glare in his eyes. I felt a preternatural force pull my body and lift it off the ground, dragging it toward him like the deadened flesh of a zombie. I took the chips rising up from his palms and he wished me good fortune from the innermost recesses of what I perceived as goodness. I thanked Quarry with a tone of gratitude and an inward-looking eye staring down my detestable nature. Together we walked to the craps table, and with Quarry's hand on my shoulder I started placing bets.
I walk back through the hall, pass Mr. Artaud's studio, thinking of that moment in my new memory when I reach out to touch Ms. Lonesome's face. She, like the others, has fear in her eyes, and I can feel myself afraid as well. I remember us trying to find our way out, after searching for a door; the door was supposed to lead us to someone who was going to transport us away or to some form of transportation we could use to escape. We were escaping. I remember them saying to me, and I saying to them, that we should devise a plan and hide if we can, somewhere within, but as we sat and discussed this it was too late. We heard the sound of shoes echoing through the metallic halls. There were many feet approaching quickly from all directions. And before we knew it, Mr. Bender and Mr. Godmeyer and their men began pulling us away one by one.
I exit the hall in front of Accounting. The hall is bustling as the staff changes over to the morning shift. I check my watch. It is six o'clock. The swing shift accountants walk in pairs to the elevator bank as the morning accountants walk past them. Low murmurs of “Good Morning” vibrate off the glass panels that border the hall. I stand up against the glass, waiting for the throng to dissipate before
I attempt to make my way to the elevator. I stand before a huddle of three as they intermingle, exchanging the morning news.
“They're saying the Executive Controlling Partner is dying.”
“He's been implicated as well, you know.”
“It's to be expected now that he's on his way out.”
“All those who die are always implicated.”
“He would have it no other way.”
“They're saying that he's the one behind Moorcraft and Blank.”
“No, that's old news, the new news is that he is Moorcraft.”
“No, that was false news. They are saying that Moorcraft never existed. He was invented by Blank.”
“That is new news.”
“He was a fiction to test the wills of those involved.”
“Which makes Blankâ¦Moorcraft?”
“Yes.”
“Who else could it have been?”
“He did a very good job.”
“The best.”
“In any case, G. is saved from destruction. The bombs have been dismantled.”
“It is therefore the best form of news.”
“Without a doubt.”
“The Executive will go down in the best possible light.”
“He will never hear a bad word to make him turn in the grave.”
“He's a stalwart.”
“A man of the people.”
“Well deserving of a burial in Paradise.”
“I hope to visit him there one day.”
“My greatest aspiration.”
“They're expecting the lottery as early as noon.”
“That means there's going to be a drawing.”
“What a thrill it would be to visit him wearing his own epaulets.”
“It will be the first drawing ever.”
“Very exciting.”
“Exciting indeed.”
“Thrilling, in fact.”
“I don't know what I would do if I won.”
“I wonder what happens to the winner.”
“It must be good.”
“It must be great.”
“It must be better.”
“Why else would they go through with it?”
“Because it's the best system in the world.”
“None better.”
“Indeed. The most civilized.”
“Thank God we're trustees.”
“The chances aren't so bad.”
“The percentages are in our favor.”
“I'll be thinking of your good fortune.”
“And I, yours.”
“Same here.”
“Good fortune.”
“Good fortune.”
“Good fortune.”
And the huddle breaks up. Two walk away. One walks in. I stand alone, feeling an awkward and sincere melancholy at the news
of Poppy's impending death, but now am confused as to why I feel this way. And who is making this news of Moorcraft not existing, that he's Poppy, that he's Blank? If not by the name of Moorcraft, he most definitely exists. How could Dr. Barnum and Mr. Sherwood be so horribly mistaken?
“Mr. Louse?” I hear behind me.
I turn around. A midget with fat hands and an oversized forehead stands, half in, half out a door.
“Yes?” I ask, recognizing his face from my memory. I remember searching a stairwell and a number of corridors with him as we tried to find a way to escape from Bender and Godmeyer.
“Ah, what good fortune,” he says in a surprisingly deep voice. It is the voice of a large man. “Such good fortune. I was told you would be down here.”
I approach him as the accountants continue to pass and take their seats, face their computer screens, rest their hands on their keyboards. I notice, to my surprise, that many of the faces, like this midget's, are familiar to me. And all of a sudden I feel as though everything of my past is catching up to me at once, whether I want it to or not.
“Lumpit,” the dwarf says, holding out his small hand. “Walter Lumpit. I was told you were on your way out. And here you are.”
He smiles as I shake his little hand. His fat cheeks bulge and quiver.
“Good morning, Mr. Lumpit. What can I do for you?” I ask appropriately, knowing full well that I am following through with whatever destiny holds. I follow Mr. Lumpit toward his office, between the glass walls that comprise the other offices, where every so often I notice an accountant passed out cold on top of his or her
desk. Mr. Lumpit doesn't pay it any mind; therefore I don't either, not feeling safe to assume anything and feeling sympathetic to their dilemma, being recently guilty of this negligence myself.
“I understand congratulations are in order,” says Mr. Lumpit as he steps toward his desk.
“Yes. I imagine so.” Mr. Lumpit is strangely calm for a man who is one of the accused. Unless he is no longer accused. Perhaps his status has changed?
“Congratulations then.”