The Longest Game is an Occult Pulp Noir serial. To begin at the begin, or find your way around, see the Table of Contents.
Calumn was hyperventilating in an air pocket of fried dough and nicotine.
To his left, the choppy ocean swelled like a threatened animal. To his right, locals and tourists mixed like salad dressing. Salad dressing? Calumn was in a gentle delirium. He had been patted down, his jacket removed and folded beyond reach in the front seat.
The sun had fully emerged now, baking a wet Glimsvale with a plethora of smells to assault Calumn’s senses; a perfect day for migraines.
The squad car showed its age most on the inside, where yellowed foam burst between cigarette-infused pleather seats. The hulking officer, Barnum, sat down behind the wheel and the frame of the entire vehicle sagged low, groaning in protest. Barnum turned a key, and the engine gave him a piece of its mind before starting.
The radio blared. Somewhere out there, a disc jockey had deemed “Bad Moon Rising” the soundtrack for Calumn’s drive to the police station. Don’t go around tonight. Well, it’s bound to take your life. Calumn shivered at CCR’s late omen. Minerva’s just-out-of-sight corpse was still too close, too warm.
The car did a U-turn on the Boardwalk, the uneven planks sending an unwelcome jolt through Calumn’s skeleton. A lump rose unbidden in his throat, be it emotion or a retch. His endurance had run smooth like worn brakes. Calumn’s nerves were frayed. He was exhausted, hungry. Every new sensation brought a wave of nausea.
“Don’t vomit,” he begged of himself.
“You talking to yourself?” Officer Barnum called over the music.
Calumn said something, half-delirious, and forgot it immediately.
“I’m rolling a window down for you, just don’t be jumping out okay?” Barnum watched him through the rear-view mirror, thick black brows furrowed in concern. “It’s not my car,” he added with apology. He turned a dial until the bad moon rose softly.
The road remained a rumble-pad, which Calumn noted with dread they were traveling northbound up the Boardwalk, the ocean at his right hand. Calumn took deep breaths, bargaining with himself to not throw up again. Barnum seemed a decent man, and this car had enough smells as it was. Hitting a bump, Calumn suppressed a belch. He took in his surroundings to distract himself from the ride.
They were approaching the lighthouse that loomed at the edge of the beach horizon. Beyond that, the winding Drink drained into the sea, bisecting the city in half. The farther north they went, the higher the city rose over the Boardwalk, situated on a cliff beyond Calumn’s view. The touristy kitsch had given way to busy docks where bobbed improbable fishing vessels festooned in bright plastic jugs, netting, and sun-faded tin advertisements. The majority of them sported some assortment of a Jolly Rodger. The fishermen, many bringing in their morning haul, looked the sort of folk that would let such colors fly.
A different sort of flag flew at the top of the lighthouse beneath the American banner-- a blue field, emblazoned with a golden anchor within a ring of golden rope. The lighthouse tower itself, an evidently antiquated structure painted white and red, had been encased around by a more modern concrete brutalist affair. The beaches and Boardwalk reached a terminus here, succumbing to a parking lot full of squad cars and a private dock lined with intimidating boats. The complex appeared to occupy both sides of the river, spanned by bridge and lock. Beyond, the cityscape of uptown.
Above the glass doors: PORT AUTHORITY
Port Authority? “Port Authority? Why are we stopping here?”
Barnum pulled into a parking spot and turned off the music just as it was switching to ABBA. He spoke while typing out a quick text with his sausage fingers. “This is your last stop, kid. We need to ask you some questions.”
“No police station?” Calumn imagined someone ominously watching from the tower window high above. Get it together, he commanded himself.
“In this town?” Barnum began to laugh as he climbed out of the car. “Sheriff’s Office might have the paperwork for a fender bender. It’s the lighthouse where the justice gets done.”
Assisted out of the squad car, Calumn took a deep breath of air. The sick evaporated in the bright early sun, though his hunger had only increased. The lighthouse blocked the sun as Barnum escorted Calumn towards the building, and pointed toward Calumn like the long hand of the clock. He either had hours, or minutes.
Barnum kept a light grip on Calumn’s elbow, leading him through two sets of glass doors emblazoned with the seal of the Port Authority-- gold anchor and rope upon a circle of navy. Inside reminded Calumn of a high school foyer: bright-lit rooms leading off in overly-wide hallways full of bronze plaques and newsletters behind glass. Somehow, this made Calumn feel like he was in even more trouble.
“We’re upstairs,” the officer mumbled through his beard, approaching two guards at a set of metal detectors. From somewhere on his mass Barnum unfastened a short, modified shotgun and held it high in one hand. The guards ignored the silent white strobe caused by his passage, and Calumn was led ahead. An open staircase of stone and colored fish scale led to a second story, overlooked by a great painting of a stern, sad-eyed man with long gray hair.
“Why is George Harrison wearing a fisherman's sweater?” asked Calumn blearily.
Barnum chuckled. “Ron Sampson, the Harbormaster. He’s the Boss.” Calumn distinctly heard the word “boss” capitalized with a fearful reverence. The portrait’s frown seemed to deepen as they passed beneath.
Large windows between square pillars of concrete took full advantage of the eastern sunrise, and the coast felt different here than it did by the Boardwalk. Less haunted, Calumn decided. He paused on the landing, half-way to the second foyer for a breath. His legs were trembling, disconnected from his clearing head.
“Almost there,” Barnum assured him. He did much of the work bringing Calumn the rest of the way. “We’ll get you a sandwich, something to drink. Coffee? Coke? Water?”
“All,” said Calumn.
“On the house,” shrugged Barnum. “Stay here.” Left at the top of the second floor, overlooking the entrance, Calumn waited for his captor. This will be fine, he decided. These are bureaucrats, not cops. I called them before I found Minerva. I have an alibi.
Barnum returned, balancing a red can, steaming styrofoam, and a third little plastic cup of water. “Let’s start you with the water, kid.” The officer put the Coke and the coffee on top of a lidded trash can, and brought the water to Calumn’s lips, big crocodile grin. In turn, Calumn ran a calculation.
“Look, uh-- Officer Barnum, right? I need your help. I had nothing to do with this ugly business tonight. But I did get robbed, by Minerva-- the victim-- sometime last night. She took something really important.”
Barnum grabbed the styrofoam cup and the can, glancing toward a nearby door. “Some free advice, little guy. You talk a lot. I believe you, but that doesn’t mean you should be saying squat to me. To any of us. Maybe lawyer up?”
“Ah.” The thought of lawyers made Calumn’s head spin. “You believe me because you’re the Good Cop, aren’t you.”
Barnum scrunched his features like he remembered a bad smell. “You haven’t met the Good Cop yet. Careful with that one. Right inside.” His hands full, he knocked on a closed door with his foot.
“Come on in,” chirped a man’s voice happily on the other end. Good Cop.
Barnum maneuvered the door handle with his hands full, and Calumn saw a large, mostly empty room beyond. There was a desk, two chairs on one end and a single chair on the other. Oh God, Calumn realized. They’re going to interrogate me. The windows in the back of the room had their curtains drawn, overlooking the front entrance to the west.
Lounging in one of the far chairs was a man, his feet up on the desk. His tie and badge confirmed he was another detective, and everything about him screamed “Vaudeville hobo.” The man’s hair hadn’t been washed in at least a week, his white shirt had yellowed, and on the desk, Calumn could see a blue sock through an actual hole in his leather shoe. Eyeing, he caught a red flash. The detective wore an ankle monitor.
“Barnum, it always warms my heart to see you.” The man’s eyes gleamed with nostalgia, resting his hands behind his head. A muscled forearm flexed above a rolled shirt sleeve, partially revealing a faded tattoo. The pit stains were nearly orange.
“Eat shit, Sylvester,” said Branum as he removed Calumn’s handcuffs. “Wait for Ortega. She’s right behind me.” Sylvester, Calumn committed to memory. Cartoon villain on hard times.
“Wouldn’t dream of starting without her.” A quick wan smile, followed by a wide, white grin at Calumn. Sylvester brought his feet down to the floor and leaned forward, like he was going to tell a secret, or pounce. “We can get acquainted though, can’t we? You’re Calumn. Calumn…” he glanced at a tablet. “Quothe? Ah, like--”
“Like the raven,” Calumn sang on command, staring at the floor.1
Sylvester scratched the stubble on his chin. He checked the tablet again, and gave Barnum a beaming smile. “Does my colleague have anything better to do than play stand-in for the door?”
Barnum seemed reluctant to leave, but relented with a sigh. “We got some of the footage from ‘Argh-cade’ across the way from Borja’s--”
“I knew it well, in my days of freedom,” Sylvester nodded his head solemnly.
“I’ll give it a review and let you know what we get.”
Sylvester rapped twice on the desk. “Bully! Bully.” He flashed another winning smile, until the officer lumbered away. “Gentle soul, if there ever was one. Protector of the small, champion of uh--” he scratched the irritated spot on his cheek. “Alright he’s gone. Jesus. Alrighty, Quothe. You and me.”
“I’m glad you’re getting the footage,” Calumn offered. “You can get whoever was behind all this.”
“That’s what we aim to do,” Sylvester put an austere hand over his heart before a wet sniffle. “Now, you’re not under arrest, okay?”
“No?” Calumn quoted with incredulity.
You’re our number one witness-- you found the body didn’t you?”
“I’m a… witness?” Calumn repeated.
Sylvester blinked, like he was absorbing Calumn’s simplicity. “That’s what someone who found the body is, kid.”
“I’m thirty, why do people keep calling me kid? I’m thirty!”
“It’s that caterpillar on your face,” Sylvester winced. “You look like a toddler wearing Groucho Marx glasses. Hold on, are you though? Take your glasses off for me.”
Calumn obliged, blinking at the sudden filmy blur enveloping his world. To his surprise, Sylvester’s tattoo appeared more clearly, something like a wheel, though his hands were constantly moving, grand dramatic gestures.
“Back on, put them back on please. You look like a cartoon without them. Little black buttons. Okay so you chose to grow that out. Fascinating. So why’s there blood on your shirt?”
“It’s wine,” Calumn argued, noting the tattoo had faded again. Like his eyes would not focus.
“You were drinking? Night of?”
“Barely,” Calumn shrugged. “Minerva spilled my drink on me. I think while I was cleaning my shirt she stole my-- she stole from me.” He heard the march of angry heels approaching the door.
“Dear Mister Quothe,” Ortega read from the note as she let herself in. From his seat, he could see the short detective had not one but two guns holstered beneath her arms, silvery cowboy affairs. Who are these people? She read through the note Calumn was now hearing for his seventh time. “Don’t bother searching your pockets one more time-- your… Archer? Is safe with me… safe and sound… Meet me… Prove I’m not crazy… Boardwalk… Walebone and Solace… Ex-Oh, Ex-Oh, Minerva. Signed with lipstick.”
“I told you, she robbed me!”
“Not far from where her body was found,” Sylvester noted thoughtfully, watching the fluorescent lights above. “Sounds like motive and opportunity if I ever heard it.”
Ah. Calumn’s heart began to beat faster. Barnum’s warning was beginning to make more sense. “Motive? Excuse me-- I found Minerva in a circle of blood. Dead animals! Ritual stuff thrown around! Whatever game she was caught up in, I wasn’t playing.”
“Games,” Ortega mused as she sat next to Sylvester, tossing a business card across the table. “Antique game restoration and research specialist. Your name. She had this in her purse. When did you give her the card?”
“I didn’t,” Calumn protested. “I never even made business cards. I work by appointment only, I seek the clients.”
Sylvester scratched his raw pink jaw. White flakes tumbled to the desk. “You sought out Minerva?”
“No, somehow she found me. Called me with a lead regarding the Archer-- little wooden chessman. It means a lot to me.” Petit-enfant.
“That’s what she stole, isn’t it?” Ortega asked.
Sylvester stood and paced to the window, pulling the blinds apart to look outside. At this angle, Calumn could see he’d drawn blood with the scratching. “When she spilled your wine. How did she know to call you about your… Archer? If you’d never been in prior contact.”
“That’s actually a good question,” Calumn realized. Just who had Minerva been? She’d mentioned an associate, something about a midway. “Look, once I met her I realized it was a mistake. She kept carrying on about magic--”2
“Carmen, come look at this,” Sylvester said, beckoning her to the window, bewildered.
Ortega went to the window and her jaw dropped. “Is that--”
Sylvester broke into a wide smile. “Yup.”
Ortega guffawed, breaking the entire no-nonsense persona Calumn had invented for her. “Oh my god, what is she wearing! Her dad’s gonna flip-- what even is that?”
“SWAT uniform from Spirit Halloween?”
They both laughed. Calumn swallowed, flushing the tale of magic wishes and tragic meetings down his throat. Evidently having lost interest in their witness, they chuckled watching someone approach the Port Authority headquarters. He raised his hands wide in a disbelieving shrug, causing him to remember-- the handcuffs were off.
Ankle Monitor said I wasn’t under arrest, Calumn mused. So technically…
Calumn was not so sure of his rights that he would ever assert them to an officer’s face, but he was certainly not above walking out the door while they seemed otherwise occupied. I’m a witness, is all. He was in the hall and took a left to the wide stair, picking up the pace. “This witness just has places to be,” he reassured himself. “No thank you. Thanks but no thanks. No comment at this time, I couldn’t possibly--”
Ortega’s heels echoed through the open chamber, placing her at the stop of the stair. “Where do you think you’re going?” she called. Sylvester leaned at the top landing, amused, while Ortega slowly began her descent.
Calumn pretended not to notice. He continued his litany of excuses, louder for Ortega’s benefit. “I’m just a witness! No thank you! Places to be!”
“Just a witness? Who on earth told you that?” She shouted for the guards below, “Stop that man!”
Calumn saw the guards were positioned by the metal detectors to the left, while a partitioned door to his right giving an unimpeded exit. If they heard Ortega, they had other priorities.
“Yo, is that--” “It is! What the fuck, I’m taking a picture of this--” “Make sure your phone is on silent, or her daddy’s gonna-- oh hey, miss!” In the skirmish of commotion, the two uniformed guards where oblivious to Calumn’s tip-toing. He could see beyond the double glass doors Glimsvale had suddenly turned gloomy, the optimistic morning obscured by gray clouds. He would be glad to be caught in the pending downpour if it meant freedom. Calumn broke into an outright run.
“I said stop that man!” Ortega was closing the distance.
“No thank you!” Calumn pulled frazzled lost tourist from his repertoire, watching the armed and angry woman closing the gap between them. “Just leaving now, nothankyou nothankyou--”
Someone unseen grabbed the collar of his sweater and slammed Calumn into the concrete wall. He gasped for air, something popping in his shoulder as his toes dangled above the floor. He sputtered for words, gagged by the wall. Above, the portrait of the Harbormaster frowned.
The hand that held him pulled Calumn another few inches higher. He heard a husky, feminine voice say sweetly into his ear: “You’re under arrest, for murder.”
You may continue reading to Chapter 4: Rub Jailbird Neko’s Nose For Luck, or navigate the Table of Contents.
Calumn typically spat a sing-song C-D-D#-C, though Grandpa Georges invariably tolled his as a deus ire F-E-F-D. Calumn’s variance was not intentional, but the product of a poorly filed memory. He would first have to endure enough years of schooling for his classmates to tackle the lesser works of Poe deemed worthy of a middle-school reading level before they found his name noteworthy. And then-- “Quothe, you mean like the raven?”-- once, once, was all it took, and his grandfather’s salutary shield rose from beyond the grave to Calumn’s defense. The notes had corrupted, but then again, that’s what time in the grave will do.
“What is this place,” demanded the warlock. The Byzantine’s table had apparated inside a sterile bright room with a shiny white floor colored with orange and purple flecks of fish scale. The window blinds were mostly closed, though he could hear sounds below, talking in a room to his right. The Byzantine stood erect, mechanisms chittering as it pulled from the folds of its tattered robe an ornate box. Its fabric face, devoid of features, revealed nothing.
The warlock was uncomfortable in places such as this, calling to memory darker days in brighter places. “Take us from here,” demanded the warlock. “Play your turn here if you must, demon, but do so quickly.”
The Byzantine opened the box in smooth articulations of its fingers. Within were the remnants of a shattered marble and the loose teeth that once broke it apart. The warlock probed his mouth with his tongue, feeling his right cheek between missing teeth like jail bars. He had no memory of this, felt no remnant pain, but he knew the Byzantine had a way of taking from those who played.
A fiesta-pattern marble, shot through with tendrils of orange, yellow and blue, still remained half intact.
The warlock balked. “I win next turn, Byz. I take my prize. We part our ways. Now you’re just flailing-- stalling.”
The Byzantine placed the marble on the board. Plink!
The table was gone.