The Signed Schedule Reached His Lawyer Before His Storage Deadline

By nine that morning, I had spread nine purchase receipts across attorney Nina Bell's desk.

Three were from a retired repairman in Conway. Four came from a closed bowling alley near Pine Bluff. The last two were from an estate sale outside Benton.

The price lines added up to $27,400.

"Paid from what account?" Nina asked.

"My personal savings. Before Tall Pine existed."

I gave her the bank statements. I had marked each payment with a small paper flag.

Nina turned to the equipment schedule.

"Who drafted this?"

"The accountant who helped set up our books. Wade didn't want the company buying the tables until we knew we could pay rent."

She read the two pages twice.

The heading said EQUIPMENT BAILMENT SCHEDULE. Below it were nine names, nine serial numbers, and nine photos. I had signed as owner. Wade had signed for Tall Pine as its manager.

The company could use the tables. It had to insure them and keep them at that address. Title stayed with me. Either side could end the arrangement with seventy-two hours' written notice. No storage fee was due.

"Bailment means they hold your property for an agreed use," Nina said. "It doesn't make them owners."

"I know what we meant. I need to know what I can do."

"Give notice. Preserve proof. Seek court help if he blocks access. You won't cut a lock or load anything over his objection."

"Good. I repair doors badly enough."

She smiled once, then asked about the company itself.

Our operating agreement required both owners to approve borrowing, large transfers, or a sale of major assets. It gave both of us access to the books. It did not let either of us erase the other with a sign.

"Equipment first," Nina said. "Company accounting next. Keep those issues clear."

She sent the notice by the methods our contract allowed. Email went through at 10:14 Friday morning. A courier delivered the paper copy before lunch.

The notice ended the loan after 10:14 Monday and requested a Tuesday pickup with insured movers.

Wade answered in six minutes.

"She's abandoned the business. Those receipts are old."

Nina forwarded the signed schedule and asked him to identify the document that transferred ownership.

He sent no document.

Instead, he posted a photo of Cotton Queen with a handwritten price card: $6,500 CASH TODAY.

I stared at the picture until the bright square of my phone blurred.

Nina took a screenshot, including the time and the web address. Then she called the lawyer whose name Wade had finally supplied.

"There is a specific threat to sell disputed property," she said. "We are asking for immediate protection."

That afternoon, she filed a case in Pulaski County Circuit Court and asked for an order stopping any sale or damage while ownership and access were addressed.

The papers made my stomach hurt. I could tune a flipper in a loud room. Seeing my name above the word plaintiff felt much harder.

Over the weekend, Celia called every registered regional player.

"I'm working on the site," she told them. "Your place is safe. Don't send Wade any new payments."

Her group had collected its own regional entry fees. Tall Pine was to receive a $1,200 site payment after inspection. Celia had wisely held it back.

On Monday morning, Wade's lawyer met us outside a courtroom with a brown folder pressed to his chest.

"My client disputes the larger business issues," he said.

"We have larger business issues," Nina agreed. "Today we need nine machines kept safe."

Wade stood behind him in a clean polo shirt.

"You could have talked to me," he said.

I opened his storage demand on my phone.

"You set a price for talking."

His lawyer asked him to step aside.

Twenty minutes later, we had signed agreed terms. The judge entered an order barring sale or alteration of the listed tables and allowing the insured pickup Tuesday at eight. Final company claims stayed open.

Wade had consented to release the nine listed machines without giving up his other arguments. Nina explained that distinction before I signed.

I read every line anyway.

"Where will you put them?" Wade asked as we left.

"Somewhere dry."

"There's no tournament without this building."

Celia's voice came from the bench by the elevators.

"I found another room."

She held up a community hall's rental agreement. It depended on a power check, insurance, and a floor plan.

I could handle those.

Then the courthouse doors swung open, and a young man hurried toward Wade with a receipt in his hand.

"Are you moving the October youth event too?" he asked. "You took my hundred and eighty dollars yesterday."