The Regional Opened Under My Name At The Replacement Hall

On Saturday morning, the first player through the hall door asked where to find the cleaning woman.

I looked up from checking a flipper fuse.

He held out a folded tournament program.

"I want her to sign this," he said.

I laughed before I could help it.

"Please don't make that my new job title."

"Fair point. Where's the technician?"

"Right here."

Celia had printed my name on the front: TECHNICAL FLOOR DIRECTOR, TESSA WHITFIELD. She had also printed the name of every scorekeeper and volunteer. Nobody's work was hidden in small type.

Seventy-two players checked in. The coffee smelled burned. Rain ticked against the windows. Across the room, Cotton Queen waited with her lights bright and her relay quiet.

I had slept four hours.

For the first time all week, I didn't feel tired.

Celia gathered everyone before play.

"Your regional fees stayed with our tournament group," she said. "They paid for this event. Any other Tall Pine event needs its own answers. We have a contact sheet at the desk."

She gave facts, a phone number, and no speech about Wade.

That mattered. Several players had bought his future packages. They deserved a good day without having to pretend their missing money didn't hurt.

A woman from Helena asked whether she should keep the receipt in her purse.

"Keep the original safe," Celia told her. "Make a copy for the person handling your complaint."

"I feel silly. He sounded so sure."

"He had a printed flyer and a payment link. You were allowed to expect what you paid for."

The woman nodded and went to find her first table. Celia watched until she had somewhere to stand.

Eric brought his daughter, June, to watch. She carried a notebook full of ball paths drawn in pencil.

"She still wanted to come," he told me.

June pointed toward Cotton Queen.

"Is that the one you saved?"

"She's the one whose relay I replaced."

"Can I see the old part?"

I took it from my tool bag and let her study it with the power safely far away.

"Those contacts got rough," I said. "So it couldn't hold cleanly."

"How did you know?"

"It had a bad beat."

I tapped it out on the table. Two clicks, a drag, then three.

June copied the pattern in her notebook.

At eleven, Wade arrived wearing his Tall Pine polo. He carried a cardboard stand with a large square payment code taped to it.

Celia met him by the door.

"What's that for?" she asked.

"Saving the winter events. Different room. Lower cost."

"Are you taking money?"

"Just expressions of interest."

Below the code, the stand said RESERVE NOW: $180.

Celia looked at him until he turned the sign toward his leg.

The hall manager joined her. I walked over with my folder.

"We have an order about new fees," I said quietly.

"Don't wave papers at me."

I didn't wave anything. I opened the folder on the check-in table and pointed to the paragraph he had signed the day before.

The manager read it. Then he told Wade he could not sell anything in the hall.

"I'm an owner of the arcade," Wade said.

"You haven't rented this room," the manager answered.

Three players stopped nearby. One asked Wade when refunds would begin.

"Ask Tessa," he said. "She's got all the equipment."

My mouth went dry. I took the brass washer from my pocket.

Tap, tap. A pause.

Then I set my equipment schedule on the table beside the order.

"I own nine machines," I said. "Here are the serial numbers, the purchase records, and the agreement that let Tall Pine use them. Your entry payments are a separate account. Ruth Ives is tracing them."

The player bent to read Wade's signature.

"You signed this?" he asked.

Wade put the cardboard stand under his arm.

"You people have no idea what it takes to keep a business alive."

"My receipt says meals included," the player said. "I'd settle for my money."

The manager asked Wade to leave. He did, after telling me his lawyer would call.

No one clapped. A scorekeeper called the next round, and people returned to their games.

That was better than applause.

Late in the final, a ball stuck beneath a wire ramp. I stopped play, noted the ball position, and cleared it under Celia's rules. Both players watched. Both signed the score sheet.

A small problem, handled in the open.

The regional finished twenty minutes late. Every prize was paid. Celia paid my $900 floor fee and the $1,200 equipment rental we had agreed on in writing. Her group covered the hall separately.

After cleanup, I sat on the loading dock and ate a cold sandwich.

Nina called.

"A detective left his card at my office," she said. "Several customers filed complaints. He wants the original records."