THE COLLECTORS UNDERGROUND

Version 2.6

Mike W McCoy

10/9/2018

<>4<>  Axiom of Choice

I can’t remember the actual moment.  I only recall watching of the light gray sec-cam footage of me riding inside the main elevator of Mr. Big$$’ oversized mansion.  I just stood there, like a smudge of anger amid the grunts of pain and piss.  While my heartbeat dripped onto the brushed-steel floor I looked up and me eyes glared daggers directly into the lens.

I didn’t move.  Couldn’t, wouldn’t, it doesn’t matter which.  I did feel Mr. Death laughing behind me like it was all some damn big joke, and I was the only sap who didn’t get the punch line.

“Laugh it up wise guy.”  The audio told me, but I can’t say for sure who actually said that.

So what if it was me who drew first blood?  I was dealt into the game, I hadn’t asked to join.  A full price E-ticket was paid for by my stolen coat, the VIP tour.  That opening piss-ant pulchritude was just the appetizer.  I hardly broke a sweat, just maybe a bone or three.  And predictably, this ride did include the not-so-happy-ending. 

The aged metal doors scraped open to frame the historic stained glass beyond the deep church pattern of bookshelves and PVC drapes instead of pews.  Massive exposed air ducts were bolted fashionably above the crystal chandeliers that marched down the long main lobby of the castle.  Dull colors and odd shapes polluted my vision with mixed images of elegance filling in around the edges like a hoarding obsessed old man’s mental illness.

The shadow draped in-between spaces seemed stacked tight with famous canvases, media memorabilia, and miscellaneous big things.  Treasures of almost anything and everything collectable were spread out to form a carpet of expensive clutter across the entire wing of the mansion.  I only had a moment of flashing on the tall shelves end-capped by glass cases filled with gold, comics, and crap.

“Sir.”  The voice I hated started from behind me.  My eyes hesitated at switching from the visual overload of the confined cluster-phobic collection to the speaker. 

“Sir, please,” it repeated.

“Um, what?” I snapped back with just slight bite of aggression.

The voice of the speaker and the images from my imagination did not match.  Instead of a skinny weakling, I looked at a muscular Oriental stuffed inside an ill-fitting yellow pinstriped suit.  His face wore a sneer of contempt and his gloved hand offered me a white handkerchief. 

“Swell,” I said, and began to wrap the silk around by bloodied fist.  “Sorry about the mess.” 

At my words, he noted the unresponsive men through the doorway, and how the bald thug’s broken arm propped the door open.  He pretended not to notice, but I saw.

“Understandable sir,” he said in a way with more than two meanings.  Then his smirk went crooked.  “But as you have arrived unscheduled.”

I pretended back, ignoring his weight shift into a close combat stance.  What a fool, I was still at idle speed, and my hand hurt.

“Would you please follow me?”

“Sure,” showing my bronze badge pinned above Miss Rebecca.  “I’m homicide special detective Bruce Thorn.”

“Oh course you are sir.”  His eyes indicated the discreet sec-cams on the wall.  “We have your Ident.” 

Falling instep we slithered down a secondary isle stacked with stale smelling items of only a half identifiable nature.

“Tell me,” I grunted rubbing my bruised jaw, unknowingly leaving a small smudge of rent-a-henchman’s blood.  “Who runs security?”

“That would be Mr. Luk, sir,” he answered, then turned left into a narrow side hallway.

“Mr. Luk?  Don’t know him.  Nice guy or a prick?”

“Neither sir, but I only do the occasional odd job.  I don’t work for the House.”

“Ao that explains it,” I left the statement with a stink of the graveyard voice.  I was fishing, but he wasn’t biting.

The wall’s door was of a modern ship’s bulkhead design, thick and pressurized, no label, just a few Chinese characters I didn’t know.

“That’s some office door.”

“Yes sir.”  The smile was not for me.

The portal swung open smoothly.  “Big, like a bank vault.”

“I will leave you with Mr. Luk.”  His smirk said it just loud enough above of the strong voice spitting out words in a language I had never heard before. 

Mr. Yellow Pinstripe’s attention was aimed at the tall lizard shaped dark skinned man sitting at the ornate antique French desk.  Behind it, a 3D glass wall displayed a dozen or more sec-cam feeds, including the docked police craft, and the stalled Wonkavator door.

I’m thinking now that the room’s lighting seemed all wrong.  It should have been dark and shadow filled with overlays of suspicion, instead of the strong sterile antiseptic apoplexy brightness that flooded the low ceiling room from the floor up.  It took me a moment to realize the intentional underpinnings of the setup, and I didn’t like it.  Not one damn bit.

“L.A. homicide, I’m here to question Mr. Steve Big$$.”

 “I understand.”  The way he said it felt slippery, just like the way he moved. 

His suit was a creamy yellow with thin black pinstripes about an inch apart running from a wide collar to high hemmed cuffs over dark black athletic shoes that showcased white laces with Chinese prayer-spells written on them. 

He stood facing me, and our eyes were at about the same level, but our minds were miles apart.  In the background, a sour silence settled slowly across the floor leaving a soundtrack that was only for Men who have killed Men.

“You may call me Victor Luk,” he added, breaking the scene on a cross-step forward.  The words slipped out with a cool-confidence, just like his Kung Fu stance. 

“I am the Man-at-Arms for Mr. Big$$.  I will be your shadow during our audience.”

“My shadow huh?” I murmured back while glancing at the sec-cam feed of the stalled elevator doors and crumbled men.  “Sure you want to do that?”

“It is the only way,” he insisted with a slight bow and a glair towards my bandaged hand.  “Now follow me.”

The physical pain was just starting to become annoying when we finally stopped at another identical looking metal door.  Mr. Luk found an armored keypad, and with a hiss of reverse pressure the door slid back.  Looking like a Mr. Roark knockoff, the man strutted as if he owned everything.  It was so annoying when we both knew the lie.

The room beyond imaged as a chaotic apartment, but with cool closets.  In real estate speak it was big enough for 30 people to comfortably outlive the Apocalypse.  It forcibly featured tall thin windows that offered a stunning ocean view.  But I saw nothing but a maddening deep blue sea.

The master of the castle stood at the kitchen counter wrestling with some kind of antique looking hot air popcorn machine.  Handfuls of spilled un-popped kernels were scattered across the dull gray granite countertop and black and white checkerboard linoleum floor.  His white latex gloved hands worked franticly filling up a little plastic tray on the machine. 

“Sir,” Victor said quietly with a bow.  Mr. Big$$ didn’t respond, and I studied my first imprints of this mega-mega-billionaire.

At a quick glance he was a harmless post-handsome and soft 100 year old nerd.  Beer-bottle thick glasses magnified his red rimmed drooping eyes below a brittle clump of unkempt short white hair.  Thick lips and a strong jaw line seemed to move constantly with obsessive compulsive mutterings barely loud enough to qualify as sounds.  A clear stiff PVC plastic lab coat hung loosely over a stained white T-shirt displaying a forgotten beer company logo of a dog in sunglasses.  Sweat stained brown leather suspenders held up darker brown slacks over a pair of black diabetic slippers.

Suddenly, the machine started working, and the pop pop pop of exploding kernels sounded like a machine gun behind the happy-happy joy-joy giggles of the fat man in the plastic tutu.  I watched that excited weird recluse, and saw through the outer layers of his mental illness.  I could almost catch an indication of the core genius that created a business empire.

“It works!  It works,” he exclaimed excitedly and scooped up a handful cooked kernels and flung them our way.

I couldn’t help myself.  “You like popcorn?” 

“What?” his eyes asked apparently seeing me for the first time.  “Popcorn?  No, hate the stuff.”

“But-”

“The machine!  The machine works!  Don’t you see?  This is the exact model used in the 1979 movie,” his words flew with an infectious haste of a child.

Victor Luk stepped over the thought, ‘Saving Face’ for both of us.  “Mr. Big$$, sir.  This is police detective Bruce Thorn.”

“Detective?”  The sound was slow and confused.

“This is about your nephew, Omar B.  Isn’t that correct?”  The last bit was directed at me and it didn’t sound like a question.

The machine went pop pop pop a split moment longer before tapering off to single intermittent gun shots.  I considered it a countdown and started my interview with the typical questions.

“Mr. Big$$, my sympathies for you loss.  Did you know your nephew well?”

By way of answering, the fat man appeared to shrink into himself, as if the question was an unconsidered paradigm.  He turned off the machine, and toyed with some spilled kernels.  The smell of burned popcorn invaded our space.

“Did he gamble?” I tried.  “Have any debts?  Any problems like that?”

Abandoning the machine, Mr. Big$$ turned to face me, but his eyes didn’t meet mine.  “Omar?  Omar is my nephew.  Have you seen him?”

“Sir,” I felt bad having to say it.  “Omar is dead.”

“No.”  Then taking a step towards me. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” I recalled the brain and blood Pollock painting.

Our bodies started to drift closer, connected by a thin thread of sanity, but Victor Luk invaded our space like a comet.  “Close enough.”  Kung Fu flashed behind his eyes.

“How did this happen?”

“It was a suicide sir. Very tragic,” the bodyguard answered first.  “You must remember me telling you.  That’s why I was out.”

“Are you certain?” Mr. Big$$ mumbled and turned away.

“Yes sir, a suicide,” Luk smiled with the teeth, not the eyes.

Suicide?  Who in the hell was the detective here?  That was a bad poker move, and I called him on it.

“The work order is not yet closed.  I smell something else here.”  That got a look from Victor Luk.  A nasty sneer around the corners of his mouth, so I pushed it farther. 

“It feels like murder.” 

“Feels like murder?” his voice pitched high at the end.  The unbalanced billionaire-extraordinaire shook and danced with indecision inside his clear plastic lab coat.  I almost felt sorry for him, almost.

“You want to know what I feel bronze?” he said lucidly. 

I tried not to punch something.  “It’s special detective Thorn.  And sure, why not?”

Mr. Bigg$$ almost collapsed to the floor, spinning like a dog, grappling with grief. “Disappointment,” he added after reaching the nearby countertop. 

“When my brother died, Omar was only five.  I wasn’t ready for him, or anybody.  I was too busy, always too busy,” he continued, and picked at burnt kernels.  “But Omar wanted for nothing.  Had everything, a privileged life!  But, I should feel something else shouldn’t I?” dropping the debris carelessly.  The pieces scattered, but I didn’t move.

“Love?” I offered.

“No, not that,” his tone dropped two octaves.  “I’m not his father, but you find his murderer, detective.  You make him pay.”

“It doesn’t always work that way.  But I’ll find him.”

Victor Luk’s shadow stepped inside my line of sight, flexing his shoulders as if I could be intimidated.  “That is enough detective.  This is becoming harassment.”  

One last try.  “Mr. Big$$ did Omar have any enemies?”

Another corner puzzle piece.  It got a quick half-caught look from Victor and a half smile on the rich man’s face.

“Enemies?” he bound up, as if the word had energized him.  “Enemies?  Enemies, yes, yes over here.”

The words rushed ahead of his grasping bubble boy arms.  His fluttering latex gloved hands waved like Mickey Mouse, and pulled invisible string, dragging me along only a few steps behind him.  Mr. Big$$ stopped with a drunken flourish, and opened a closet showcasing shelves over shelves stuffed with small effigies.

“Enemies, see?  Enemy and enemy, best of the best.  A personal favorite?”  His waving arms showed the army of plastic toys, stuffed dolls, antique figurines, and one-of-kind entities of art.

“Magnificent.”  What else could I say?  I was stunned by the enormity of fictitious evil represented in plastic, plaster, and paint.  “You must have everything.”

Instead of verbally answering, the obsessive man began aligning the items.  The moment stretched, and stretched, and my ‘Shadow Guard’ held his reaction.  Just when I thought the interview over, a new tone of voice left the old man.  It reminded me of the cold Pacific Ocean wind, slicing flesh and burning nerves.

“No, not everything.  Not the most important things.  Not yet.  But soon, very soon I will have them.” 

I could feel the dialogue passing the two minute warning, and I knew electronic eyes recorded it all.  But I wanted to push deeper, but Victor Luk was no amateur and positioned himself accordingly. 

I threw one last card.  “Mr. Big$$ sir, what did you really lose?”

The question hung between all three of us like smoke, a physical thing, alive and reactive, but untouchable, ever-changing, misleading.  Victor had no ‘Poker Face’, and no business playing in a dead man’s game.

“Lose, no,” the rich man seized upon the angle.  “Misplaced, yes.  Only misplaced, never lost.” 

“Was Omar misplaced?”  It was all I had.  The seconds bled quicker, and we squared up eye to eye. A tremor of mental instability played to the room, and the volume varied with each new word.

“No, no it wasn’t that.  He wasn’t supposed to go, you understand?  I tried to show him.  It’s alive, the Collection.” 

Before I could grunt another word, I felt a practiced Iron Monkey hand clamp on my bandaged paw.  Victor Luk was making his move, and I knew resistance was futile if I was ever wanted to use that hand again. 

“Time to leave special detective Thorn,” Victor insisted, turning me away from the muttering man in the bubble.

I didn’t resist, I knew the wild-dog look behind his unsmiling eyes.  So I let him dance-lead us to a smaller elevator just past the apartment’s main vault like door.

He released me, and pressed the button.  The elevator came slowly, prolonging our awkward moment alone.  Keeping eye contact, I pulled out a crumpled pack of $50 cigarettes from my earlier brawl.  I saw the nod of a fellow smoker who couldn’t conceal the noted loss. 

The deal on the table was the Addicts Law, you can’t refuse.  “You wouldn’t have any, would you?”

“Sure thing,” came the stock response without thought, and he slid a tall thin pack of ladies cigarettes free.  He bumped one out for my fingers, and as soon as I touched the smoke I knew, and Victor Luk knew I knew.  It was the same brand as the half smoked butt from outside Room 206. 

The elevator door opened.  “This is where you disappear.”

Stepping inside I spoke around the unlit habit.  “Don’t you mean leave?”

“No,” he pressed the button, and sent the elevator down the central support pillar, down to below sea level.

<><><><> 

© Copyright 2025 m w mccoy. All rights reserved.