"The 'Spaceship' was a major switch from the previous four machines. Where those four had been packed solid with innovation upon innovation, the 'Spaceship' was frightfully orthodox and simple. There was not a single device the Big Four hadn't already used. On the contrary, you might even say the machine was really meant as a challenge to the Big Four on their own terms. They'd gained self-confidence by then."
He spoke slowly, enunciating every word. I kept nodding as I drank my coffee. I drank water when the coffee was gone, then smoked a cigarette when there was no more water.
"The 'Spaceship' – now there was a curious machine. Nothing that would really grab you at first sight. But give it a play and there's something different about it. Same flippers, same targets as all the others, but something's different. That something possessed people like a drug. I don't know why. But I do have two reasons for calling the 'Spaceship' an ill-fated machine. The first being that people never fully understood its greatness, and by the time they did begin to understand, it was too late. The second was that the company went bankrupt. They overdid it on the conscientiousness. Gilbert was absorbed by one of your conglomerates. Whereupon the head office said there was no need for a pinball division. And that was that. A total of fifteen hundred 'Spaceships' were produced, which explains why today they are regarded with such awe, and why in America fanatics will offer two thousand dollars for a 'Spaceship.' Not that there are any up for sale."
"Why is that?"
"Because nobody wants to let go of one. Nobody's capable of letting one go. A curious machine, that."
He looked at his watch out of habit when he finished, then smoked his cigarette. I ordered a second cup of coffee.
"How many machines were imported into Japan?"
"I looked into it. Exactly three."
"That's all?"
He nodded. "That's because there wasn't any route to Japan for Gilbert products. In sixty-nine, one import agency brought some in as an experiment. Those three machines. And by the time they got around to a supplementary order, Gilbert & Sands no longer existed."
"Those three machines, do you know their whereabouts?"
He gave the sugar in his coffee cup a few stirs, then scratched fervently at his earlobe.
"One machine went to a small game center in Shinjuku. The game center folded the winter before last. The whereabouts of the machine, unknown."
"That much I know."
"Another machine went to a game center in Shibuya. That burned down last spring Granted, they had fire insurance and nobody took a loss. Only another 'Spaceship' vanished from the face of the earth. No two ways about it, it's an ill-fated machine."
"It's starting to sound like the Maltese Falcon," I said.
He nodded. "And as to the whereabouts of the third machine, I have no idea."
I gave the address and telephone number of J's Bar. "But it's no longer there. Got rid of it last summer.
He meticulously made a memo in his notebook.
"The machine I'm interested in was the one in Shinjuku," I said. "You really have no idea where it went?"
"There are several possibilities. The most obvious being scrap. The turnover of machines is quite fast. Your ordinary machine depreciates in three years to where a new machine is more economical than repairs. Of course, there's the question of what's in style. That's why some things get scrapped. A second possibility is that it gets traded in as used equipment. Old models that are still usable get passed around from hand to hand, and wind up in some dive, where they end their days at the mercy of drunks and amateurs. Then third, in extremely rare cases, an enthusiast might get hold of it. But eighty percent of the time, it's the scrapheap."
I scissored an unlit cigarette between my fingers, and thought myself into a dark mood
"About that last possibility, any way to check up on something like that?"
"Couldn't fault you for trying, but it'd be difficult. Hardly any contact between enthusiasts. No registers, no official society organs but hell, we'll see what we can do. I myself have some interest in the 'Spaceship'."
"Much obliged."
He sank back deep in his chair, and puffed on his cigarette.
"Just out of curiosity, what was your best score on the 'Spaceship'?"
"A hundred and sixty-five thousand," I said.
"Now that's impressive," he said with not the least change of expression. "Really quite impressive." Then he scratched his ear again.
18
The following week or so my mood was strangely languid and serene. Pinball still echoed in my ears a bit, but that fitful buzzing like the beating wings of a bee marooned in a patch of winter sunlight had all but vanished. Autumn took on greater depth with each passing day, and the woods around the golf course dropped their load of dry leaves on the ground. From the apartment window you could see piles of burning leaves here and there on the rolling suburban hills, smoke snaking up into the sky like magic ropes.
Little by little, the twins grew silent, then subtly sad. We'd take our walks, drink coffee, listen to records, cling to one another under the blankets, and sleep. On Sunday we walked an hour to the arboretum, and ate mushroom-and-spinach sandwiches amidst the oaks. While in the treetops, black-tailed wild birds sang clear and pure.
Little by little, the air was growing chilly, so I bought two new sports shirts for them, and gave them some old sweaters of mine. Hence they ceased to be 208 and 209, and became Olive Green Crewneck Sweater and Beige Cardigan, though neither complained. Besides that, I bought them socks and new sneakers. I felt like a regular sugar daddy.
The October rains were a thing to behold. Needle-fine and soft as cotton, coming down uniformly over the golf course turf that was just beginning to wither. No puddles formed, the rainwater sank slowly into the earth. After the rains, the woods were heavy with the smell of damp fallen leaves, and a few slanting rays of the setting sun would trace a dappled pattern on the ground. Birds raced across the paths through the woods.
Days at the office passed more or less the same.
I'd listen to cassette tapes of old jazz — Bix Beiderbecke, Woody Herman, Bunny Berrigan – while crossing the pass over mountains of work, smoking cigarettes to keep up a leisurely pace, having a shot of whiskey every other hour, eating cookies.
Only the office girl kept up a harried pace, checking schedules, making airplane and hotel reservations, darning two more of my sweaters, and putting new metal buttons on my blazer for good measure. She changed her hairstyle, changed her lipstick to a pale pink, wore thin sweaters that showed off her bustline. It all blended into the autumn weather.
It was a great week, one to be remembered for all eternity.
19
It was hard breaking the news to J that he was leaving town. The Rat didn't know why it was so hard.
Three days in a row he went to the bar, and not once in those three days could he bring himself to broach the subject. Each time he'd get up the nerve to tell him, his throat would get all dry, and he'd drown it in beer. Weak-willed, he kept on drinking.