Stuart Kaminsky - Melting Clock

“Spent a night in the Culver City lockup,” I explained, picking up the taco and trying not to lose too much hot sauce, avocado, and egg. “Guy got murdered.”

Manny handed me the morning paper and strolled back to the grill, a man of little curiosity. Nothing could match his adventures, real or invented, with Villa.

“A dead man will do it,” Juanita said.

“What?”

“Someone’s going to be killed by a guy name Guy,” she said, looking into her coffee. I leaned over to see what was in the cup. Nothing but darkness and the same day-old java I was drinking.

“You talking to me?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Someone’s going to be killed by a guy named Guy or Greg in Mark’s town. I just saw it in the coffee.”

“Who killed the guy last night?” I asked, taking another bite of breakfast taco and nodding to Manny to get another. He was way ahead of me.

“How should I know?” Juanita said. “This stuff just comes.”

I told her about the dead guy and the messages.

“Beats crap out of me,” she said, getting off her stool while I took the last bite of taco and reached for the Pepsi. “I’ve got to get to work. Got three mothers coming. Kids, the soldiers, sailors, they don’t come. They don’t want to know what’s going to happen to them. It’s the mothers who want to know.”

“What do you tell them?” I asked.

“Lies, usually,” Juanita said. “Remember, Greg or Guy’s going to do it in Mark’s town. Oh yeah, this Greg or whatever has a beard.”

She left and I read the paper and finished my coffee. The news was good. U.S. bombers were battering the Japs on Wake Island, and the Russians were still pushing back the Nazis. Basil “The Owl” Banghart and Roger “The Terrible” Touhy were going to Alcatraz after escaping from Stateville in Illinois, where they were doing a long haul on kidnapping. There was a picture of Banghart in the paper. He did look a little like an owl.

I finished my breakfast, dropped a buck on the counter, and waved at Manny, who leaned back with his arms crossed and nodded, smoke curling up into his face as he dreamed of that last cavalry charge against Black Jack Pershing.

I could tell Jeremy had been up and at work as soon as I opened the outer door of the Farraday. The smell of Lysol was unmistakable. It’s a smell I like. I like the smell of gasoline, too.

I went into the suite of Minck and Peters. Shelly wasn’t there. His party hat sat on the dental chair as if he had melted and left only it and the odor of his last cigar. I went into my office, opened the window, sat down, and called my sister-in-law Ruth.

“How you doing, Ruth?” I asked cheerfully.

“Fine, Toby,” she said.

“Happy New Year,” I said.

“You know, don’t you, Toby.”

“Know? Know what?”

“You’re brothers,” she said lightly. “I could tell the way you said ‘Happy New Year.’ He told you? You saw him?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I know people always say this but if there’s anything I can do …”

“You can do a lot, Toby,” she said. “You can come over here tomorrow for dinner. You can take the kids out to the park so I can spend some time with Phil. He’s taking it hard.”

“I know,” I said. “Are you?”

“Taking it harder.”

“It’ll be all right,” I assured her. “I told Phil I know surgeon who’ll know the right guy.”

“Thanks, Toby,” she said.

“They can take care of those things now,” I said. “Army’s developed all kinds of … hell, I don’t know what I’m talking about, Ruth.”

“Odds I’ve heard are about three-to-one in my favor,” she said. “Before the war they were three-to-one against. I guess war is good for something. Gives doctors a lot of practice and a chance to experiment on dying men.”

“Ruth-”

“I’ve been lucky, Toby. My husband was too old to be drafted and my sons are too young.”

“I’ll come by tomorrow at noon,” I said. “That okay?”

“Fine,” she said. “Toby, do you realize this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had?”

“Yeah, we finally had something to talk about.”

She laughed on the other end and said, “Lucy wants to talk to you.”

Lucy was Phil and Ruth’s youngest, somewhere between two and three. When she was one she used to clobber me with her favorite toy, a Yale padlock.

“Uncle Toby?” came a small voice.

“Yes,” I said.

“Moon is ca-ca,” she said seriously.

“Sometimes I think you’re right, kid,” I said, and either Lucy or Ruth hung up.

Next call was to Doc Hodgdon, who was retired but still saw a few patients in his home. He wanted to know when we could get together for handball. I told him it would have to wait till I finished the case I was on. I told him about Ruth and he said he knew a few people. I gave him Phil and Ruth’s number and promised to call him next week.

Then I made the call I dreaded. Barry T. Zeman answered the phone.

“It’s me, Toby Peters,” I said.

“Did you find them?” he said.

“I found one of the paintings and one of the clocks. Is Dali there?”

“They never leave the house,” he said. “He doesn’t like the outdoors. She goes running out when he needs something or she asks me to send my driver, J.T. The houseboy quit the second day they were here. The cook asked for a week off. Actually, he said he would be gone until the Dalis left. The housekeeper, who has worked for my family for thirty-eight years, has suddenly discovered an ailing relative in Lac Le Biche in Alberta, Canada.”

“Life is hard,” I admitted. “Can I talk to Dali? He’s the client. He can fill you in.”

He put the phone down and I waited. Gala came on.

“Yes?” she said eagerly.

“The Place in the note was a man named Adam Place. He’s dead, murdered. The police have one of the paintings and one of the clocks. The killer, or maybe Place, ruined the painting and left a message.”

I told her about Thirteenth Street and Dali came on the phone.

“Which painting?” he asked.

I described the painting.

“You must find the other ones.”

I told him about Thirteenth Street.

“Ah,” he said. “A mystical number. I once had a dream of a crystal with exactly thirteen sides floating in a hole in the head of a giant beast who sat on an enormous egg. I painted that image in a fit of rage in a single day and had to rest for a week.”

“That’s very helpful,” I said.

“It is,” he said with great seriousness, “alchemical. Find the other paintings. Find Gala’s clocks. Find them. My dreams are filled with fathers and the naked breasts of faceless women.”

It could be worse, I thought, but I said, “A man’s been murdered. Shot between the eyes. It might be a good idea to let the police know what’s going on.”

“No,” said Dali.

That’s not really accurate. He didn’t say “no,” he screamed. A nearly hysterical “nooooooooooooooo.”

“I’ll get back to you as soon as I have anything,” I said when the wail had played itself out.

“I am plagued,” he wailed anew. “Who is this Wollowa Beckstine on the radio who they keep telling the time?”

“What?”

“It’s five o’clock Wollowa Beckstine,” he said solemnly.

“Bulova Watch Time,” I explained.

“Bulova Watch Time,” Dali repeated. And then, “Dali can’t work.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Dali’s work is an obligation, a burden.” It was almost a sob. “Do you know how difficult it is to shock the world every twenty-four hours?”

“It’s the curse of painters and politicians,” I said.

“You are making a joke? You are joking at Dali?”