Stuart Kaminsky - Melting Clock

I knew-and Nelson knew-that he should go a few doors down and at least give the impression he knew what he was doing, but he didn’t have the heart for it. In the long run, he was doing the right thing, staying out of the way till the Highway Patrol showed up.

“How few of us are fortunate enough to achieve our life ambitions,” he said.

“It’s better to have ambitions and not achieve them than to have none at all,” I responded.

Nelson looked at me seriously for the first time since our eyes had met through the window of Claude Street’s Old California Shop.

“First Corinthians?” he asked.

“ Charlie Chan in Rio, ” I answered.

Neither of us spoke again until the Highway Patrol car pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office about twenty minutes later. I lay on the cot looking at the ceiling and Nelson sat looking out the window at the car from which two Highway Patrol officers in full uniform and as big as redwoods stepped out and looked around. There wasn’t much to see.

Nelson was up, hat in hand, as phony a smile as I’ve seen anywhere but on the face of a receptionist at Columbia Pictures.

“It is not my day,” Nelson said between his closed smiling teeth. “The Rangley brothers.”

The two state troopers came in and moved past Nelson in my direction. One had a face like Alley Oop with a shave and the other one looked like his brother.

“Trooper Rangley,” Nelson began. “This-”

“Where’s the dead man?” interrupted the bigger Rangley.

“Two doors down,” said Nelson. “In the Old California Antique Shop. His name is …”

But the Rangley’s, after looking at me as if to say I was one sorry specimen, turned and went back out on the street. They moved out of sight to the right of the window. Nelson turned to me. “I cannot but believe, though it runs counter to reason,” he said, “that you have killed Mr. Claude Street for the sole purpose of bringing tribulation into my life.”

“I didn’t kill him, Nelson,” I said.

Nelson’s smile was gone.

“My lady is waiting for me,” he said. “My fondest wish at this moment is to absent myself and allow the Rangley brothers-who, to the best of my knowledge, have no first names nor any need of them-to persuade you to confess to every crime committed within the state of California from moments after your birth to the instant I confined you to that cell.”

“Here they come,” I said.

Nelson put his smile back on and pivoted in his swivel chair to face the Rangleys as they came back into the sheriff’s office.

“Man’s dead in there,” said the bigger Rangley.

“That was my conclusion upon witnessing the corpse,” said Nelson.

There were two possible ways to interpret Sheriff Nelson’s statement: He was either humoring these walking specimens of recently quarried stone, or he was making a joke he was confident would elude them. I would have voted for the former, but Rangley Number Two was taking no chances.

He was about a foot taller than Nelson. He stopped in front of him and smiled. Though I didn’t think it possible, Nelson’s smile got even broader.

Big Rangley was moving toward me in the cell. I kept sitting on the cot. His face was red and Alley Oop wasn’t smiling at me.

“Sardines. ‘Look where he ate the sardine’? I don’t like crazy shit,” he muttered softly.

Since I agreed with him, there wasn’t much for me to say. I nodded. “The other officer over there behind me,” he went on, “he’s my brother. He likes crazy shit even less than I do.”

The other brother was losing the grinning battle with Nelson, though I knew the sheriff was doomed to lose the war.

The big Rangley said, “Keys.”

Sheriff Nelson pulled his keys out and handed them to the patrolman, who threw them to his brother, who, without removing his brown eyes from me, held up his hand to catch them. The keys flew past him and landed inside the cell at my feet.

“All the good receivers were drafted,” I said, reaching down for the key ring.

It was the wrong thing to say.

“Just pick up the keys and open the cell,” he said. “Officer Rangley and the sheriff are going a few doors down to wait for the evidence truck and the county coroner while you and I palaver.”

I swear he said “palaver,” but the way he said it convinced even me that I’d be better off playing second banana in this Kermit Maynard western.

“The prisoner is-” Nelson began.

“-about to be interrogated,” said the big Rangley as his brother ushered Nelson to and through the front door.

I got up and opened the door. Rangley came around the corner and entered. He put out his hand and I gave him the key.

“Been locked up before?” he asked.

“A few times. Once before in this cell.”

“Tell me about sardines,” he said.

“Not much to tell,” I answered. “When I was a kid I liked to make sardine salad-mash up a can with onions and mayo. Still like it once in a while. Or a sandwich on white with butter and a thick slice of onion.”

Rangley nodded, muttered something like “hmmpff” and closed the cell door. The keys went into his pocket.

“This came at a bad time …”

“Peters,” I said. “Toby Peters. I’m a private investigator. I was-”

“… about to sit,” said Rangley.

I sat on the cot.

“You know there’re springs in that cot?” he said, standing over me.

“Yes,” I said.

He looked around the cell and shook his head.

“Even a half-assed short-timer could pull a spring at night and cut the eyes off Nelson or his homo Mex deputy,” he went on.

“That’s an idea,” I said.

He laughed and the heel of his right hand came forward and slammed against what was left of my nose. That wasn’t too bad, but I flew back on the cot and hit my head on the wall. That was bad. I rebounded and thought I heard a musical saw.

“How’s the head?” he asked gently, handing me his pocket handkerchief.

“Fine,” I said, accepting the handkerchief and putting it to my nose.

“Don’t worry about the blood,” he said with a smile, sitting next to me. “Can I give you a little advice?”

“You have my undivided attention.”

He put his hand on my knee and whispered, “Don’t answer me smart again.”

“That’s good advice,” I said, checking the handkerchief. It was wet and dark red.

“Keep it,” he said gently.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You kill the guy?”

“The one with the yellow wig?”

“Is there more than one?”

“I just saw the one,” I said.

“How’s your head?” he asked again, touching my arm. I got the point.

“I didn’t kill him. I was trying to find him. Someone stole three Salvador Dali paintings and three clocks from my client.”

“Three clocks, three paintings,” he repeated with a knowing nod of the head. “Big clock in there one of the clocks?”

“Yeah.”

“And that painting? That grasshopper on the egg crap in there. That one of the paintings?”

“Right,” I said.

“This Dali’s a crazy asshole,” he said.

“That could be,” I said, putting the handkerchief back to my nose.

Big Rangley chuckled. I didn’t know what was funny but, as Wild Bill Elliot says, I’m a sociable man. I made a sound that might well be taken for a chuckle.

“Remember what I said when I came in this place, Peters?”

“You don’t like crazy shit.”

“Don’t like it at all,” he agreed, clapping me on the back. He reached into his vest pocket and came out with a little notebook, which he flipped open to the first page and read:

“Time is running out. One clock. One painting. Last chance. ‘Look where he ate the sardine.’”