Stuart Kaminsky - Melting Clock

I hurried down the hall looking in other rooms till I found an empty. I went in, picked up the phone and told the operator I wanted Arthur Mylicki’s office. Two rings and Mylicki answered.

“Yes.”

“Mylicki?” I coughed and continued in a hoarse voice. “This is Monesco. I’ve got a man with me from the bank. One of the guards is waiting for him outside your door.” I coughed again.

“I heard you-”

“Damn cold,” I said. “Had to come back. Payroll problem. Tell the guard Connelly will bring Podbialniak back to the gate when we finish.”

I hung up before he could say anything else and turned toward the door. A thin man wearing suspenders and a green visor walked in.

“Adding machine repair,” I said. “I don’t see anything wrong with your machine, Mr. Mylicki.”

“You got the wrong office,” the man said. “Mylicki’s first door when you come in, to the left. Left of the door. Your right now when you go back.”

“Sorry,” I said and went out. Mylicki was just coming out of his office. He went outside and I moved to watch him through the thick glass pane in the door. He talked to the old guard in the car, who nodded and backed his coupe out. I stepped back and waited till Mylicki entered and then moved slowly past him to the door. I watched while the guard drove back toward the gate and then I opened the door.

When I stepped out something was different but I didn’t know what. Then I figured it out. The noise was gone. Not completely gone, but very nearly. I must have been close to a major lunch break for at least one shift, which meant I was late, maybe too late, not to mention that I had probably broken state, national, and security laws. I tried not to think about what would happen if I got caught. I also tried not to think that if I had gotten this far, how far could a real spy get?

Slip 4 was empty. At least I didn’t see any people. I did see a ship about the size of a department store decked out in flags and a big “400” in white letters. The ship, the Koloa Victory, was ready to be launched, probably within a day. On both sides of the slip were steel towers, about four stories high, with cranes on top. I moved toward the platform that had been set up for a christening.

I looked around. Nothing. Nobody. Somewhere, maybe on the ship, maybe on the wooden scaffolding around it, a chain clanked against the deck or the hull. I stood there for a minute, maybe two, and figured Taylor had either set me up or had decided not to wait.

“You’re late,” came a voice from I-didn’t-know-where.

“You picked a goddamn stupid place to meet,” I said. “How did you get in here? And how did you expect me to get in?”

“The money in the briefcase?” he asked.

I was getting a fix on him now.

“Right here,” I said. “The clock and the painting first.”

“Put the briefcase down,” he said.

I had him now, the tower on the left, high up near the crane.

“First the clock and the painting.”

“I can shoot you and take it,” he said.

“You can’t shoot straight. You couldn’t hit me at ten feet last night. You start shooting and I get under the tower and then head for the nearest guard.”

Silence. At least no talking. The chain was still clanking somewhere and I could hear the crackle of a welder.

“I’ve got your gun,” he said.

I looked up at the tower, into the sun, shielding my eyes with the briefcase. I saw a figure leaning over the top.

“Come up,” he called.

It was up or out. I moved under the tower and found a ladder. It wasn’t much of a ladder and it wasn’t easy going up holding onto a briefcase full of money, but up I went. There was no reason for him to shoot me on the way. I would drop the money. I figured I was safe at least till I got to the top, and I was right. My arms were knots and my legs shaking when I reached the platform and pulled myself through the opening. There wasn’t much room, maybe the size of a small boxing ring if you take away half the space for the crane.

“Good view from up here,” he said.

We were about five feet apart. He sounded like Jim Taylor and looked like Jim Taylor, but he wasn’t Taylor. The skin gave him away. No pock marks. He had what looked like my.38 in his right hand. He was wearing gray slacks, a gray shirt, a hard hat, and a smile I didn’t believe for a second.

“You work here?”

“I work here. Put the briefcase down.”

“You’re Taylor’s brother,” I said, taking a step to my left and holding onto the none-too-sturdy pipe railing while I caught my breath.

“Put it down,” he ordered.

I held the briefcase over the side of the tower.

“Clock and painting,” I said. “I drop this and it’s snowing bucks over the Cal Shipyard.”

“You drop it and you dive after it,” he said.

“I give it to you and maybe I’m dead. No-if I’m going, I’m not leaving the money up here.”

“Son of a bitch,” he said, looking at his watch. “Lunch whistle’s gonna blow any second. Gonna be a few thousand people right down there with lunch boxes.”

“Let’s go down, get out of here and go where your brother has the clock and the painting,” I suggested.

“Okay,” he said. “You go first.”

“Give me the gun.”

“No! You nuts?”

“I’m not going to shoot you. I brought the money. I want the clock and the painting. Besides, it’s my gun.”

“No. I give you the gun and when we get to Jim, you take the clock and the painting and keep the money.”

“It’s a problem,” I admitted, “but this wasn’t my idea.”

The whistle blew. Actually, a lot of whistles blew, which meant it was noon.

“Shit,” said Taylor.

“How about this?” I suggested. “You go down. I wait till you get to the bottom and the place is crawling with lunchers. Then you tell me where Jim is. You have plenty of time to call him, tell him I’m coming. He’s got the rifle.”

Taylor considered this.

“You’re a smart-ass.”

“Better a smart one than a dirty one.”

“Jim told me you’re a smart-ass. You know why I set this up? Because I’m smarter than Jim. I’m five minutes older and five times smarter.”

“I can see that,” I said.

He took a step toward me and I extended the arm with the briefcase farther over the railing. It didn’t stop him. He shoved my revolver into my stomach.

“Give it,” he said.

I swung the briefcase around and hit him in the head as I threw myself against the crane. His hard hat went flying over the side of the tower. He fired a shot that went wild, in the general direction of Jupiter. I hit him with the briefcase again, this time in the hand with my gun. I hit him hard. I hit him as if my life depended on it. I didn’t like it up here.

He dropped the.38. It clattered behind me. I dropped the briefcase, turned my back on Taylor and went for the gun. I saw it, about five feet away, the barrel hanging over the edge of the platform. I went flat on the wooden deck and reached for the gun. Taylor jumped on my back. I don’t know if he came knees or feet first. I lost my breath, what was left of it, and knew I had a good chance of being both sick and dead. He was crawling over me toward the gun. I reached out and pushed it over the edge. I didn’t see it fall but I did hear someone below let out a yell and I heard a shot. The.38 had discharged when it hit the ground.

Taylor had to make a choice now. If he threw me over, there was no way he could get away with the briefcase. I didn’t know how many people were down there now, but I could hear voices and one in particular that said, “Up there. Hey, look at that.”

Taylor grabbed the case. I rolled over as he started down the ladder. I got to my knees, threw up, felt a little better, eased over, and started slowly after him. He was in much better shape than I was now, and going down fast. I looked down and tried to shout. Nothing came out. I gulped and then gave out a dry yell.