Stuart Kaminsky - Melting Clock

There was no painting. We’d taken the nickel tour of the place and I hadn’t seen it. John Taylor stood, feet slightly apart, hands at his side, looking at his dead mirror image on the table.

“Go in the other room and sit down,” I said.

Taylor didn’t seem to hear.

“Go sit.”

He was shaking now, like a little balsa wood model of a Spitfire. Like the one my nephew Nat had hanging over his bed.

“You’re too big for me to carry, Taylor. Go sit down.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, his face white.

“I’ve got a brother,” I said.

“You don’t understand. I hated him,” said Taylor. “We were never him and me. We were us. No one thought about us as … as …”

“Individuals.”

“Individuals,” he repeated, his eyes fixed on his brother. “I hated him. I don’t think I can live without him. I don’t know how.”

I wanted to tell him to save it for a headshrinker or his neighborhood priest, but he wasn’t really talking to me. I moved to the table and touched the corpse. Still warm. I heard a sound and looked up at the window in the back door. Frank Buxton, the clock appraiser, was standing there watching. He blinked once and backed away.

“I think you can expect the police in about five minutes,” I said, turning back to Taylor, who hadn’t moved and didn’t seem to hear.

“The police,” he repeated dumbly.

“You know where the painting is?”

He shook his head no.

“You see the painting?”

He shook his head yes and said, “You want a liverwurst sandwich? That’s all we …” His voice trailed off.

There was a large glass fruit bowl on the counter near the sink next to an open box of Kellogg’s Pep. There was one rotting banana in the bowl. I took it out and put it in the sink. Then I opened the briefcase and shoveled about half the money into the bowl.

“That’s for the clock,” I said.

Taylor pulled his eyes from his brother and looked at the bowl of money.

“For the clock,” I repeated.

“You’re a straight shooter, Peters,” he said.

“Like Tennessee Jed,” I agreed.

“Sorry I tried to kill you.”

I picked up the clock. It was damned heavy. It would have been bad enough if I weren’t carrying the briefcase.

“Open the door,” I said, “and get to a phone. Call the cops. You might beat Buxton to it. At least you’ll be on record as having called.”

He shuffled to the back door and opened it.

“And hide the money.”

But John Taylor wasn’t listening to me. He had turned his back to the door and stood facing his dead brother. I kicked the door closed and tried to keep from breaking my neck as I made my way down a narrow cement pathway to a dirt alley behind the house. The alley led to a dead end. I crossed a tiny yard with a lawn that had been mowed within the decade and found myself on a small street that looked just like the one the Taylor brothers lived on. I was sweating now and the clock was getting heavier. I lurched on like Lon Chaney in his mummy suit until I came to a street that showed some sign of life and led back to Rosecrans. I was about four blocks from the Taylor house now. Traffic was light in the early afternoon, but I spotted a Black and White cab and waved him down, balancing the clock and the briefcase in one hand.

“Nice clock,” said the cabbie through his window.

“Thanks,” I said and told him to head back to the shipyard.

I got my Crosley with no problem. The clock sat on the seat next to me and looked straight ahead all the way back downtown and into No-Neck Arnie’s garage. I didn’t even bother to look for a space on Hoover or Main and I wasn’t going up against the pumpkin man again. I slid over, taking the clock in my arms, and got out. I reached back inside and retrieved the briefcase. I wasn’t looking forward to carrying them both to the Farraday, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to leave them with No-Neck Arnie.

“Peters,” said Arnie, an overalled little man with a barrel chest and enough oil and grease on his body to fuel Huntington Beach for a week.

“Arnie,” I said. “Fix the door.”

“Busy,” he said. “Where’d you get the clock?”

“Other side of hell,” I said. “I’ll be in my office about an hour. What’ll it cost to fix the door?”

Arnie walked around to the driver’s side door, wiped his hands on his overalls and tried to open it.

“You did that last week,” I reminded him.

“Warp, heat, alignment differentials change in a week,” he answered, in the mysterious tongue of auto mechanics.

“How much?”

“Twenty bucks,” he said.

The clock was heavy, the briefcase handle sweaty.

“Twenty bucks,” I agreed.

Arnie looked at me suspiciously.

“Twenty bucks,” I repeated.

“I’ll throw in a paint job,” he said.

“You are a saint.”

“I just like my work,” he said. “Still can’t do it till Thursday. You need another door.”

“All right. Where’s Syd?” I asked. Syd was Arnie’s day assistant, a one-eyed guy with a bad stutter.

“Army,” said Arnie, standing back to survey my Crosley.

“They let Syd join the Army?”

“Drafted,” said Arnie, arms folded, deep in thought as he contemplated his task.

It took me a couple of months to get to the Farraday Building. People admired the clock along the way. Even had an offer to buy it. Twenty bucks. I trudged on and made it to the elevator around five o’clock. I almost fell asleep on the way up. A trickle of people came out of offices and made their way down the stairs, their footsteps echoing as they passed me, rising slowly in the groaning cage.

When I made it through the door to the office and into Shelly’s house of pain, I found Dali in the chair, mouth open and Shelly hovering over him.

“Hold it,” I said.

Shelly held it and turned to me.

“What?”

“Keep your fingers out of my client’s mouth.”

“My fingers aren’t in his mouth. He-”

“I told him to look down my throat into eternity,” sail Dali, getting out of the chair. “If he can see eternity down my throat, then each time a patient sits here before him, Dr. Shelodon Minik can understand infinity, can sense forever. He will not be fixing teeth. He will be drawn into the creative vortex.”

His wide eyes turned to me and my burden.

“Gala’s clock. My painting?”

“Taylor’s dead.”

“And my painting?”

“I didn’t see anything in your throat but tonsils,” said Shelly.

“It cost half of the money. I got the clock and the guy who threatened to kill you is dead.” I didn’t see any point in mentioning Taylor’s brother.

“I’ve looked down maybe a hundred thousand throats,” muttered Shelly. “Saw double tonsils once or twice and-”

“Shelly,” I said. “Take this.”

I handed him the clock.

“It has never been wound,” said Dali. “Legend says that it should only be wound at midnight or noon. The Russians have no imagination, only gross feelings.”

“Your wife is Russian,” I reminded him.

“Gala is the eternal. The eternal is Gala,” said Dali, advancing on me, his voice dropping with each step and the name “Gala” coming out like a quiet “Amen.”

“Anybody call?” I asked.

Shelly cradled the clock and started fiddling with the key.

“Leave it alone, Shel,” I said. “Anybody call?”

“Jeremy. He says they’re in Carmel. I lost him while he was talking. I think the phones are really out now.”

“Anybody else?”

“The cop, Seidman,” said Shelly, tilting the clock over and looking at the words in Russian printed on the bottom. “He said to tell you when you show up to come in and see him fast. About a dead guy named Taylor.”