F. Wilson - Secret Circles

“Nice finish.”

Jack spotted a few nicks and scratches, but Mr. Rosen had taught him how to fix those.

The old man pointed to a spot by the left wall.

“I cleared a space for it over there. Help me move it already.”

Together they slid it across the floor. Just as they were shimmying it into place against the wall, the street outside lit up, followed by a rumble of thunder.

“Swell,” Jack said. “Another storm.”

At least his bike was sheltered under the store‟s front overhang.

Mr. Rosen stepped to the front window and stared out.

“Like cats and dogs it rains. Where will it all go?”

“The lake?”

He turned and looked at Jack. “And after that?”

Jack shrugged.

“I have another job for you,” he told Jack as he returned to the cabinet and tugged on its door handles. “It‟s locked and they lost the key. I‟ll need you to open it for me.”

Jack put on an evil grin and rubbed his hands together.

“Goody!”

“You like this lock picking a little too much, I think.”

“Like it?” Jack said as he headed toward the rear where they kept the kit. “I love it.”

And he did. A fair number of the old pieces came locked with no key. Mr. Rosen used to pick the locks, but his hands had become too shaky for the fine manipulations necessary. So this past summer he‟d taught Jack the technique. Every lock Jack conquered was a thrill.

“A Willie Sutton I‟ve made.”

Jack returned with the kit. “Who‟s Willie Sutton?”

“A famous bank robber. When he was asked why he robbed banks, he supposedly said,

„Because that‟s where the money is.‟”

Jack laughed. He kind of liked that.

The day grew dark outside as he inserted a tension bar into the cabinet‟s keyhole and began caressing the lock‟s internal pins with a slim, curved-tip rake. The lock hadn‟t been opened in a long time and the pins resisted movement—happy right where they were. He was just coaxing them to move when three things occurred almost simultaneously:

A sun-bright flash, followed instantly by a deafening crackle-roar, and then darkness as the lights went out.

Mr. Rosen groaned. “Another power failure already!”

“Swell,” Jack said, feeling around on the floor—he‟d jumped and dropped the rake.

He found it and was about to go looking for a flashlight when he realized he didn‟t need light.

Once the tiny tools were in the keyhole, the job was all feel.

He went back to work, teasing the pins into motion. When they were all in place, he twisted the tension bar and was rewarded with a solid click

“Got her!”

He grabbed the knobs but didn‟t pull.

“Good boy,” Mr. Rosen said, approaching with a flashlight. “Wait for me.”

This was a game they‟d begun to play and, next to the actual picking of the lock, Jack‟s favorite part. Who knew what lay within a long-locked cabinet or drawer? A skull? An ancient, forbidden book like the Necronomicon ? A clue to an unsolved crime? So far he‟d been frustrated, but you never could tell. The latest could always hold a surprise.

Mr. Rosen trained the beam on the doors.

“All right. Go ahead.”

Jack pulled on the knobs and swung the doors open to reveal …

Empty shelves.

“Bummer.”

The overhead lights came on just as the front door chimed. Jack went to see who it was. He found a black-haired man in a white suit standing by the counter tapping his silver-headed black cane on the floor. Eggers stood by the door.

“Mister Drexler,” Jack said, pretty much at a loss for anything else to say. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, I came for my tango lessons. Why else would I come to a shop called USED?”

“I‟m … sorry?”

He smiled. “A terribly lame attempt at absurdist humor, I‟m afraid. But you did ask a rather inane question.”

Jack thought about that, then nodded. “I guess I did.”

“I‟m glad you see that. Please try to avoid such in the future.”

“I‟ll do my best. Anything I can help you with?”

“Yes. I was passing by and remembered I‟d been told you worked here.”

Uh-oh. Had he found someone else to do the Lodge‟s lawn?

“By who?”

“ Whom . It‟s „by whom .‟ And the whom doesn‟t matter.” He turned and said, “Eggers, those passes.”

The big man stepped forward and handed Mr. Drexler a white envelope, which he in turn handed to Jack.

“Circus passes. I can imagine few things less entertaining than a circus, but I‟m sure you‟ll find

it enthralling. Share these with your acquaintances. But in the meantime, find me something …”

He looked around … “Entertaining.”

Entertaining … what did he mean by that

“Well …”

Another flash, another crash, and the lights went out again.

Just then Mr. Rosen arrived from the rear. He stopped when he saw Mr. Drexler. “I‟ve seen you around town, haven‟t I?”

Mr. Drexler produced a card seemingly from nowhere and placed it on the counter. As Mr.

Rosen reached for it, his sleeve rode up, revealing the numbers tattooed on his forearm. He saw Mr. Drexler staring at them.

“You‟ve seen such before?”

Mr. Drexler nodded but said nothing.

“You‟re too young to have been in the war, but what about your family? Which side?”

Mr. Drexler‟s eyebrows rose. “My family does not fight in wars. At least not in the kind you mean.”

Mr. Rosen picked up the business card and studied it for a few seconds.

“An „actuator‟ it says. What exactly do you actuate?”

Mr. Drexler gave one of his thin-lipped smiles. “Whatever requires it.”

And now it was Mr. Rosen‟s turn to stare—at Mr. Drexler‟s black cane.

“That looks like it‟s wrapped in leather.”

Mr. Drexler‟s smile broadened. “Leather implies bovine origin.” He held up the cane for Mr.

Rosen to see. “Nothing so proletarian, I assure you. It‟s trimmed with black rhinoceros hide.”

Mr. Rosen ran a finger along the rough surface.

“How unusual.”

“Yes, well, I‟ve never had much use for the usual.”

Jack noticed a squiggle atop the silver head.

His gut clenched. He was almost sure it was one of the symbols carved on both the big and little pyramids. He had a copy of all seven symbols hidden in his bedroom. He wished he could run home and check it out.

“You want to sell it?”

Mr. Drexler pulled the cane back. “Most certainly not. This

belonged to my father. He too was an actuator.”

After another flash and rumble, Mr. Rosen said, “Looks like we‟ll have no power for a while.

I‟m afraid I‟ll have to close up.”

Mr. Drexler nodded. “Very well. Some other time, then.”

He walked out. As the door closed behind him, Jack peeked into the envelope: four passes to the Taber circus. How did Mr. Drexler come by these? Was there a connection between the circus and the Septimus Order?

“You can‟t ride your bike in this,” Mr. Rosen said. “I‟ll drive you home.”

“Thanks, I—”

He spotted Weird Walt signaling to him through the front window. Jack stepped out to see what he wanted.

Walt wore his uniform of jeans, T-shirt, olive-drab fatigue jacket, and black leather gloves. No one Jack knew had ever seen him without those gloves. Word was he even ate dinner with them.

He had a gray-streaked beard, and today he‟d tied his long dark hair back in a ponytail, giving him a definite hippie look. His eyes had their customary semi-glaze from applejack. He‟d been a medic in Vietnam and had spent time in a V.A. mental hospital after the war. He‟d supposedly starred in a faith-healing tent show until he got kicked out for his drinking. A few years ago he landed at his sister‟s house here in Johnson.