Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

“All right. But don’t expect miracles,” I caution him as he opens the door. “For all either of us knows, there was a very good reason your brother was killed.”

For a few seconds, I’m afraid Pyotr Leonovich’s money is going to go toward buying a new doorknob, but he just shakes his head and leaves, the door closing behind him, the latch clicking. I fold the bills and slide them into my wallet, then take my gun and holster out of the desk. The leather is soft and doesn’t dig into my skin — not because I paid for it, but because I’ve worn this holster for a long time, though I had to make some modifications when Seattle Police and I parted ways. I pull it over my shoulders and buckle it, then retrieve my own coat from the rack. On the way out, I flip the third switch from the left just inside my front door, and when I leave, the colored circle beside the speaking tube has turned from green to red. I lock the door, put up my hood, and start down Fourth Street. Cabs don’t come up here, and I’m going to need a ride in this weather.

TRESPASSERS SHOT ON SIGHT . The metal sign is smooth and polished, black with white writing so it’s visible in all but the heaviest snowstorms. Behind the gate — metal bars a couple of inches apart and twelve feet high, set into heavy stone walls — I can see the familiar lines of the warehouse complex. It cost me an extra ten to get the cab to drop me here in the first place, and the gears ground and screeched as the driver did his best to speed away, steam from his exhaust pipe melting the snowbank on the side of the road.

Beside the sign is a speaking tube. I flip the electrical switch beside it, then wait.

“We’re closed.” The voice is guttural. Familiar, but guttural. “What do you want?”

“John Bach,” I answer, “here to see Mr. Frieze.” I learned long ago not to laugh at his name.

There’s a pause. Then, “you’re not on the list.”

“I know.” The wind picks up and I shiver, unable to stop it; it’s almost impossible to quickly draw a gun in a heavy coat, and I don’t expect to be out here long enough to need to waste a chemical heat pack. The hood protects my ears and neck, at least. “Please tell him it’s not related to our usual business. And for the love of God, can I at least wait in the guardhouse?”

“No. You can wait right there.”

Wonderful. I tuck myself into the lee of the gate, even a few inches’ protection better than nothing. I’m counting on my relationship with Mr. Frieze to get me inside, even though I don’t have an appointment. And Mr. Frieze is nothing if not appreciative of order. Overly so, I might say, though not out loud. To anyone. Ever.

I’m almost ready to give up when the gate clanks and starts to swing inward, creaking in the cold and the wind. I slip through as soon as I can and make my way to the guardhouse — skipping that stop is enough to get anyone shot. Even me.

It’s warm in the guardhouse. Too warm, actually; heat is piped in through a grate in the floor, and without a window or door cracked open, it’s far too stuffy in there for three people. I’m surprised the guards haven’t gone crazy from the still, hot air. I don’t bother to take off my coat — I’ll be back out in the cold in a minute anyway — but I wish I could; within seconds, sweat begins collecting at the small of my back, and I know that’ll just make it worse when I do get out there.

I push back my hood. “See? John Bach.”

One of the guards — a short, chubby man with graying brown stubble and washed-out blue eyes — is holding a rifle on me. A real one, with bullets in it. The other is in better shape, and appears to be in charge. He steps toward me. “Arms to your sides. Legs apart.”

“Oh, come on,” I say. “It’s me. John Bach. I’m here every month. Do we really have to—” But I shut up and do as he says when I hear the rifle cock. The guard pats me down, harsher than usual — me and my big mouth — and takes advantage of the opportunity to dig his thumb into the pressure point above my collarbone. I grunt, and he sneaks past my guard to snatch away my gun.

“Mark it down, Stan,” he says. “One electric handgun.”

“Yeah. One electric handgun.” He scrawls it on a sheet of paper while the other man hits the safety. The priming chamber sparks as the spring slowly winds down, and once it’s empty, he hands it back. “You know the rules, Bach.”

I don’t say anything, just slip the gun back into my holster and wait while Stan talks to someone over the speaking tube. The earpiece held to the side of his face delivers a response, and it must be one he disapproves of, because he grumbles as he uncocks the rifle and leans it against the side of his desk. “Go on,” he says. “Mr. Frieze is waiting for you.”

“Thanks so much,” I say with just enough false cheer to make them glare at me. I shoulder the door open against the wind; it slams shut behind me. I pull my hood up and take careful steps through the snow to the main building. The wind gusts behind me, and I’m almost leaning back as I walk, trying to keep from being blown over, knowing that Stan is probably watching, waiting for me to sprawl on my face. But I get to the next door without incident and pull it open. I squeeze in and another gust sends the heavy metal slab clanging closed against the door frame.

I have to blink a few times to get my eyes adjusted to the light and the lack of snow. It’s more pleasantly-warm in here, not so oppressive, and I take a moment to scrape the snow off my boots, remove my gloves, and hang my coat on the rack beside the door. It doesn’t bother me that the young woman behind the desk can see my gun; she’s seen it every other time I’ve come here. I give her a smile. “Hi, Alex.”

She smiles back, eyes twinkling, round cheeks dimpled. “Hello, John. Mr. Frieze wasn’t expecting you today.”

“I know,” I say. I go to her desk; there’s a dish of disc-shaped caramel candies. I take one and let the sweetness rest on my tongue before shifting it to the side. “This isn’t about business.”

Alexandra’s smile seems to stick in place. “Mr. Frieze doesn’t have friends,” she says. “This can’t be a social call.”

“No, it’s not.” I can feel the caramel essence coating my mouth. It reminds me of fireside afternoons with my brother and grandfather, makes me feel warm inside. I suppose I could buy the candies myself, but too much of a good thing dulls the pleasure it brings. “It is about business, I suppose, though not my usual.”

Now the smile goes away completely. “I know Mr. Frieze didn’t hire you,” she says. Alexandra knows my business. “Please, John, tell me you’re not here to investigate him for someone.”

I spread my hands. “Sorry, Alex, but I think I am.”

“John…”

“Just ring me in,” I say. “I’ll be all right.”

She nibbles her lower lip for a few seconds, her hand over the button on her desk. “You’re not going in discharged, are you?”

I click my tongue at her, which is harder than it sounds with candy in my mouth. “The guards would be so disappointed in you,” I say as I draw my gun. I fold out the little crank on the stock and wind it, keeping my strokes slow and smooth even though I want to crank it up and get this over with. What Alexandra hasn’t said is that Mr. Frieze might be more than a little upset about my unplanned appearance. I’m counting on the trust he has in my other, less-public business to get me through the meeting, but then, if the deed Pyotr Leonovich gave me is what got his brother killed, not even the threat of my own death could keep me away.

I finish winding and reholster the gun. “There,” I say. “Ready to face the music.”