Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

“That isn’t funny.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You used to think it was.”

She presses the button. I hear the slightest muffled ring from the other side of the wall behind Alexandra’s desk. A few seconds later, the light beside the bell turns from red to green, and I hear the click of the door unlocking. “Go on in,” she says, sounding resigned. “Good luck, John.”

“Thanks.”

It’s even darker in Mr. Frieze’s office; the only light comes from a small electric lamp on his desk, which is quite a walk from the door. I hear the door lock behind me, but that’s normal for Mr. Frieze. In fact, all of this is normal — the thick carpet that muffles my steps, the measured ticking of the desk clock, the dark and windowless room; all of it helps Mr. Frieze deal with his problem.

Though calling it that to his face would be exceedingly stupid.

“Please sit down, Mr. Bach,” Mr. Frieze says. I can barely make out shadows of his features; the lamp has a very weak bulb. I’ve seen Mr. Frieze’s face a couple of times, and he’s not scary to look at, but in this place, in these circumstances, I can’t help but feel my heartbeat speed up slightly. I find the soft leather seat by touch and ease myself into it. “You are not scheduled to be here this day.”

I nod. Mr. Frieze has told me that he sees very well in the dark; whether it’s true or not, I can’t say, but I’m not going to doubt him. “I apologize, sir,” I tell him, keeping my voice low. “I realize I am not due for 17 more days.” Mr. Frieze measures time in days at the largest — days, minutes, seconds, but not hours or weeks or months or years.

“Prime,” he says. His fingers tap a complicated pattern on the wooden desk. “The sixth.”

It takes me a moment to realize what he’s referring to. “Yes,” I say. “I suppose it is that.” Whenever I’m in this room, I find myself falling into Mr. Frieze’s precise patterns of speech. Maybe it helps. I don’t know. “Sir, I come to you today not as a dealer of goods, but as a consumer of information.” Which is technically true.

“I know not of any information you could want from me that you do not already have.” Mr. Frieze speaks with a faint accent; it sounds Germanic, but the last time I heard someone speaking German was at university, and that was thirteen years ago. I smile to myself — another prime number. “You will explain yourself, Mr. Bach. Please.” There’s no question in that icy tone. I’ve heard Mr. Frieze use that same tone to order a man’s death. My back is cold where sweat has soaked through my shirt. “Now.”

I take a deep breath. “Sir, I have been retained by a man whose brother was shot and killed at this property, and—”

“Vasily Novotny,” Mr. Frieze says, the first time he’s ever interrupted me. I see his elbows come to rest on his desk, and his hands as he folds them. I can make out more of his face as he presses his lips to his fingers. I wait for him to continue. “Vasily Novotny trespassed. He climbed the wall. He bypassed the guardhouse. The guards had a job: to shoot trespassers. Vasily Novotny was a trespasser; therefore, he was shot.”

I find myself growing interested, not with the story, but with the way Mr. Frieze is speaking. The last time I heard him speak like this was when I told him I could sell him single-shot hideaway weapons — disposable electric guns. Not very economical, but Mr. Frieze pays the bills, and when Mr. Frieze orders something, it’s worth my while to make it available to him.

Mr. Frieze is excited. And that can’t be good.

“Sir, my retainer comes from a man with interest in the circumstances of Vasily Novotny’s death. I must investigate, as I have been paid to do.”

Mr. Frieze doesn’t nod, but something in his posture shifts. I feel myself tense up, mentally measuring how long it will take me to draw my gun and shoot Mr. Frieze, and then figuring out how much time I’ll have before his entire organization comes after me. But Mr. Frieze simply says, “I believe any investigation into my organization will prove fruitless. I suggest you depart now. I will see you in 17 days.” I hear a soft click — the door behind me unlocking — and I know I have no choice in the matter. “Good day, Mr. Bach.”

“Good day, sir,” I say as I get up. “Thank you for your time.”

He says nothing, and I get out of there. It always feels like escaping from a nightmare when I close that heavy door and see Alexandra’s concerned face. Without a word, she places four of the candies on a sheet of paper and folds it shut. I take one more, put it in my mouth, and close my eyes, letting out a long sigh.

“That was really stupid, John,” she says.

“I know, but I had to try.”

“No. You didn’t.”

I blink, then look down at Alexandra. The folded paper is in her hand; I take it, and my fingers brush her palm as I do. Her milk-pale cheeks flush pink; her eyelids flutter. “Thanks,” I say. “For this.”

She makes an affirmative noise. I go to retrieve my coat, and I’m pulling my gloves back on when she says my name.

“Yes?”

“Tomorrow night?”

I nod. “Tomorrow night. See you then.” I grab the door handle. “Good-bye, Alex.”

She smiles, but says nothing else, and I push the door open and start my trek back to the road.

I’m nearly frozen through when a cab finally stops, and I have to fumble for almost a minute until I can get my wallet out and hand over a few dollars. “Ishmael’s,” I say, barely able to control the quivering of my jaw. “Downtown. Franklin Street.” The driver, an older man wearing bracelets marking him as Kikiallus, engages his clockwork-and-steam engine and I lean back against the upholstered seat, not really watching or paying attention. It seems all too soon that I’m giving him another dollar and stepping out into the cold, then back to the warm again, inside Ishmael’s restaurant.

I do a lot of my own cooking in the winter — it helps to warm the house — but I’m here often enough. Ishmael comes out from behind the counter and claps me on the shoulder, but is careful not to take my coat. “John Bach!” he says in his deep, church-bell voice. “How are you?”

I try not to wince. This is the lunchtime crowd, and some of them work for the police. And the police and I try to stay out of each other’s way. But then, I’m too cold to notice if any dirty looks are sent in my direction. “Ishmael,” I say by way of greeting. He guides me to a seat at the raised counter, then goes back to the other side. “Coffee?”

“Of course, of course!” He produces a heavy earthenware mug and fills it with acid-smelling black liquid. I would prefer tea, but I have an image to maintain. “Food for you?”

I pull off my gloves and cup the mug in my bare hands, leaning over to breathe in the steam rising from the coffee, trying to avoid wrinkling my nose at the scent. “What’s open-faced today?”

“For you, John, I’d cut off my own hand and grill it ’til it steamed.” He grins, his teeth as white as the coffee is black, a sharp contrast against his dark, dark skin. “But everyone else is having corned beef with onions and mustard.”

“Sounds fine.” I sip the coffee, hot enough to scald and strong enough to wash away whatever I still taste of the caramels, but I don’t care. I need the warmth. It’s not usually this cold in the winter, but the newspaper says we’re having the coldest January since the 1890s. “Is Alan cooking today?”

“’Course he is, John.” Ishmael puts a napkin and some silverware in front of me and gives me the slightest hint of a nod. I do the same and sip some more coffee. “Alleycat!” he calls. “House special, side’a’hash, extra mustard for my friend John Bach!”