Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

And the spring pulls a little wooden door out of the way.

Success. Finally. Grenades are a little new to me, but I’ve seen the insides of enough weapons to know what I’m doing. For the most part. It isn’t like I’m going to actually load the grenade with anything truly destructive, not until it’s perfected.

My testing material sits in two glass bottles and a wooden box. I replace the piece of wood, then pour vinegar onto one side and baking soda on the other. To both sides I add pinches of rice before closing the grenade again. The other side of it, the side with the timing mechanism, I left wound when I finished working on it last night, so it’s ready to test. Instead of latching it together, though, I just close the two sides and secure them loosely with a bit of rubber adhesive. I carry the grenade — about the size of both of my fists, and heavy with all the mechanisms inside it — to the far corner of the cellar and set it on the floor. I remove the metal pin that holds the timing mechanism in place and step well back; the worst that will happen is a mess all over my clothes, but it’s always better to be safe.

Thirty seconds later — I count the clicks — there’s a fizzing noise and the two sides of the grenade pop open on a hinge. Foam flows out, along with the uncooked rice.

Perfect.

It takes a couple of minutes to rinse out the mess from the test, and then I put the grenade in front of a tightly-wound fan to dry it — wouldn’t want the metal to get rust or residue on it. While the fan whirs, I make some notes in the “Grenade” folder — not very creative — about the tension of the spring. I’ll need to purchase more of them from the fabricators; must remember to mail them an order soon.

The fan clicks off and I put the grenade away before going to the workspace on the other side of the cellar and uncovering the electric rifles I’ve been assembling. It’s mindless work — putting stock with barrel, engine with firing mechanism, threading wire with hammer — but I spend an hour doing it because it needs to be done. Can’t sell weapons to Mr. Frieze if I haven’t put them together yet.

Breakfast is dry Grape-Nuts, straight from the box, while I finish yesterday’s evening edition. I have milk, but it’s easier to just drink it from the bottle than go through the production of soaking the cereal and using a spoon. The paper, though, doesn’t interest me any more than it did last night, and I leave it on the counter and go upstairs to dress.

I leave the panel by the speaking tube on red; if anyone wants me to work for them, they can push a message through the mail slot, but for now I have to give Pyotr Leonovich his money back. The weather is a little milder — it’s not snowing and the wind’s not blowing, but it’s still extremely cold outside. I grew up in Chicago, though, and I can handle the ten blocks to Franklin Street.

I’m not expecting to see Tom O’Leary standing outside Pyotr Leonovich’s shop when I get there. Tom’s hard to miss with his flaming hair, and he’s got his hat under his arm while he talks to a middle-aged man in a business suit. “I was just going inside to get out of the cold,” the man says. “I didn’t expect the door to be open, but who am I to not take advantage?”

“And that’s when you found Mr. Novotny,” Tom says. “Right?”

“That’s right.”

Tom sees me and hails me with a raised hand. “’Morning, John.”

The businessman gives me the once-over, but discounts me. That tends to happen. “What about my watch?” he asks. “I paid Novotny good money to have it fixed, and I’d like it back.”

“This is a crime scene, Mr. Oliver,” Tom says. “For now, your watch will have to wait until we can locate Mr. Novotny’s next-of-kin.”

Oliver harrumphs, then stomps off. Tom gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry about him.”

“Forget it,” I say, waving my hand. “What happened to Pyotr Leonovich?”

Tom’s eyes go as sympathetic as police eyes ever do when on the job. “You knew him?”

“He hired me,” I say. “He wanted me to find out why his brother was shot, after the police closed the investigation.” I try not to look accusatory; Tom gives me a slight shrug. “He didn’t tell me the whole story until later, though, and when he did, I told him I couldn’t do the job.” I take a long, slightly-crumpled envelope out of my inside pocket. “I was coming back to return most of what he advanced me.”

Tom waves me through the open door. The interior looks much the same as it did yesterday, though brighter — yesterday there was nothing but clouds and snow, but the sun’s out today. The shop seems less mysterious now. The door behind the counter is open, and I hear Officer Courtland and at least two others in the back. “He’s in his bedroom. Has an apartment back there.”

“Oh.” I’ve only known Pyotr Leonovich for a day; it’s hard to get too broken up over him. But I do take a moment to mourn the loss of talent — maybe he and I could’ve done more business together, and it never hurts to know another good clocksmith. “Any ideas yet?”

“You seem to know a little about him. What did he tell you was happening in his life?”

“Bach can’t tell you shit.” The grumbling voice is Officer Courtland’s; he’s standing in the doorway, a ledger book under his arm. “What the hell you doin’ here anyway?”

“I had business with Pyotr Leonovich today,” I say. I tuck the envelope back in my pocket; no sense tempting possibly my least-favorite member of the police force. “I’m just as surprised as you.”

“’Pee-otter Lee-on-ovich?’” Courtland sounds out the syllables. “First-name basis, huh?” He flips the ledger book out and drops it on the display case, and I jump as the glass rattles in the metal frame. “So will I find your name in here?”

“I don’t know, Officer.” I stress his title; when last we worked together, we were both sergeants, but I took early retirement and kept my rank. Courtland didn’t deserve to even stay with the department, but here we are. “You’ll have to look.”

He makes a frustrated noise and clomps back out of sight. “Look, John,” Tom says, “I can get you back there, if you think it’ll help.”

“I think what would’ve helped is if you investigated his brother’s death and maybe meted out a little justice.” I say it softly, because it’s not Tom’s fault, but he’s here and he’s convenient. “Otherwise, Pyotr Leonovich wouldn’t have hired me, and I wouldn’t know what I know about his brother, and about his mission to figure out just who to take vengeance upon.”

“So he was out for revenge.” Tom takes out his notebook and pen. “When did this happen?”

“Yesterday,” I tell him. “You know about Vasily Novotny’s murder?”

“Our investigators officially ruled it an accident, that he was carrying a gun, tripped in the snow, and it went off in his chest.”

“If that’s what you believe,” I say with a false sense of cheer. “I know a little of what goes on in Mr. Frieze’s operation. I’ve had some dealings with them in the past.”

Tom nods. “Miss Willoughby’s intended. I remember that.”

That wasn’t quite what I meant, but I take great care to keep those dealings out of sight of the police. “Yes. I also know that Mr. Frieze is trying to take over the blocks by the lake. He wants to tear down the old buildings, put up new offices and shops.”

“Yes, John, that was in the paper.” He gives me a look. “Why do you always call him ‘Mister’?”

“Have you met him?”

Tom shakes his head.

“If you had, you would call him Mr. Frieze as well.”

“Right.” Tom makes a note. “We haven’t had time to look into Mr. Novotny very much yet. It would be very helpful to us if you could connect this lakeside project with the Novotnys.”