by Paul Jenkins
The penny clattered to a stop on the desk. Wil stared at it in silence. As if in response, the penny moved, almost imperceptibly. Over at his window, Wil noticed that one of his photo frames was getting ready to take a walk across the painted surface of the sill. The sound of an enormous cog clicking into place rattled the walls. This could only mean one thing: his personal soundtrack was about to go off, minus the trudging.
KLONNG!
Wil caught the photo frame just as it fell from the windowsill. If such an inanimate object could have attempted suicide by tossing itself off a ledge, Wil would not have blamed it one bit. His own daydreams had tended toward the homicidal—or, he supposed, “clockicidal”—every Monday morning for years. Wil knew with absolute certainty that he would gladly have accepted a sentence of thirty to life just for one morning of respite from the thing that tormented him the most.
Directly across from Wil’s office stood a massive clock tower that the city forefathers had once received as a gift from the government of Switzerland to commemorate something nobody could remember. Wil hated this monstrosity more than he had ever hated anything in the known universe, not to mention a substantial portion of the undiscovered bit. It was a thoughtless, pointless, artless container of decibels that counted away the hours of his life one painfully annoying quarter hour at a time.
KLONNG!
As part of his morning ritual, Wil liked to stand at his window and shake his fist at the clock until it stopped going “klonng.” He would utter increasingly profane oaths in its direction and silently wish it would sprout large robotic legs and go away. In fact, Wil had once opened his window to challenge the awful beast to a fight to the death, to which it had simply responded:
KLONNG!
Any moment now, the clock would stop and Wil would be left in peace. He’d be able to check his messages and make all his morning business calls, assuming he had any to make. All he needed to do was wait for one final
KLUNK!
Fifteen million francs worth of precision Swiss timing, yet all the city had to show for it was a painfully obnoxious pile of cogs that didn’t work properly. The day the clock mechanism was installed in its tower it was discovered that the American housing had been designed in feet and inches, whereas the clock mechanism itself had been of the metric variety. As a result, one of the main clappers would bash into the wall of the clock tower instead of actually striking the bell. If one listened carefully after the quarter-hour chimes had faded—assuming one’s ears were still functional after being assailed by the enormous bell—one could hear muffled clattering as the final clapper counted off the hours by missing the bell entirely and thudding into a well-worn brick.
The clock would now be silent until exactly six minutes after three, at which point it would go “klonng” again, six times, for no apparent reason. It had been the bane of Wil’s existence that no matter his mood and no matter his daily preparation, the clock’s mid-afternoon “klonng” always took him by surprise. Sometimes, he’d be in the middle of a phone call. Other times, he’d be using the bathroom or searching under his desk for a dropped pencil at exactly the wrong time. He’d tried everything from putting in earplugs to staring at the clock just prior to its mid-afternoon sonic attack. But for whatever reason, at precisely five minutes after three he’d get distracted and the clock would do its nefarious business one minute later and invariably he’d bang his head, clutch at his heart, or miss the toilet entirely.
Satisfied that the clock had finished annoying him for the morning, Wil aimed some inventive invective at the clock tower, and then turned toward the northwest and shook his fist at Switzerland. With this done, he replaced the photo frame on its perch and set about trying to retrieve his messages from his temperamental answering machine.
* * *
“MR. MORGAN,” said the first message with a clarity that Wil fancied had eluded professional audiophiles the world over for decades, “this is Mr. Hightower calling from American National Bank again. We wondered if you’d received notice of our intent to collect—click.” Wil kept his finger on the Erase button for a few seconds. Not a bright start to his Monday.
“Glurble flurble … hiss,” went the second message, missing Wil’s inner ear entirely and moving directly into the part of his brain reserved for migraine headaches. Probably a potential client or an eccentric billionaire attempting to give away money, he reasoned, pinching his nose.
“Do you want to drive the ball as straight and long as the pros? Yearning to pick up an extra thirty, forty, or even fifty yards on your playing partners? Then for four easy payments of $59.99, you need the new Air-Max 3000—click.” Though equal parts alarmed and impressed by Marcus James’s ability to intrude on virtually every aspect of his life, Wil was still having none of it. It was a statistical probability even the Air-Max 3000 would be unable to help him drive as long and straight as the pros on account of the fact he’d never actually picked up a golf club in his life. Tempting though the offer was, Wil decided to stick with the old 2000 model festering in its crumbling packaging by the door, keep his money to himself, and let his dream of joining the professional golf tour remain just that.
The next message was virtually silent, though Wil fancied he could make out a faint request to call someone back about a job. The return telephone number was indiscernible. The message following this sounded like a frantic leprechaun with throat nodules. “If you can hear this…,” said the message before trailing off into a series of garbled whispers. Wil could make out something about going somewhere urgently on a matter of vital importance. However, he could not make out where, when, or by whom the message had been left. This was an odd kind of message, even for Wil’s demonic answering machine. He scrunched his nose and clicked the Fast Forward button.
“Wil,” said the final message with such crystal quality that you could hear the scraping of an angel on a pinhead somewhere in the background, “it’s Dad.”
Wil looked at the answering machine with a horrified expression. Given its predilection for providing clarity only when bad news was in the offing, he knew this was going to be of the atrocious variety. His heart had already made the leap into his mouth at the sound of Barry Morgan’s voice and was now beginning to force its way out of his nostrils. “I’m going to be in town for a couple of days next week,” continued the message. “Thought I might stay with you at your apartment since you’ve bragged so much about the facilities. I was thinking you could take a personal day and we could visit the museums and the fountains in the park. Oh, and make sure you tell the folks at your accounting firm I’d like to meet them. Accountants always want to talk shop. Anyway, I’ll call later. Bye for now!”
Wil stared at the answering machine for a good twenty seconds before he realized his mouth was open and there was drool coming down the side of it. His heart had jumped out of his body altogether and was now hiding in a corner, refusing to get back inside. His fingers and lips felt numb. This could not possibly be happening. Not now. Not on a Monday.
Wil’s legs felt unsteady. Either the world had just turned into a roiling ocean or his vertigo was coming on again. He plunked heavily in his desk chair before the panic attack overwhelmed him entirely. Please, he thought to the universe in general. Please don’t let this be the way it all ends.
As if to answer his silent prayer, there was a sudden, unmistakable moving of giant cogs nearby, followed by the sound of something very large and heavy hitting something else made of brick. Somewhere in Heaven a rogue angel was probably gunning down Saint Joe, the Patron Saint of False Hope, with a Thompson submachine gun.
Wil’s eyes began to swim, his skin felt clammy and cold, and his nervous system felt like it was beginning to go completely numb. Perhaps his old penny might buck the trends of the last twenty or thirty years and present a different outcome than usual. He fished the coin from his pocket and spun it, then watched, forlornly, as it wandered across his desk and slowly, inexorably, began to topple over. The penny clatt
ered to the desk and lay there, motionless. Wil wasn’t sure his heart was even beating anymore. Surely this was the second-worst moment of his entire life. He put his hands over his ears and let his entire collection of limbs and organs slide slowly and unerringly down toward his desk until his left eye was about three inches from the penny that now lay on his desk. This was it: his life was officially over. Wil began to sob—quietly at first, but then with an increasing intensity so that his giant tears formed little puddles in the dust below his eyes. Please, he thought to whatever passing god might be listening. Please make this all go away.
* * *
AS IT turned out, this was the very moment that magic entered Wil Morgan’s life.
CHAPTER TWO
MAGIC ARRIVED in the form of a knock on the door, which surprised Wil to no end. He had only ever used the thing for opening and closing, and hadn’t considered what it might sound like if someone actually knocked on it. It sounded hollow and rattly—very much in keeping with the way it looked.
Wil sat up and hastily tried to pull himself together. He mashed his little pool of tears into the desk with the palm of his hand, and wiped his wet cheeks with his sleeve. Putting his English penny back into his pocket, he paused for a moment as he tried to decide how he might react. One option would be to ignore the door altogether; after all, it had only been a few minutes since he’d thought to himself how a person would have to be crazy to come up to the nineteenth floor of the Castle Towers. He had no desire to answer the door and find himself confronted by an axe-wielding homicidal maniac wearing a tutu and a hockey mask. Alternatively, he could stand up from his desk and go and pretend that answering the door was an everyday occurrence. He reasoned that if the person on the other side of it was a potential client, they might be suitably impressed and could potentially even offer him a job. Wil put the odds of this unlikely scenario at about five hundred to one. Since the door itself wasn’t forthcoming with any further information, he eventually decided it was probably better not to keep thinking about it. He settled for “Come in!” because that sounded more sensible than “Are you an axe-wielding homicidal maniac?”
There was a brief silence followed by a nervous shuffling outside the door and then a polite cough. A shadow moved across the frosted glass. Wil decided to take the bull by the proverbial horns.
“Come in!” he called, this time a little louder. No response. The shadow at the frosted glass moved suddenly and quickly in a downwardly direction, and the shuffling stopped. Thinking this to be a slightly odd reaction to a simple invitation, Wil walked to the door to see if someone had ducked down on the other side. Perhaps the person who’d knocked was lost and needed directions, he thought. Maybe he or she had simply fainted. This seemed much more likely than the possibility someone had come all the way up to his office on purpose. In the three or four seconds it took Wil to reach the door and open it, he considered three or four likely scenarios to explain this slightly surreal turn of events. As it turned out, none of these was even close.
An elderly, disheveled little man stood in the hallway, staring at Wil with an odd expression. Well, Wil realized, it was not so much that the man’s expression was odd; it was more that he was bent over at the waist so that his head was at the same height as his knees, and he was looking at Wil upside down.
“You’re much taller than I thought you’d be,” said the little man, matter-of-factly.
“That’s a coincidence,” said Wil, rising to the challenge. “You’re a lot shorter than I was expecting.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the man. “I didn’t know you were expecting someone.”
“I wasn’t,” replied Wil. “Are you Australian, by any chance?”
“Not the last time I checked. But if I was, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Having won this initial battle of wit, the little man straightened finally so that all the blood and corpuscles reddening his weathered old face could go back to the parts of his body they were originally intended for. At first glance this elderly gentleman seemed to tread a fine line between kindly and eccentric, with his white hair now sticking up like a haystack that had been run through by a tractor. “You’re Wil Morgan, the private detective?” said the little old man, thrusting out his hand. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Wil hesitantly accepted the handshake. The little old man was dressed in a pair of golfer’s plaid pants topped by a mustard-yellow jacket and a bow tie. Wil hadn’t heard the circus was in town this month, yet he half-expected this new arrival to be equipped with one of those old-style joke electric buzzers. But the little man seemed harmless enough, and his grip proved to be surprisingly firm and polite. Satisfied by the quality of the handshake, the little man nodded and abruptly strode right past a startled Wil and into his office.
Wil closed the door, slightly bemused by this turn of events. When confronted by crackpots, he always liked to engage them in conversation. He had never been particularly afraid of them and he’d never really known why, except for the fact that unrelenting nut jobs were often quite interesting, whereas Wil’s life was usually anything but. As far as Wil knew, there were no therapists or parole officers who worked in the Castle Towers, but if his oddball guest were forthcoming with the number of the office he was actually supposed to be visiting, Wil might be able to point him in the right direction.
As he turned, he found that the little man had stopped in his tracks directly in the center of the office and was now holding up a small vanity mirror, which he was using to scrutinize the etching on Wil’s office door.
“Ah, I see,” said the little man. “‘Wil Morgan, Private Investigator. Divorce and Insurance Cases Our Specialty.’ That’s very clever.”
“Not intentionally,” replied Wil. “But thanks anyway. Now what can I do for you, Mr.…?” He left the “Mr.” hanging at the end of the sentence in the vain hope the little man might respond with his actual name.
No such luck; Wil’s visitor began to move about the room to inspect its contents. Finding the broken-down package containing the golf club, he squinted at the shipping label and sniffed disdainfully.
“Are you a golfer, Mr. Morgan?” asked the little man.
“Only part-time,” replied Wil, slightly perplexed by the man’s ability to change directions so randomly. “I’m thinking of taking it up just as soon as I’ve worked out a few kinks in my swing, and a few more in my bank account.”
The little man sniffed again. “The Air-Max 2000,” he said as condescendingly as possible. “Drive it straight and long like the pros. I had one of these at one time.”
“Oh? How did it work for you?”
“It didn’t. Awful product. Fell apart in the packaging. I sent it back on numerous occasions but they kept returning it to me anyway. The only thing it ever drove was me, slightly crazy.”
“I know the feeling. Look, if you don’t mind I’m a little busy—”
“I left a message earlier on your answering machine but I’m not sure it was working properly,” the little man suddenly stated with a puzzled frown. “It’s a matter of some urgency that requires the attention of someone with your particular expertise, Mr. Morgan. I’d be most grateful if we could discuss the matter in public.”
“Don’t you mean private?” asked Wil.
“In a private investigator’s office? I hardly think so!” exclaimed the little man, slightly perturbed by the thought. “Everyone knows these places are always bugged. Why, you probably have ten or twelve of them in your office right now. One in the telephone, one each inside all of the light fixtures … you never know who’s listening to your conversations in a place like this. I’d rather we discussed business in a more populated area. I’ve found that people in crowds rarely listen to anything going on around them.”
The little man seemed to be getting mildly worked up, and Wil hoped this encounter wasn’t going to head further sideways before he’d had a chance to work out what the heck was going on. Besides, if there was even the
slightest chance that this was going to involve money coming in his direction, he wasn’t about to jeopardize such an eventuality. In the strangest way, what the man had said about crowds and public places possessed a curious kind of logic.
“I’ll have to draw up some paperwork,” Wil said. Inside his desk drawer were two different types of standard form, most of which had been used over the years for paper airplanes and doodling. He tossed a mental coin and fished out an insurance form. “If you’ll just provide me with some basic information and an outline of the problem. I want to be sure I can help you, Mr.…?”
“Let’s get to a public place first,” said the little man, fixing Wil with a steely gaze.
* * *
TEN MINUTES later, Wil found himself inside Mug O’ Joe’s standing in line next to his potential new client, wondering how on Earth he had gotten here and whether or not he should consider getting himself out of whatever it was he was in. He couldn’t remember walking with the little man to the coffee shop—more precisely, he could remember walking but he couldn’t remember anything that had been said between them. Wil felt cold and wet, to be sure, so it seemed fairly credible that he’d recently been outside. Nevertheless, the entire event seemed to be shrouded in frozen fog. Wil shuddered; he had never had a missing time experience before. This was all beginning to get just a little too strange for comfort.
Wil blinked, startled by the realization he was now at the front of the line and looking into the eyes of an indifferent teenager. He racked his brain, trying to remember if this was the same teenager he’d been arguing with just a short time before. But he was so thrown by the unsettling events of the last half hour or so that he just stood there, effectively creating a kind of Mexican standoff with the teenager, who wasn’t about to fire the first shot in this new exchange.
