Melting Clock tp-16

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “One of my kids, Al’s a banker,” the first guard said. “Got four kids and a bad ear. Four-F.”

  I nodded and looked at my watch.

  “Connelly wants to talk to you,” the second guard called from the phone.

  I strode through the gate past the teen Shore Patrolmen and took the phone from the guard.

  “Connelly?” I said with irritation. “My car broke down and I’ve got other stops to make. Will you tell these people to take me to your office?”

  “Who are you?” asked Connelly, who was a woman.

  “Bruno Podbialniak. Your boss called and said to bring you this cash now. If you don’t want to sign for it …”

  “My boss? Monesco?”

  “I guess,” I said wearily. “Will you talk up. It’s noisy out here. I’m late and I’ve got to get to Lockheed by four.”

  “Monesco isn’t here today,” she said. “He’s-”

  “Okay,” I interrupted. “That’s it. Porter can send someone else and you can tell your Monesco that-”

  “Wait,” said Connelly. “You have cash?”

  “Cash.”

  “Show it to the guard who was on the phone.”

  I handed the phone to the guard and opened the briefcase to show him the bills. He shook his head and spoke to Connelly.

  “Man has a lot of dollars,” he said. “Okay.” And then to me, “She wants you to give it to me and I’ll give you a receipt.”

  “Forget it,” I said, snapping the briefcase shut. “I was told to give it to Connelly personally and get a receipt. Besides, this is a twenty-dollar briefcase. I’m not donating it.”

  The guard got back on the phone and gave my story to Connelly. Then he listened, nodded, and hung up.

  “Says I should bring you over to payroll. Carl,” he called. “I’m bringing Mr.… uh, the gentleman to payroll.”

  Carl nodded back and the two Shore Patrolmen examined me. I frowned at them. I was a busy man. I followed the old guard to a khaki coupe and got in. We drove past Slips 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5.

  “What time you have?” I asked.

  “Quarter to twelve,” he said, pulling into a space next to a two-story building with aluminum sides.

  I got out quickly.

  “I know where it is,” I said, slamming the door as he started to get out. “Wait for me here. It’ll only take me a minute or two.”

  He shrugged and sat back behind the wheel and I hurried into the building with the briefcase. I pushed the door closed behind me and the world went silent. I didn’t have time to enjoy it. I bypassed a time clock and a rack of cards and moved past an office with a little window. Inside the office, a man sat hitting the buttons on an adding machine. A sign on his desk, gold letters on a black background, said he was Arthur Mylicki.

  I hurried down the hall looking in other rooms till I found an empty. I went in, picked up the phone and told the operator I wanted Arthur Mylicki’s office. Two rings and Mylicki answered.

  “Yes.”

  “Mylicki?” I coughed and continued in a hoarse voice. “This is Monesco. I’ve got a man with me from the bank. One of the guards is waiting for him outside your door.” I coughed again.

  “I heard you-”

  “Damn cold,” I said. “Had to come back. Payroll problem. Tell the guard Connelly will bring Podbialniak back to the gate when we finish.”

  I hung up before he could say anything else and turned toward the door. A thin man wearing suspenders and a green visor walked in.

  “Adding machine repair,” I said. “I don’t see anything wrong with your machine, Mr. Mylicki.”

  “You got the wrong office,” the man said. “Mylicki’s first door when you come in, to the left. Left of the door. Your right now when you go back.”

  “Sorry,” I said and went out. Mylicki was just coming out of his office. He went outside and I moved to watch him through the thick glass pane in the door. He talked to the old guard in the car, who nodded and backed his coupe out. I stepped back and waited till Mylicki entered and then moved slowly past him to the door. I watched while the guard drove back toward the gate and then I opened the door.

  When I stepped out something was different but I didn’t know what. Then I figured it out. The noise was gone. Not completely gone, but very nearly. I must have been close to a major lunch break for at least one shift, which meant I was late, maybe too late, not to mention that I had probably broken state, national, and security laws. I tried not to think about what would happen if I got caught. I also tried not to think that if I had gotten this far, how far could a real spy get?

  Slip 4 was empty. At least I didn’t see any people. I did see a ship about the size of a department store decked out in flags and a big “400” in white letters. The ship, the Koloa Victory, was ready to be launched, probably within a day. On both sides of the slip were steel towers, about four stories high, with cranes on top. I moved toward the platform that had been set up for a christening.

  I looked around. Nothing. Nobody. Somewhere, maybe on the ship, maybe on the wooden scaffolding around it, a chain clanked against the deck or the hull. I stood there for a minute, maybe two, and figured Taylor had either set me up or had decided not to wait.

  “You’re late,” came a voice from I-didn’t-know-where.

  “You picked a goddamn stupid place to meet,” I said. “How did you get in here? And how did you expect me to get in?”

  “The money in the briefcase?” he asked.

  I was getting a fix on him now.

  “Right here,” I said. “The clock and the painting first.”

  “Put the briefcase down,” he said.

  I had him now, the tower on the left, high up near the crane.

  “First the clock and the painting.”

  “I can shoot you and take it,” he said.

  “You can’t shoot straight. You couldn’t hit me at ten feet last night. You start shooting and I get under the tower and then head for the nearest guard.”

  Silence. At least no talking. The chain was still clanking somewhere and I could hear the crackle of a welder.

  “I’ve got your gun,” he said.

  I looked up at the tower, into the sun, shielding my eyes with the briefcase. I saw a figure leaning over the top.

  “Come up,” he called.

  It was up or out. I moved under the tower and found a ladder. It wasn’t much of a ladder and it wasn’t easy going up holding onto a briefcase full of money, but up I went. There was no reason for him to shoot me on the way. I would drop the money. I figured I was safe at least till I got to the top, and I was right. My arms were knots and my legs shaking when I reached the platform and pulled myself through the opening. There wasn’t much room, maybe the size of a small boxing ring if you take away half the space for the crane.

  “Good view from up here,” he said.

  We were about five feet apart. He sounded like Jim Taylor and looked like Jim Taylor, but he wasn’t Taylor. The skin gave him away. No pock marks. He had what looked like my.38 in his right hand. He was wearing gray slacks, a gray shirt, a hard hat, and a smile I didn’t believe for a second.

  “You work here?”

  “I work here. Put the briefcase down.”

  “You’re Taylor’s brother,” I said, taking a step to my left and holding onto the none-too-sturdy pipe railing while I caught my breath.

  “Put it down,” he ordered.

  I held the briefcase over the side of the tower.

  “Clock and painting,” I said. “I drop this and it’s snowing bucks over the Cal Shipyard.”

  “You drop it and you dive after it,” he said.

  “I give it to you and maybe I’m dead. No-if I’m going, I’m not leaving the money up here.”

  “Son of a bitch,” he said, looking at his watch. “Lunch whistle’s gonna blow any second. Gonna be a few thousand people right down there with lunch boxes.”

  “Let’s go down, get out of here and go where your brother has the
clock and the painting,” I suggested.

  “Okay,” he said. “You go first.”

  “Give me the gun.”

  “No! You nuts?”

  “I’m not going to shoot you. I brought the money. I want the clock and the painting. Besides, it’s my gun.”

  “No. I give you the gun and when we get to Jim, you take the clock and the painting and keep the money.”

  “It’s a problem,” I admitted, “but this wasn’t my idea.”

  The whistle blew. Actually, a lot of whistles blew, which meant it was noon.

  “Shit,” said Taylor.

  “How about this?” I suggested. “You go down. I wait till you get to the bottom and the place is crawling with lunchers. Then you tell me where Jim is. You have plenty of time to call him, tell him I’m coming. He’s got the rifle.”

  Taylor considered this.

  “You’re a smart-ass.”

  “Better a smart one than a dirty one.”

  “Jim told me you’re a smart-ass. You know why I set this up? Because I’m smarter than Jim. I’m five minutes older and five times smarter.”

  “I can see that,” I said.

  He took a step toward me and I extended the arm with the briefcase farther over the railing. It didn’t stop him. He shoved my revolver into my stomach.

  “Give it,” he said.

  I swung the briefcase around and hit him in the head as I threw myself against the crane. His hard hat went flying over the side of the tower. He fired a shot that went wild, in the general direction of Jupiter. I hit him with the briefcase again, this time in the hand with my gun. I hit him hard. I hit him as if my life depended on it. I didn’t like it up here.

  He dropped the.38. It clattered behind me. I dropped the briefcase, turned my back on Taylor and went for the gun. I saw it, about five feet away, the barrel hanging over the edge of the platform. I went flat on the wooden deck and reached for the gun. Taylor jumped on my back. I don’t know if he came knees or feet first. I lost my breath, what was left of it, and knew I had a good chance of being both sick and dead. He was crawling over me toward the gun. I reached out and pushed it over the edge. I didn’t see it fall but I did hear someone below let out a yell and I heard a shot. The.38 had discharged when it hit the ground.

  Taylor had to make a choice now. If he threw me over, there was no way he could get away with the briefcase. I didn’t know how many people were down there now, but I could hear voices and one in particular that said, “Up there. Hey, look at that.”

  Taylor grabbed the case. I rolled over as he started down the ladder. I got to my knees, threw up, felt a little better, eased over, and started slowly after him. He was in much better shape than I was now, and going down fast. I looked down and tried to shout. Nothing came out. I gulped and then gave out a dry yell.

  “Stop that man! He’s a spy!”

  I didn’t look down again. I climbed as fast as I could and almost bumped into Taylor, who had stopped about twenty feet from the ground, where a crowd of spy haters had congregated.

  “He’s lying,” Taylor said. “I work here. My name’s Taylor. Pipefitter. Section Twelve.”

  “Spy,” I said. “I’m F.B.I.”

  Taylor looked up at me and I whispered to him, “We can still walk with that money. You want to deal?”

  He gritted his teeth as he looked up at me, but he nodded.

  “We’re coming down,” I said. “Give us room. He just surrendered.”

  Sounds of applause below as first Taylor and then I hit the ground.

  “You want help with him?” a guy with a chow-chow face said.

  “We’ll be fine,” I said, pushing Taylor ahead of me. “I’ve got some men waiting for us at the gate.”

  “Here’s your gun,” said a woman with a snood and incredible breasts. “I think it’s broke.”

  “Thanks,” I said, putting the.38 in my pocket.

  It was more than broken. It was dead, but I didn’t want to leave it here.

  “Back to your lunches,” I shouted. “He won’t give me any trouble.”

  It took us about a minute to clear the crowd. A couple of people patted me on the back and one or two took a swing at Taylor.

  “Where’s your car?” I asked.

  He didn’t talk, but he did move to his left toward a line of cars across from Slip 3. I followed him to a black Ford. He got in; I put the briefcase in the back seat and rummaged around in the glove compartment. There was a greasy cloth behind some candy wrappers. I took it out, removed my windbreaker, threw it on the floor in the back, slumped over and covered my face with the cloth.

  “Go to the gate. Tell them I poked my eye out on some machine and you’re taking me to the hospital,” I ordered. “Drive fast and make a sudden stop. Look scared, panicked.”

  “You’re gonna lose more than an eye today,” he said.

  “I’m glad we’re friends again,” I said. “Drive and remember the full briefcase in the back.”

  He drove and it went just fine. Under the cloth I moaned, groaned, and screamed. I could tell from the voice of the guy who stopped us that it was the old guard who had driven me to Payroll.

  “Go on, go on,” he said. “I’ll call and tell them you’re coming.”

  Taylor pulled into the street, and I turned my head and watched us shoot past my Crosley.

  All in all, I was having a good day.

  9

  Taylor drove up Western. We didn’t talk. I didn’t have a plan and I was sure he was working on one. Once I was wherever we were going, there wasn’t much to keep him and his brother from taking the money and keeping the clock and the painting. Or, for that matter, from keeping everything and sending me back in the briefcase.

  I didn’t get much time to think about it. Taylor turned right when we hit Rosecrans and then a few blocks later he turned left. We were on a street of little once-white one-bedroom houses that probably looked tired the day they were finished. There wasn’t much room between the houses but the community made up for it by letting the weeds grow tall and the jungle make a comeback.

  A pair of old guys were sitting on a porch next to the house we pulled up in front of. One old guy was sloppy fat, wearing a blue shirt with the pocket torn not-quite-off. The guy he was talking to was thin, dressed in a suit and tie and sitting straight up with his hands in his lap and his eyes watching us get out of the car.

  “Taylor,” called the fat man.

  Taylor jumped out of the Ford and waited for me to get out with the briefcase. He didn’t bother to look at the fat old man.

  “Guy here’s been waiting for you,” said the fat man, looking at the well-dressed thin one.

  “I’ve got no time,” Taylor said, moving toward the house we were parked next to.

  We started through the veldt and the thin man came alive, jumping out of his chair and cutting through the underbrush to head us off. He just beat us to the door.

  Up close he didn’t look as old as he had from the street, but neither did he look as well-dressed. His jacket was rumpled. His pants were worse, and the collar of his white shirt was frayed. I didn’t like his tie either.

  “Mr. Taylor?” he said, looking at both of us and barring our way to the door.

  “Him,” I said, pointing at my buddy.

  “James Taylor?” the thin man asked.

  “John Taylor,” Taylor corrected sullenly. “I’ve got no time. Out of the way.”

  The man didn’t move.

  “My name, Mr. Taylor, is Frank Buxton. I came in response to James Taylor’s call. He said I should be at this address one hour ago, that he had a clock of unknown vintage he wished me to evaluate. I knocked at the door but there was no answer.”

  “Forget it,” said Taylor, muscling past Buxton. “We changed our mind.”

  “Then,” said the thin man, “you will still have to pay my fee for home and office estimates. Twenty dollars for the time I have wasted. Eighty cents for gasoline.”

  “Send me
a bill,” growled Taylor, putting his key in the door.

  “Payment now would be preferable,” said Buxton. “In fact it is essential.”

  Taylor had stepped into the darkness of the house but had left the door open for me. Buxton turned to follow him but I put a hand on his arm and said, “Hold it.”

  He stopped, turned, and waited while I reached into the briefcase and came out with a bill. It was a fifty. I handed it to Buxton. Taylor was back in the doorway.

  “Get in here, Peters.”

  “I have no change,” said Buxton, standing there with the bill in his hand.

  “Keep it,” I said. “What time did Taylor call you?”

  “Get in the house, Peters,” Taylor said threateningly.

  “At nine this morning. Said it was urgent.”

  “Thanks,” I said and followed Taylor inside.

  He closed the door and I stood there waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light trickling in through the closed shades and half-drawn curtains of the living room.

  “John,” I said. “I think you and Jim were planning to be greedy. I think you and your brother were planning to take Dali’s money and keep the clock.”

  “Only if the clock was worth a lot of money,” he said, walking across the room and pulling back the drapes.

  The room wasn’t exactly washed in light now, but I could see a little better. A green sofa with wooden arms sat against one wall of the room. There were spots on the green, turning white from too many bodies and too much sweat. The once-dark wooden arms were scratched with dirty yellow lines. There were two other chairs in the room. One was red, a washed-out red that had given up trying to look like silk the night Taft took his first bath in the White House. The remaining chair was blue with embroidered tree leaves only slightly darker than the background. There were two lamps, one on an end table between the chairs and one floor lamp trying to be modern but missing it by two decades. Newspapers were open and everywhere.

  “Charming place you have here,” I ventured.