|
Page 8.
Chapter 7.
 Jeff stared at the man on the rooftop.
"Dr. Maxxon?" The man stepped forward, whisking the cigarette from his mouth in a smoky arc. He dipped into a soggy coat pocket and produced a twinkling gold shield. "Detective Sergeant Vincent McCarthy, RCPD. Thought for a minute you were going to fall off there."
Jeff smiled coldly. "Not even close, McCarthy." He shook off the memory of that brief depression, still wondering where it had come from. "How come you know my name?"
McCarthy pocketed the badge while smoke bearded his face. "I'm doing some special work for Mr. Beering. He said you're in town."
"And you followed me up here?"
McCarthy's turn to smile. "Sure."
"Am I supposed to be angry?" Secretly he wasn't. Here was a cop when you needed one.
McCarthy flicked away the cigarette stub. "Maybe we should work together. After all, since we're looking for the same guy, anything you do is of interest to me."
Jeff stepped in out of the rain, squeegeeing his fingers through his hair. He felt faintly embarrassed.
"Time kind of grinds us all, doesn't it?" McCarthy said in a sudden flight of abstraction. "We don't see it, but it eats us alive, every second, every minute. That's why sometimes I like to stand and stare into the big clocks. All those giant cogs and wheels and levers give you the illusion that you're seeing huge chunks of time being processed and maybe you're in control somehow. It doesn't help any, but it's almost reassuring."
Jeff said: "Let me guess. You write poetry too."
"No, but I play French horn in a Christmas band. Don't look at me that way, I ain't kidding."
Jeff laughed. "I could hum along on a kazoo. Would that qualify me?"
"I could take it up with the maestro," McCarthy said. "Say, you look like you could use a cup of coffee."
"Yeah, that sounds good."
They found a company canteen, and the coffee tasted good. Jeff patted his face dry with paper towels. It was one of those afterthought rooms, with a couple of candy machines and a coffee maker on a counter, jammed in between cardboard boxes of inventory and supplies. Several ladies in bouffant hairdos and pastel smocks made an explosive mixture of talk, perfume, and smoke.
McCarthy leaned close. "Did he show you the picture of his relative?"
Jeff perked up. "Yes, well as a matter of fact he did." He remembered the picture of the young, prematurely balding man.
McCarthy nodded. "An odd little thing, huh? I can't figure it. Apparently there is this relative of his, who might be getting into trouble, what the fuck do I know? He won't say if it's a grandson or what. I'm supposed to watch for him, and the only clue old man Beering has is, the guy might show up around one of the big clocks. Can you beat that?"
Jeff frowned. "Could this possibly have anything to do with the dead lady who got all ground up in the Aero Atlantic clock?"
McCarthy brightened. "That's what I was kinda wondering."
Jeff stared at McCarthy.
"No matter," McCarthy said, finishing his coffee. "Look, we're bound to cross paths again." He reached into his coat, then laid a business card on the stained table. "Call me if you run into this guy."
|
