Telephone
4.
 As Arthur Latchloose sat in his office working into the night, the phone rang.
Mr. Latchloose was a bit eccentric in matters like this. A phone was a phone, not a canary or a cricket or a radio, and it should behave like a phone. His telephone was a black rubber gadget that long ago rode up and down in an elevator of the Empire State Building, when that structure was still brand-new. Mr. Latchloose refused to own any gadget that didn’t behave as it should—so he was eager to find proper pencils that scratched on paper, scissors that snipped when they cut string, and clocks that ticked the seconds and rang the hours as a proper clock should.
Yes, the phone rang —it didn’t warble or chirp or play a song like the newer phones—it rang honest-to-goodness like one of the earliest models. Those old phones from his childhood did not really ring so much, as they made a shrill grinding sound that penetrated down halls and corridors, throwing echoes into every room. At odd moments, they rang bell-like and song-like. For the most part, however, such ancient telephones ground and grated and rattled, like silvery chains yanked back and forth among the skeleton hands of Anguish, Regret, Warning, and all the other Imps of Malaise, who hovered as shadows among shadows—totally unlike the angelic and beautiful souls that hovered above the skyline, whose lips were blue, and their breath like polar winds, but their eyes alight with hopes and dreams.
Now who could be calling at this late hour? Mr. Latchloose looked distractedly at the telephone that sat in a pool of lemon-yellow light beside his desk blotter. For a moment, he regarded the treasures on his desk, while contemplating whether he felt like communicating with anyone just now. The desk pad was of thick cowhide with thick, creamy blotter paper that had a few ink speckles—it once sat on the desk of a Seattle shipping king. The silver pen-and-pencil set bore the logo of an extinct airline that pioneered the skies of the 1930s. Ah yes, Major Jarlid. He’d almost forgotten. Latchloose lifted the receiver. “Yes?”
“Latchloose, do you have the money?” said a deep voice.
“Yes.” Arthur brimmed with excitement, but he knew how to play it cool and drive a hard bargain. “Jarlid, I thought you’d gone sour on our deal.”
“A deal is a deal,” said the booming voice on the other end. He sounded like a man who forever spoke with his chin buried in his chest, and had black burning eyes to boot. “I’ve had my share of bad luck since I retired from the service, and this clock is my last item of value to trade in for the money I need.”
Latchloose fought a quiver of interest, tempered with much residual suspicion. Then he calmed himself, remembering that he’d known Jarlid in the Army and he’d seemed like an upright fellow. Also, Latchloose had taken the precaution of visiting a Mr. Threadcarpet at the Antiquities Mongers Exchange, who had vouched for the integrity of Jarlid and the authenticity of his rare clock. “Very well, then, let’s get to it. I have yet to see the clock, and then I’ll debit your internet account.”
“I’ll be by in a few minutes to pick you up.” The Major’s voice had that commanding boom to it.
Latchloose blinked and leaned over to look out the window, which was rimed with frost. “Tonight? There is a snowstorm and—“
“Now or never, Latchloose.”
“And the price remains fixed as we agreed?”
“Solid as a rock, and no tricks about it.”
Arthur hemmed a little, hawed a bit, and then said: “Very well, I’ll meet you outside. How long will you be?”
“I’m coming around the corner as we speak, in my car.”
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Copyright © 2014 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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