Melting Clock Read Free

me to come over?”
    “No,” she said.
    “I’m sober,” I said.
    “I can tell. You never were much of a drinker, even on New Year’s Eve.”
    “I’ve had a depressing night,” I said.
    “So you’d like to come over and depress me?”
    “That was not my plan.”
    “You didn’t have a plan, Toby,” she said quietly. “You never have a plan.”
    And then I heard it—something, someone.
    “You’re not alone,” I said.
    She said nothing.
    “I’m sorry,” I said.
    “You couldn’t know,” Anne said gently.
    “No, I’m sorry you’re not alone.”
    “I hope you have a good new year, Toby,” she said.
    “Yeah.” I hung up, imagining Anne who, at forty-one, was dark, full, and might be considering her third husband. I had been the first. Ralph, the second husband, was another story.
    There was only one other person to call. I did it. A girl answered.
    “Who’s this?” I asked.
    “Tina Swerler,” she said. “The babysitter. The Pevsners are out. It’s after midnight.”
    “Did I wake up the kids?”
    “Lucy and Dave are asleep. Nat’s still up.”
    “Can I talk to him?”
    Pause and then, “Uncle Toby?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You on a case?”
    “Yeah,” I said.
    Nat was twelve. He knew better than to ask me if I’d killed anyone today. That was David’s question. David was eight and kept track of my murders in the pursuit of justice. The last time I had checked with David the count was sixteen. I was still well behind David Harding, Counterspy. The truth was I’d never killed anyone, and had only shot in the general direction of a few people in the ten years since I’d left the Glendale Police Department. I was and am a terrible shot.
    “Tina let me taste wine,” Nat said.
    “How old is Tina?” I asked.
    “Seventeen,” he said.
    “Tell your father and mother I said happy New Year. And tell David and Lucy. I’ll try to stop by tomorrow.”
    “You mean later,” he corrected me. “It’s already tomorrow.”
    “It’s never tomorrow,” I corrected him.
    “I guess,” he replied, perplexed. “Are you drunk, Uncle Toby?”
    “Not yet,” I said. “Good-night, kid.”
    “Good-night, Uncle Toby. Uncle Toby?”
    “Yeah, Nat.”
    “He doesn’t want to be called David, or even Dave. He wants to be called Durango.”
    “Durango Pevsner,” I said. “I’ll try to remember. Thanks. Good-night.”
    There was no one else to call. I wouldn’t go to Phil’s house in the morning. I didn’t know why. I just knew I wouldn’t go. I’d stay in my room till I went nuts. Then I’d go to my office or to a movie. Usually I could count on Gunther to accompany me to nearly any movie, but Gunther now had Gwen.
    I went into the bathroom I shared with Mr. Hill and Gunther, put Mrs. Plaut’s manuscript on the sink and looked at my face in the mirror. I had shaved before the party but I still didn’t look like Victor Mature. The hair was there and dark, mainly, with flecks of gray. The nose was flat and the eyes brown. The ears stuck out a little, which should have detracted from the image of the guy who shouldn’t be messed with, the guy who knows how to take a punch and how to give one. Only I hadn’t given many punches.
    I had a good face for my profession. Maybe I should have been better at it, but I lacked ambition. That was what Anne had always said, that I lacked ambition and was still about fourteen years old emotionally.
    Who the hell was Anne with tonight? No, don’t think that way. Next thing you know you’ll be listening in on phone calls, going through her garbage for notes, taking photographs from trees, and following her around to girdle shops.
    I went back to my room. My room at Mrs. Plaut’s was modest. Sofa with doilies made by the great lady herself, complete with a small purple pillow on which was sewn “God Bless Us Every One.” On the wall was a Beech-Nut Gum clock that told pretty good time, at least as compared to my watch. I took the watch off and put it on