Clocktower

by C. A. Valentine

  A building.

  And in front of it, a man in a violet suit.

  Sixteenth Movement

  Index

  Johnny squatted down in the grass and crab-walked over to a nearby thicket. The man in the violet suit was pacing back and forth. He held something close to his ear, and his face was periodically illuminated by the light of a long cigarette he kept between his narrow lips.

  It was freezing here—wherever “here” was—and Johnny soon found his nose and fingers had grown painfully numb. He tried to push the discomfort out of his mind as he inched closer and closer to the building.

  He stopped when he was close enough to overhear the man’s voice, and looked around to get a more solid grasp of his situation. Outwardly, the building had the appearance of an old castle or shrine. A three-meter-high wall that was topped with the same roof tiling as the building itself surrounded it, and there was no obvious point of ingress outside the front gate.

  After surveying the property, his eyes returned to the violet-suited man, who had just flicked his cigarette to the ground and stamped out the ashes. The details of his face were mostly obscure now. He was just a silhouette in front of bright lights emanating from the windows behind him.

  As Johnny sat crouched weighing his options, another person emerged from the entrance and motioned to the man, summoning him back inside. Johnny breathed a sigh of relief. He rose to his feet and did one last visual check for guards before tip-toeing his way forward to the front gate, coming to a halt against the outer wall. Here again, he did another check of the grounds before his eyes were met with the image of the same symbol he had seen tattooed on the courier boy’s hand. An ornate Victorian-style clock face with the hands marking six o’clock.

  Johnny scratched at his stubble with a frozen hand before cupping his palms and blowing fresh heat into his fingertips. There was something unnatural about this place, as if his eyes were on the verge of detecting an illusion. But just as his mind peeled back a layer of optical deception, it would snap itself shut like a trap and everything would seem perfectly normal again.

  He felt as if he were inside of an M.C. Escher painting. Before him was a building, solid and true. It’s architecture was apparent and sound. If it weren’t, how could it be standing before him now? But something in it was false. As he looked upon the high rooftops and decorative spires that jutted out of the top, he felt something amiss. He stared up at it for as long as he was able before rubbing his eyes and making a move for the front door.

  Johnny blew on his hands one last time before checking his revolver and cracking his stiff neck for good measure.

  He gave the door a push.

  In the milliseconds that passed as he stepped through the entrance, a hundred different scenarios played through his mind. Was there a guard at the door waiting for him? Would there be a need to quickly defend himself? Would the room be empty, or perhaps would he find himself in some shallow entryway that split off into hallways and staircases?

  But the answer was none of these. He entered into a room that wasn’t really a room, but an observatory staring down into a swirling hive of activity that he couldn’t quite grasp. There was a moment of panic in his mind as he took a step forward here, a fear that he would fall through this neon-blue chasm, but his foot met with solid glass, and the fear passed through him like the wind.

  “Welcome,” a voice called from the other side of the glass room. Johnny found a woman standing behind a U-shaped desk. She bowed when they made eye contact.

  “Please, step forward,” she said.

  Johnny returned his eyes to the translucent floor, and spied something trapped inside the glass. At first he thought it a bridge connecting one end to the other, but he quickly realized he was staring at the two hands of a watch locked in the six o’clock position. They were huge, easily two feet wide, and the minute hand upon which he was currently standing stretched out another ten feet in front of him.

  He walked cautiously, though his mind told him that there was no reason to do so. As he approached the center, he could more distinctly make out features that were unclear from an angle. A large, spiral staircase that ran along ever-narrowing white walls made cerulean by the ambient lighting. He could make out the shapes of several people below him. Some of them stood in groups of two or three. Waitresses, or what looked like waitresses, scurried from room to room. The world around and below him felt like something from a movie set in the near future. Everything was glossed, airbrushed and perfect, a complete reversal of the world he had come from.

  When he reached the other end of the glass chasm, he looked back up at the woman behind the counter and did his best to offer a greeting that beguiled his own bewilderment.

  “Good evening,” the woman started. “Are you here for an appointment?”

  Johnny collected his wits and shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said. “I’m here looking for one of your employees. Maybe you could help me out with that?”

  The woman tilted her head, seemingly perplexed at the notion. “I’m sorry, sir. But if you are not here for an appointment, then what are you here for?”

  “I just told you.” Johnny reached into his coat and pulled the picture of Mari Mishima out of his inside breast pocket, then slapped it on the counter in front of him.

  He kept his eyes fixated on her reaction as she took the picture in hand and studied it, her complexion turning pale as she did so.

  “I know Mari works here,” he said, snatching the photo out of her hands and returning it to his pocket. “So why don’t we cut to the chase and call your boss out here so we can have a little chat.”

  The woman’s fear turned into a smirk at the threat. “Ha!” she scoffed, taking a step backward. “I don’t know who you are or how you got here, but no one makes demands of Mamasama.”

  She reached a hand under the table and pressed on something just out of sight. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave,” she said.

  There was no sound of alarm, nor was there any indication that the doors behind him had locked. Instead, the cerulean lights that lined the walls briefly flashed a crimson that traveled down to the bottom of the hive, and ended somewhere out of sight. Two doors on either side of the observatory opened, and one man emerged from each. They approached him at a slow but deliberate pace which betrayed no signs of hesitation or fear.

  Johnny moved his eyes back and forth between them. They had identical faces. Identical goatees. Identical muscles and identical footsteps. The only difference was in the color of their suits. One wore violet, and the other wore sunflower yellow.

  “It’s him, aniki,” the one in the violet suit said when they had come within five feet of Johnny. “What do we do?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what do we do?’ We do what we always do. This one goes downstairs.”

  “Down there?” Johnny motioned to the rooms below.

  “Aniki,” the violet twin said. “He thinks we’re going to be taking him into The Buckle.”

  “You’re going to regret getting in our way at the Mishima house,” the sunflower twin said. “Now come with us quietly and we won’t have to break your fingers in half.”

  “I’ve got a better idea.” Johnny set one foot behind the other and bent his back knee. “You guys take me to Mamasama, and I won’t have to leave you bleeding on this wonderful glass floor.”

  There was no need for verbal retort now. Sunflower came first, like a train barreling down the tracks. He took two swings at Johnny that were deftly dodged. Johnny danced right, trying to keep them from encircling him.

  “Come on!” Sunflower pushed Violet out of the way and came stampeding forward again. This time, Johnny took him head on, parrying and dodging his punches as fast as Sunflower could release them.

  “Not so easy when you aren’t ambushing people who can’t see you coming, is it?” Johnny goaded.

/>   It was an easy provocation. Sunflower’s face turned rage red, and he let out a wild haymaker which Johnny ducked and countered with an uppercut, sending his attacker flying backward.

  “Aniki!” Violet yelled, taking his eyes off Johnny. It was exactly what Johnny had hoped for. He charged forward and leapt through the air, delivering a kick straight to the temple of Violet, putting him down next to his partner.

  “Now,” Johnny huffed, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to see your boss.”

  “See this!” a different voice yelled from behind the counter. It was the courier boy, armed now with a Japanese-style straight sword. He jumped forward with a sharp thrust that would have taken Johnny’s eye if he hadn’t reacted in time.

  What came next was a relentless flurry of attacks. Unable to parry the blade, Johnny was forced to constantly retreat. In the half-seconds in which they were separated enough for him to look around, he did so, but found nothing at all in the room or along the walls that he could use as a weapon.

  “Give it up!” the courier yelled, stringing together another series of slashes and thrusts. Johnny turned his attention back to the blade, trying to find some pattern in the attacks. But for all the good his powers of observation did him, he could find nothing in the chaos. A pair of slashes led into a thrust, or one slash would lead into a jumping lunge. It was an assault without reason or mercy.

  Despite his experience, Johnny’s stamina began to wane. The boy was at least fifteen years his junior, and though his attacks were relentless, not even a single bead of sweat stained his forehead. It was only a matter of time before this game was over.

  Seeking to remove the advantage of his opponent, Johnny leapt behind the U-shaped desk, causing the receptionist to scream and flee in terror. As he hoped, the courier made no effort to go around, but instead jumped straight over the counter, leaving his left arm out as he did. Seeing his opportunity, Johnny stepped forward instead of retreating, grabbing the open arm and throwing the courier to the floor.

  He came down in an awkward tumble, losing the straight sword in the process. Johnny kicked it out of reach, but no sooner had he done so than the boy shot back up and delivered a blow to the side of Johnny’s left eye.

  Johnny fell back, dazed. He began blocking and parrying as best he could, but every third or fourth blow would land, sending him reeling.

  After a series of hits to his ribs, Johnny pushed the boy back and tried to go on the offensive. But here, too, he found himself barely outmatched. After a long flurry, they both landed equal blows against the other, sending them flying in opposite directions.

  Johnny hit the glass hard. The adrenaline was no longer suppressing the pain in his sides and the burning in his throat. He looked over at the boy, who had landed next to his sword and quickly retrieved it.

  “Die!” the boy shouted as he took the sword in both hands.

  Johnny was left with no other alternative. He gripped the handle of his revolver and ripped it out of his shoulder holster, planting its black barrel against the heart of the courier, who in exchange pushed his sword straight at Johnny’s own chest.

  Johnny’s heart was fit to burst. He panted in exhaustion. The fight had been brought to a draw, but only through violating the one promise he had made to Mrs. Saito to follow during his investigation.

  Johnny looked the courier in his black, bloodshot eyes. “Shall we die together?” he asked.

  “Hmph,” the boy grunted. “You got lucky. I had you and you know it.”

  “Yet here we are.”

  The boy snickered. “Here we are indeed.”

  From the other side of the counter, Johnny heard the sound of feather-like footsteps between the moaning and grunting of Sunflower and Violet.

  “Another bouncer?” Johnny asked.

  “Not quite,” the courier answered.

  “Useless. Useless,” complained a haggard female voice that Johnny couldn’t see. “Kin! Gin! Get your asses in the back room before a proper guest sees you. And clean your blood off the damn glass.”

  The footsteps drew closer.

  “Amano, have you embarrassed me back here as well?” The shape of the woman appeared above the counter, though salted sweat in his eyes blurred her features.

  She looked down at the scene before her and let out a disappointed sigh. “It becomes clear now. The investigator, I presume? I see you got my invitation. Solved my little puzzle and passed my physical exam as well. Welcome.”

  “And you are?” Johnny asked, still unable to see her face.

  “Get off him, Amano. Let me get a look at him,” she said, ignoring his question.

  The courier, Amano, removed the blade-tip from Johnny’s chest, taking a few drops of blood with it. He rose to his feet and took two steps back. When Johnny felt safe enough to do so, he stood up and re-holstered his revolver, then wiped the sweat from his eyes and turned toward the woman in front of the counter.

  There was something familiar about her. A face he had seen once before. It didn’t take him long to remember, either. The photograph in the elevator of the hotel. One of the two women standing among the other founders of Sonnerie. She stood at a little less than five and a half feet, and though he knew her age had to be well over sixty, her complexion was such that she could have passed for a woman of forty. She looked at him with thick, full lips tucked neatly in a half smile.

  Her garb told him everything else he needed to know. A black haori worn over a dark brown kimono. The golden symbol of two hands marking the six o’clock position emblazoned upon her breast.

  “You’re an Index,” Johnny said once his breathing had relaxed.

  “Mutsumi Baba, the Sixth.” She bowed her head in greetings. “Up there, they call me Lady Baba, but down here in The Lugs, they call me Mamasama. I see you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting some of my staff.”

  Johnny looked behind her shoulder at the two men he had bloodied as they rose to their feet.

  “Kin and Gin,” she said. “My muscle. Although it seems even their combined brawn wasn’t able to lay a finger on you, hm?”

  Johnny took out a cigarette and lit it. “Seems that way,” he said, taking a drag. “And the little one?” he asked, pointing to his sword-wielding attacker.

  “Jack Amano. Say hello, Jack.”

  Jack did not say hello.

  “Another half-Japanese?” Johnny said, looking him up and down.

  “Hmph,” he snorted. A single drop of wine-red blood trickled down the side of his face, but he seemed not to notice.

  “Jack is my adopted son,” Lady Baba said, coming to Jack’s side and removing a cloth from behind her haori. She pressed it against his forehead, but he snapped backward and gave her a sharp look of annoyance.

  “Still a foolish child,” she said.

  “Mamasama?” The face of the receptionist appeared from one of the doors that the twins had emerged from.

  “Ah. Izumi. Everything is fine now. Please see to it that Kin and Gin clean up their mess before we return. I want this floor spotless, is that understood?”

  “B-but Mama . . .” Sunflower reached out his hand to object.

  “Silence your fat mouth, you blubbering idiot. Go to your rooms and wait there until I return, or else I’ll dump your bodies downstairs with the rest of the rejects.”

  The twins both gave exasperated bows and scampered off out of sight.

  Mutsumi Baba shrugged and turned back toward Johnny. “Well then, Investigator Tokisaki. I believe we have much to discuss.” She motioned at Jack, who pressed a button underneath the counter. From behind him, a large door in the floor slid open, revealing the first steps of the spiral stairwell.

  “Follow me,” she invited.

  Johnny fell in line behind her, with Jack bringing up their rear as they began their descent.

  “This is The Buckle,�
� Lady Baba said. “My domain in Sonnerie. My patrons are the elite of the elite. The sons and daughters of the Indices. The wealthy and successful of our fair city. Business owners, Church officials. All of them come here for their R&R.”

  Johnny tried to hide his amazement at the structure as they descended. From the top, there seemed to be just one floor, far below them. But here he saw that there were in fact several floors, each with their own bar and tables. The furniture here was white leather and wood, turned light-blue by the wall-lighting.

  Each floor was flanked by hexagon-shaped doors that led into what he imagined were bedrooms or other facilities for whoring and general degeneracy. The girls who worked here too were all nothing short of perfection. They wore mostly semi-transparent, white thong bodysuits topped with a collar around their necks with the six o’clock symbol marked upon it.

  On the third floor down, he saw one of the patrons—a middle-aged gentleman of smaller-than-average build—tap one of the girls on the shoulder and whisper in her ear. Johnny couldn’t see her face well enough to see a reaction, but she immediately took him by the hand and led him into one of the side rooms, shutting the door behind her as she did.

  Lady Baba seemed to notice this, and she turned back toward him, offering him a smile. “It’s a simple system. You see something you like? You take it. A drink, a dish, a girl. It doesn’t matter. People have their regulars, of course. Most men might talk big, but in the end they usually find one girl they like and settle with her from then onward. It’s rare to have a client who samples the whole menu.”

  Johnny stayed silent. Another floor went by, and as he sensed they were nearing the bottom, he overheard a familiar voice hollering from across the room.

  “What do you mean, ‘out’?” The irritated voice of Zachary Finch was instantly recognizable. Johnny turned his head and saw him sitting at the bar, shaking an empty glass at one of the bartenders.