The Clock Man

by Eric Lahti

  “What’s your name?” Zapp asks.

  “Jack,” the stranger says, “Yours?”

  “Zapp.”

  “Zapp?” Jack asks.

  “Zapp,” Zapp replies. “With two ps.”

  “Far out, Zapp.”

  They stare at each other; Zapp pale and wan, Jack clutching a stuffed jackalope. “You ready, zapper?” Jack asks.

  Zapp raises an eyebrow, wondering at the sudden familiarity but decides it’s just how Jack is. “You know what, Jack, I think I am.”

  “Need to lock up or anything?”

  “If someone’s that desperate for Zagnut bars and thirty-year-old maps they can help themselves,” Zapp says.

  “That’s the spirit buddy,” Jack says with a huge grin. “Let’s go shake the pillars of Heaven.”

  Zapp is unsure exactly what that means, but it sounds like something someone should say at a time like this. Shake the pillars of Heaven. Fight the good fight. If it bleeds we can kill it. Do the wrong thing for all the right reasons.

  He steps over broken bodies and shattered glass, pulls the door open and holds it when it tries to snap shut, and finds a piece of history parked in front of his store.

  Jack’s car is a sleek auto from a bygone time and, unlike most people, Zapp immediately recognizes the brand. “Is that a Cord 810?”

  “Nope,” Jack says and keeps walking toward the driver’s side door. “It’s an 812.”

  The car is a sleek throwback to the time when car design reflected an organic aesthetic. It’s a shapely and seductive ball of curves that draw the eye from the front to the back. The black paint has speckles of silver in it that glint in the late morning sun.

  “This isn’t a car,” Zapp says.

  Jack leans over the top of the car and peers at Zapp. “Oh yeah, son? What is it, then?”

  “It’s a dream on wheels,” Zapp says.

  Jack laughs that huge laugh of his, the one that says he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Hop in, buddy. Dreams never stay still for very long and you don’t want to be standing there when this one leaves.”

  Zapp takes a last long look at the Whiting Brothers store that’s been a second home for years. This morning it all seemed perfectly normal: a place to go and someone would send him a check. Now the front door is shot out and the inside is covered with things that really weren’t intended to cover stores. A part of him, a large part, wants to go back inside and keep the world he was used to. It was imperfect, it wouldn’t lead anywhere, but it was safe and safety feels like a warm blanket.

  He looks back at the car and his heart aches. He doesn’t have a damned idea who the driver is, where the car is going, or what’s down that road but it’s not covered with brains and puke or filled with aging candy bars.

  Zapp stares at the car but hesitates to get in. “What’s wrong, buddy?” Jack asks.

  “It’s just …,” Zapp says and trails off.

  “Just what?”

  “Well, it’s just … I feel like I should be wearing a suit or a nice pair of sunglasses or something before I get in this car. My jeans and T-shirt just don’t feel right,” Zapp says.

  Jack spreads his arms wide and stares at his reflection in the window. His beat-up leather jacket, Motörhead shirt, and faded jeans don’t look much better but Jack seems completely at ease in his clothes and skin. He grins and looks up at Zapp. “You’re right,” he tells Zapp. “You do need something before you get in this car.”

  “What am I missing? It’s the suit isn’t it?” Zapp asks.

  “Nope, wanna guess again?” Jack asks him.

  “Glasses?”

  “It is bright out here,” Jack says, looking around at the world. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a beat up pair of Ray-Bans and sighs with pleasure when he puts them on.

  “We’ve got some glasses inside,” Zapp says.

  “Wouldn’t hurt, but it ain’t what you need.” Jack tells him. “May as well grab those glasses, though, son. Mighty bright day today.”

  “Okay, then,” Zapp says. “I’ll bite. What do I need?”

  “Attitude, son. You need attitude. You can’t go through life thinking what you ain’t good enough. All the suits and sunglasses in the world won’t make you anything but you in a suit and sunglasses. Your buddy in there, Doc, you think he’d worry about glasses or a suit?”

  “Probably not,” Zapp replies. “But he was Doc.”

  “Yeah,” Jack says. “He was Doc. One hundred percent of the time, Clark Savage Junior was Doc Savage.”

  Zapp stands up a bit straighter and nods, pondering the existential notion that Doc Savage could ever be anyone other than Doc Savage. “I see your point,” he says.

  “You’re still gonna need them shades, though, son. Powerful sunny day today,” Jack says. “It don’t matter what pair you choose. It don’t matter what color they are or what they got written on the side. If they keep the sun out of your eyes that’s all you gotta worry about.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Zapp says.

  He darts into the store, grabs the first pair of shades he finds – Wayfarer knockoffs with pink arms – and returns to find the engine running and the passenger door open. Zapp pulls his wits about him, sucks in a deep breath, and hopes to live up to the expectation.

  The Cord 812 is smooth and sexy, so smooth Zapp barely feels it move. It’s been so well maintained or restored or whatever that there’s no way anyone would ever mistake this for a nearly hundred-year-old automobile. Zapp’s car, an ‘89 Volkswagen Scirocco, can’t even hit a bump with a part of it falling off but the Cord looks brand new. With a few after-market accessories, of course. Just like Doc, Jack doesn’t seem the type to drive factory spec.

  The inside of the car is appointed in buttery soft leather and enough polished wood to make a sizeable bar. That’s where the tradition ends, though. It’s unlikely the original Cord 812 came equipped with a heads-up display, a GPS unit, and a stereo that can blow women’s clothes off. The stereo is currently blasting some kind of electronic swing, a thumping mixture of jazz horns and bass beats.

  In the middle of the dashboard, right under a box that appears to do nothing more than hold a bunch of flashing lights, is a picture of a red woman with horns and a long tail. She’s obviously naked but twisted around so nothing is showing. It’s a skill apparently all women have developed.

  “Who’s the demon?” Zapp yells over the music.

  Jack’s head is bouncing in time with the beat, obviously lost in the music and the road. Zapp taps him on the shoulder and points at the picture. Jack presses a button on the steering wheel and the music stops. After the thumping jazz the silence feels almost oppressive. “What’s up, buddy?” Jack asks.

  Zapp points at the picture and asks, “Why do you have a picture of a demon woman on your dashboard?”

  Jack nods sagely and says in an absolutely serious tone, “First, she’s a devil not a demon. Never call a devil a demon lest you feel like seeing your innards.”

  “Why’s that?” Zapp asks.

  “Devils are smart, like us. Demons are automatons, critters the devils have made off in Purgatory or someplace like that. Calling a devil a demon is kind of like calling someone retarded. They don’t take too kindly to that. Kind of a high strung group if you know what I mean,” Jack says.

  “Duly noted,” Zapp replies. “If I’m ever in the company of a devil I’ll make sure to not call it a demon.”

  “Him or her, not it,” Jack says. “They’re people. Well, mostly. They’re really not that different from you and me. Sure their skin is different and the girls have those sexy tails, but devils are mostly just folk doing what they do.”

  “Okay, sorry. I didn’t mean any offense,” Zapp says. “Who’s this girl?”

  “That beautiful lady is my gal, Sally Anne,” Jack says with a huge smile. “Pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

  “You’re dating a devil?” Zapp asks, astonished. Like most people he’d always associat
ed devils with evil and bad things and wonders what their relationship is like.

  “Yup,” Jack says. “Happiest I’ve ever been.”

  Zapp opens his mouth to ask more questions but decides it would be impolite to pry into the guy’s personal life. He looks around the car and smiles. It’s not often one gets to ride in a car this old and well-restored. “Where’d you get the car?” Zapp finally asks.

  “Won it in a poker game,” Jack tells him. “The guy I beat wasn’t too happy to lose it, either, but it was the car or his balls. He still took twelve hours to make up his mind and, personally, I think he made the wrong decision.”

  “Heck of a poker game,” Zapp says.

  “It’s an honest trade,” Jack replies.

  They drive in silence for a few minutes down the road until Jack suddenly stops the car in front a dead end sign. He stares at the sign; brow furrowed and hands gripping the steering wheel. His knuckles turn white.

  Without looking at Zapp, Jack points a finger and says, “Past this sign there’s no going back. Sure you’re still in?”

  “What do you mean, no going back?” Zapp asks.

  “I mean no going back. That sign isn’t a lie,” Jack says.

  Zapp peers down the road but can only see one sign. “What, the one that says ‘Dead End’?”

  “That’s the one,” Jack says. “Most of the time those signs mean the road comes to an end unexpectedly. This is the eternal highway. At the end of it is a house.”

  “How can there be an end to an eternal highway?” Zapp asks.

  “The house is the beginning and the end of the highway. Keep going and you’ll always come back to that house.” Jack is making strange gestures with his hands, kind of up and down waving patterns like he’s imagining the car going over hills and around corners.

  Zapp peers down the road and sees nothing more than an endless ribbon of cracked asphalt and shimmering mirages. “Okay, “he says, “If you go past the house and always come back to it, how do you get back off the eternal highway? Is there an exit ramp or something?”

  “Something like that,” Jack says, pointing at the sign in front of them. “There’s only one way off this road and it’s a heck of a first step.”

  “Okay, how about you be a little less obtuse and just tell me,” Zapp says.

  “That sign will tell you everything you need to know,” Jack says, pointing forward.

  Zapp looks around, wondering if he missed another sign out there somewhere but all he can see is the sign that reads “Dead End.” He points at it and asks, “The one that says ‘Dead End’?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Okay,” Zapp says, wondering where all this is going, “I’ll bite. What is the sign trying to tell me?”

  “You gotta die to get off this road,” Jack says ominously.

  “Die?”

  “Die.”

  “I’m leaving,” Zapp says and reaches for the door.

  Jack’s hand darts out, far faster than it should be able to move and lands on Zapp’s shoulder. “Wait,” Jack says, “hear me out.”

  “You’re kidding right? I’ve got to die and you want me to hear you out? Are you insane?” Zapp asks.

  “Yes. But not in the way you’re thinking,” Jack says seriously. “No, look, there are lots of different kinds of dying. Innocence can die. Your faith in humanity can die.”

  “My patience can die,” Zapp adds.

  “See, there you are,” Jack says, gesturing wildly. “A part of you is already dying. Thirty minutes ago you were this quiet, shy guy and now you’re throwing out zingers.”

  “So,” Zapp says, “what is down that road that is worth dying for, even if it’s just a metaphorical death?”

  “You’re in, buddy. You may not realize it, but you’re in, balls to bone,” Jack tells him.

  “I’m not committing to anything,” Zapp says. His fingers are still on the door but his mind is no longer paying attention. Curiosity has him in its grasp and he knows there’s no way it will let go.

  “You’re committed, pal. You’re ready to go the distance just to see what old Jack has up his sleeve. You just need to admit it to yourself. If I told you the most important thing in the universe was at the end of this road you wouldn’t believe me so let’s just say the most important thing in the universe is at the end of this road,” Jack says with a sly grin.

  “I see what you did there,” Zapp says with a sigh.

  “Told you you wouldn’t believe me,” Jack says.

  Zapp looks out the front window of the car. He’s never been down the road in front of him but it promises action, adventure, and danger. Behind him is an empty stored filled with old candy bars and fresh blood.

  Quality or quantity, which is better?

  “What is it?” Zapp asks. “What’s down there and why do you want my help? I’m just a guy who sits in an empty store and reads books.”

  “And dreams of action, right? Adventure? Who cares what the movies say, everyone craves action and adventure. Save the world, get the girl, live large, am I right? You can go forward and some part of you will have to die to get out or you can go back to your store. A quick death with a promise of a little fun is that way,” Jack says, pointing through the windshield. He points his thumb backward and adds, “Or you can go back there, clean up blood and die by inches every day. You’ll get a longer life if you go back to the store, but a better one if you go to the house.”

  Quantity of life or quality of life, Zapp thinks. Go out with a bang or with a whimper.

  “Why do you need me?” Zapp asks again.

  “At the end of this road, in that house I told you about earlier, is a thing I need to get before someone else grabs it. I can’t touch it; I’m not innocent like you. It’s worth a lot,” Jack says.

  “To who?” Zapp asks.

  “What?”

  “You said it was worth a lot. Who is it worth a lot to?”

  “To me,” Jack says quietly. “It’s worth it to me to keep it away from the people looking for it.”

  “What makes you better than them?” Zapp asks.

  “I don’t want the damned thing. If I could throw it off the edge of the universe I’d do it but there ain’t no edge of the universe and I can’t touch it anyway. Only someone innocent can touch it,” Jack says.

  “That’s why you want me to come, isn’t it? Because I’ve never killed anyone. I’m innocent,” Zapp says, feeling disheartened. He feels kind of pathetic hoping a guy like Jack might have been a friend.

  “You’re a good guy, Zapp. Not many people anymore I can say that about,” Jack says, punching Zapp in the shoulder. “Besides, how many folk you know that get the Man of Bronze?”

  Zapp’s mood elevates slightly. What would Doc do in this situation? Would the man feel sorry for himself or would he tear off his shirt and go save the world? “This thing out there,” he asks, “it’s a big deal?”

  “It can change the balance,” Jack says. “Whoever gets it wins.”

  “What does that mean?” Zapp asks.

  “Balance is important. Go too far in one direction and good things can go bad,” Jack tells him. “Think of like this: there’s this old joke I like. What’s the difference between kinky and perverted?”

  Zapp shrugs. To date he’s only ever kissed one girl and it didn’t exactly go well.

  “Kinky tickles your ass with a feather,” Jack says. “Perverted uses the whole chicken.”

  “Are you saying someone will tickle my ass with a chicken?” Zapp asks.

  “Or something similar,” Jack tells him.

  “Kinky,” Zapp says, thoughtfully.

  “No,” Jack says. “Perverted.”

  They sit in silence, each pondering their own problems. Zapp’s mind keeps coming back to the idea of cleaning up blood and guts. He couldn’t care less about balance or chickens or who wins, but he doesn’t want to go back to slow death and he definitely doesn’t want to clean up the mess back at the statio
n.

  “Can I drive?” Zapp asks.

  Jack laughs. “Hell, no. Since I won it, I’m the only person that’s ever driven this car and as long as I breathe I’m the only one that ever will drive this car. I will, however, make you a bargain.”

  Disappointment is clear on Zapp’s face, but he didn’t really think Jack would hand over the reins to the Cord. “What’s the bargain?” he asks.

  “One thing is information, the other is a gift,” Jack says.

  “Information? About what?” Zapp asks.

  “After we’re done, Hoss,” Jack says. “You know that shed out back of your station?”

  “Yeah, what about it? It’s been locked ever since I started working there,” Zapp says. He’d gone round to the shed from time to time over the years, wondering what was inside. No matter what he tried he could never get it open.

  Jack reaches into his jacket and pulls out a shining key. “I think you’ll like what’s inside.”

  Zapp thinks over the deal. Information and a surprise. Knowing Jack, the information is some trivia about the pulp heroes of yore and the surprise is a shed full of stuffed jackalopes, but that’s more information and more jackalopes than he has now. “Deal,” Zapp says.

  Jack’s fist pounds of the steering wheel and he lets out a whoop of joy. “Fuckin’ A!” he yells. “Let’s shake the pillars of Heaven.”

  A melancholy song, musings about the universe played on a Chinese pipe, starts quietly on the car’s stereo. It sounds completely incongruous to Jack’s exuberance. Jack is grinning ear-to-ear and the music sounds like a calm hit of magical mushrooms.

  “You said that already,” Zapp says.

  “Gonna shake ‘em again,” Jack says and puts the old Cord into gear. His foot slams down on the accelerator and the giant engine roars. With a happy grin he pops the clutch and the car leaps forward.

  They shoot past the Dead End sign and the road changes. New Mexico roads are notorious for having maintenance issues. The more remote the road, the longer it’s been since anyone fixed it. A road this far off the freeway should be nothing more than potholes and cracked pavement but as soon as they pass the Dead End sign the road is smooth as silk.

  A horn starts to play, layered over the mournful Chinese pipes. For about thirty seconds the horn and the pipes argue with each other over who should be in charge. Eventually the horn wins out and the song switches from meditative to the jazzy beats of a forgotten speakeasy. The horn finds its place in the world and soon the deep bass of modern electronic music adds its voice to the piece.