by R.A. Graves
Glen was back at Old Charm Pawn early the next morning, a tight roll of ten thousand dollars in cash tucked snuggly into his pocket. With him was a boy, about ten years old. Glen led him to the counter with a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind I brought a business partner. I wanted my kid to see his new watch. Where is it?” he asked eagerly.
The old man pulled the watch from a bin beneath the glass case and set it on the counter top.
“It’s too big,” the boy said.
“You’ll have to grow then,” Glen said, “It doesn’t come in any other size.” He held a hand out over the counter. “May I have the leather swatch as well, or is that extra?” Glen sneered.
“It’s still in there,” the old man said. “You had expressed concern over the watch being ruined, and I didn’t feel that I could open it without some damage.” Glen clinched his jaw. “Not with the tools I have,” the man continued. “I can order some custom tools to be made, of course, I would need compensation.”
“This is time sensitive. I cannot wait for special tools, just open the watch. I’m staying right here until it is finished.” He flashed the wad of money at the old man and crammed it back in his pocket.
There was a knock at the door.
“Send them away so you can get to work,” Glen said.
“I never send paying customers away, and I’m not going to start for you.”
“They aren’t going to spend ten thousand dollars.”
“No, but I don’t think you are going anywhere with the mayor’s stolen watch that everyone in the world would like to get their hands on.”
Glen conceded and sank back to the rear of the store. The old man put the watch in the bin and motored to the front door,
Michael and Debora followed the old man as he rolled back to his place behind the counter and parked against the wall. His face was bare of expression as he looked out over his store of random items.
The book Michael purchased the day before contained a lot more information than he thought, and had only raised some more questions. Not only did it mention the complicator, but the Mayoral Replica as well. It seemed to link the two more that Michael had expected.
“We were hoping we could ask you a few questions,” Michael said.
The stool hummed and rotated so that the man’s face was aiming at Michael and Debora. “Questions about what? Who are you?”
“We were here yesterday, sir, we bought the book about ancient watches…”
“I just sell the stuff,” the man said. “I’m not a stinking librarian.” The stool hummed again and the man turned away.
Michael jabbed at Debora with an elbow, pointed with a glance through the top of the counter. Debora saw it too. The mayor’s watch was unmistakable. Michael cocked his head for her to go down the counter. She strolled casually, not knowing what the plan was. She stopped at a basket of rolled maps and began handling one, unrolling it. It caught the man’s attention and his stool buzzed over. “Samples are shown below, don’t unroll.”
“Michael quickly leaned across the counter top and took the watch from the bin. He put it in his pants pocket and tried to get Debora’s attention.
“Michael Bandolier,” a booming voice said from behind. It made him grip the watch in his pocket as he turned around.
“We met on the boat,” he reminded him.
Michael nodded.
“I take no offense if you don’t remember me. I know you have bigger things on your mind; my condolences for your loss.”
Michael cocked his head. “My loss?”
“Your grandmother.”
“Right, thank you.”
“You know, you should let me take a look at that watch you’re getting in the will. It could be worth something. He pulled out one of his business cards and offered it to Michael.
“I have one,” Michael said, but Glen held it out regardless. Michael took it with his free hand, the other sank deeper into his pocket covering the mayor’s watch.
“Do you have it now?” Glenn asked, pointing to his pocket.
“No, this is something else.”
A young boy came out from an aisle with a hat wrung in both hands. Messy hair proved that he rarely removed it. Glen pulled the boy in front of himself. “This is my son, Charles. He is a chip off the block; going to be a fine collector one day.” Glen looked down at the boy, who rolled his eyes upward, sheepishly agreeing.
“Mr. Bandolier, you’re not a good liar. Even the boy knows you have the replica.”
Michael shouted to Debora and tried to dash past Glen to the front door. He didn’t get far. Glen got hold of him and used his weight to guide him into a rack of wooden cigar boxes, sending them flying. The sound of snapping wood filled the store and Glen wrestled the watch free of Michael’s pocket. He got up and scurried away, knocking over a few more racks as he went.
Somewhere behind it all, Debora came fluttering out like a frightened bird. Michael scrambled through the mess and followed Glen toward the back of the store, where a door let out into an alleyway. He called back to make sure he wasn’t leaving Debora behind.
The store owner rolled after them, navigating his way through the wreckage until he was outside. His wheels sank into the soft gravel. The chair stalled, shook and buzzed as it tried to move on. The old man shouted and shook his fist high in the air. He pulled at the collar of his jacket, reached inside and drew out a small revolver. He fired a few fast and un-aimed shots down the already empty alley.
Glen was anything but athletic. Michael easily caught up with him and tackled him on a flight of stairs leading up to the roadway. Glen pushed him off and huffed and puffed a few more steps before Michael tackled him again. This time, Glen threw an elbow back. It caught Michael in the face and he tumbled down the steps. He blinked himself alert and saw a face hovering over him. It was Charles, the young boy, his hat in place on his head. The boy gave a quick kick. It was surprisingly painful. The toe of his boot rammed heavily into a rib bone.
Michael rolled away, sprang to his feet and darted up the steps. He looked both ways and saw Glen, not very far down the street, and chased him with Charles close on his tail. Michael lunged and tore Glen to the ground. The crowd opened a space for them as he wrestled for a grip on the large man. He got a hand into a pocket: no watch. He ripped his hand out and along with it came Glen’s money. The once tightly rolled bills came loose and exploded into a windy mess on the street. Pedestrians fought one another over them. Michael worked a hand into another pocket where he felt the leather band. He grasped the bandolier leather just as Glen shook free. Michael broke away with the watch clinched in his fist and rolled to a stop on the sidewalk. He stood up. “This belongs to Wind Quarry,” he said, holding the watch in front of him.
“No,” Glen said, “that is the replica of the blood right of the Great Tower Council.”
Michael clinched the watch doubly hard in hand and took off. There was no way a man in Glen’s shape would catch up, especially out of breath as he already was. Charles stood beside his panting father and watched Michael weave through the flow of pedestrians.
Michael and Debora took a trolley across the city and found a little café where they could rest and talk. They sat at a glossy white outdoor wrought-iron table set against a dark cobblestone wall. Their heads were leaned in to the center. Between them the mayoral watch laid flat.
“Looks ordinary to me,” Michael said.
Debora turned the watch by its band and agreed. “It must have some value though, if people are willing to steal it and sell it off to a pawn shop.”
“Not to mention collectors willing to lie and fight for it.”
“Either way,” said Debora, “it has sentimental value to a lot of people in Wind Quarry. They will be happy that you got it back.”
“Where were you, anyway?”
“What?”
“When I was getting beat up.”
“I went out the front.” Michael looked at her skeptically. “Everything
was a mess. The store owner had a gun.” She sat back in her chair. Michael turned the watch back to himself.
“Interesting. It does look a little like the watch Mr. Post is looking for, doesn’t it?”
“Did you hear that?” Debora asked. Michael looked up.
The café was busy. Waitresses in black and white blouses cut through the crowded tables with silver trays held high. The street was awash with foot traffic, the sound of shuffling mixed with the dinging of the diner’s tableware.
“Nothing unusual” he said.
“There it is again. It’s like a tap, or a pop.”
Ping.
Michael heard it that time. It seemed to have come from the right, but to that side was just the wall. He reached out and touched a clean white mark, a place where a little piece of the wall had been freshly chipped away.
Ping.
This time they both saw it. Something hit the wall chipping at the dark outer layer.
“I think we are being shot at,” Debora said. Michael didn’t believe it. He looked around the crowded street for proof: a gunman, anything. Another ping, this one very near his shoulder, gave him the validation he sought.
“Run,” he whispered, not much louder than the tapping against the wall.
They jumped up, sending the table flying and rolling into some customers sitting a few yards away. They made it the length of the wall and ducked behind it, peeked over the top for a sign of their assailant. They saw Glen coming in a slow half run. His face was rose-pink with exhaustion and glistened with the sweat of his labor. Coming ahead of him were two others: a massively thick man and a tall dark haired woman in a tight leather jacket.
“Keep running,” Michael said, ducking his head below the wall. They reached a split in the road and Michael pointed an arm. “You go that way,” he said, and they veered away from one another.
When Michael looked back again, he saw the commotion of someone chasing him through the crowd - the woman in the leather jacket. He ducked into an alley and took a flight of stairs up to a foot bridge that cut back across the street. The bridge continued through several city blocks with steps down to every sidewalk. Michael crossed over three roads, jutting around apathetic pedestrians and dodging bicycles. The woman in the leather jacket was gaining. Her steady stride had not changed. Her face, he could make out, was not tired. Her mouth was closed and her breathing was easy.
He saw Debora on the street below and called her name as she passed. He dropped the watch over the side of the bridge, hoping that she had heard him.
She saw it when it was halfway down and stuck out both hands. It landed in her cupped palms and she kept moving forward, unhampered. Michael was impressed. They may have come looking for the complicator, but it looked like they may very well be returning with Mayor Drasscol’s watch instead. Then Michael saw the big man pass under the bridge in pursuit of Debora.
Michael stopped and hung regretfully onto the rail, feeling like he hadn’t helped at all by passing the watch to Debora. She had already disappeared somewhere up the street, but it would only be a matter of time before the man caught up with her. The woman following him had caught up now. She slowed to a walk. Michael turned to confront her.
“Why do you want that watch so badly?” he asked.
The woman threw a punch into his stomach that made him double over and work for his next breath. She hopped over the rail and dropped gracefully to the street below, landing softly as if she were simply set down. Then she was off, running up the street after the watch.