Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) Read online

  “I suppose. If only...”

  “If only what?”

  “If only what I found within the walls behind that giant’s clock didn't rob me of my ability to clown.”

  “Ah-ha! Now we are getting places! What did you find? Some unspeakable terror?”

  “No terror, Alan. Only beauty.”

  “Ah, beauty...even more troublesome.”

  “You don't know the half of it.”

  Chapter Three

  Watch Shop

  Kitt slapped my shoulder as I stood there, staring at the giant advert, the oversized paper clock face that was propped against the side of the building.

  “Just a moment,” he said. “I promise you.”

  I walked up to the front door of the establishment and found boards nailed excessively across it. I couldn't even get a firm grip on the doorknob or read the entire nameplate below its peephole.

  “Mister Ro...something, something,” I mumbled, squinting at the letters before me. “Licensed....something…tchmaker.”

  “Watchmaker,” Kitt pointed out. “It's a watch shop.”

  That would, I suppose, explain the giant timepiece.

  “A watch shop?” I repeated. “What do you care about a watch shop? And look, it's boarded up.”

  “Yeah, that's the idea.”

  “Eh?”

  “Come on, Pocket. Think a little.”

  I did and soon found Kitt’s implication. I also found anger and only slightly suppressed it.

  “You mean to rob this place?!?”

  “A little, yes,” he nodded, inhumanly casual. “What's the problem?”

  “What's the problem?!? Are you serious?”

  “I told you I was a thief.”

  “I know.”

  “You kept bringing it up.”

  “I know, but...I figured you were picking money off of people on the street for food or whatnot. Essentials.”

  “That’s exactly what I do. Nab a few pounds here or there. Essentials.”

  “Well, picking pockets is slightly different from this.”

  “How?”

  “How is it different from breaking into a place of business and cleaning out its valuables?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It's very different.”

  “Oh. Well, I'm not sure that I agree.”

  Call me vain, but I have often thought that this world would turn just a little more smoothly if people refrained from arguing so often with me and instead took comfort in the assumption that my opinion is more than likely the correct one.

  “Is that so? So you're a pillar of ultimate wisdom now?”

  “No, Alan. Not a pillar of ultimate wisdom. But not a pillar of complete stupidity.”

  “Forgive my doubt.”

  “Done. Shall I forgive your sarcasm as well?”

  “No. I'm pretty proud of that.”

  I was having a hard time convincing Kitt of my point of view, which made me nervous as he still had his hands on my bottle.

  “The way I see it,” Kitt began. “Breaking into a watch shop is by far the lesser sin.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “It's abandoned, right? That means whatever was left inside was left behind. There's no one around to miss it. I feel much guiltier about the money I take from living people.”

  “I don't know. What makes you so sure there's anything in there worth snatching? Even if you don't get caught, it's just a closed-up watch shop.”

  “Heh. You don't read the papers, do you?”

  “Not often.”

  “Well, I do. Quite often. Usually the day after, when they throw out the unsold editions. Keeps my interest. Politics, humor. I'm especially fond of the obituaries.”

  “So?”

  “So, every so often, they'll announce the closing or abandoning of a home or business as a result of an occupant's death.” He pointed up at the giant clock face. “Understand? The old man who owned this shop recently passed. Paper said he lived in the upper quarters of the buildings, barely left the place. And since he had no living relatives or friends to speak of, not even a business partner or apprentice, the shop naturally shut down when he did. The King himself orders the doors sealed with the deceased’s personal effects inside. Sort of a watchmaker's tomb. Sad.”

  “The King? That doesn’t make sense. What does he care about a dead old man and his corner shop?”

  “I don't know. Probably some political tactic.”

  “Tactic?”

  “Sure. Build morale and win over some of the more persistent doubters among his people. You know, put on a bit of a show of compassion over some forgotten merchant that nobody never really noticed, cement that ever-fragile image of the People's King, the man who cares for all.”

  “You have a lively imagination. Do you know that?”

  “And all the while, the city’s left with a neatly undisturbed collection of possible treasures, and I intend to make good use of them. Get it?”

  “Almost. One question.”

  “What?”

  “Why do you need my bottle?”

  Kitt grinned.

  “To do this.”

  He took a running start around the front of the building and threw my bottle into the air. The spherical lump of corked glass hooked and arched and punched through a glass window that stood on the higher floor. The shattering clash of the windowpane shook the quiet night for a moment with its clatter before returning the scene again to a chilled silence.

  I was boiling.

  Glaring wildly at Kitt, I instinctively made a fist.

  “What?” he said innocently. “You're mad again.”

  “What the hell did you do that for?!?”

  “Oh. See, that's why I needed it.”

  “Because you wanted a projectile?!?”

  “I couldn't find a big enough rock. I have this sorta wrench thing tucked away in my jacket, but I wasn’t sure it was solid enough to break the glass.”

  “You could’ve tried!”

  “Anyhow, your bottle felt sturdy. It's probably okay up there.”

  I couldn't find the words. I just couldn't. I think Kitt took this as an opportunity because he quickly started moving again.

  “Wha...where are you going now?” I demanded to know.

  “Hold on a moment!”

  He began tearing at a pile of discarded debris that was sitting on one side of the watch shop. Mostly rotting, wooden crates. Garbage. He quickly pulled and pushed, moved and stacked. Before I knew it, he had constructed a teetering tower against the front of the building, and I could guess his motivations.

  “You'll kill yourself on that pile,” I said. Kitt chewed on his cheek and put his hands to the base crate. He pushed and punched against it. The makeshift ladder of trash wobbled but remained intact. Kitt seemed satisfied at this and smiled. With gusto, he lifted his foot and ascended the first box.

  “Watch this,” he said.

  “Look, is this really necessary? You could be arrested.”

  Worse than that, I could. Accessory to a crime.

  “You want your bottle back, don't you?” Kitt said, climbing to the next crate.

  “It's still pointless,” I said, crossing my arms and watching him cling to the stack. “This mess isn't even tall enough to reach that window. Not by a long shot.”

  Kitt snickered and kept climbing. When he reached the top, he stood and centered his balance. To his immediate right stood the giant advert. Gently, he reached out and clutched the oversized minute hand.

  “You don't mean to climb that, do you?” I called out to him.

  “Can't think of a better way,” he called back.

  “But it's paper.”

  “Reinforced paper.”

  “You'll go through it like a stone.”

  “Re-in-forced.”

  “Fine. By all means, run the clock. I'm interested to see how fast you'll fall.”

  He ignored this and leaned his weight toward the minute hand. The paper
clock was set to 9:35, meaning that in order to scale its face, Kitt would have to inch his way up the slanted minute hand then walk right-to-left across the hour hand. At the end of the hand, he'd have to make a solid jump into the broken window. A single misfire and he'd most likely be sent falling to the earth. I began to feel a twinge of concern.

  “Hey, fox,” I called up.

  “Yes?”

  “You don't need to do this.”

  “I don't? Well, thanks for letting me know.”

  He hopped from the pile of trash onto the minute hand and clutched on tight. As he jumped, his left heel kicked back against the rickety top crate and the pile came tumbling down. I frowned, but Kitt just looked down at the debris and smiled at me.

  “Point of no return!” he announced.

  As I’ve said, the fox is a headache.

  Kitt slowly gripped the sides of the minute hand and moved upward, slowly but playfully. When he reached the center of the clock face, he twisted his body and threw a leg over the hour hand like a child reaching a tree branch. He pulled himself up and was soon standing on the hand. He gave a triumphant wave down to me.

  Headache.

  “All right,” I said to him. “Enough showing off. Just tiptoe your way over and...”

  Kitt took a running sprint down the thin black line, making the paper shape bounce under his feet. As he reached the end he took a diver's leap headfirst into the air and into the broken window. As he vanished, I heard a loud crash.

  “Kitt?” I shouted up. “You okay in there?”

  He didn't hear me so I frowned and pushed my back against the front door. I was cold and had little to do now except wait. And I hate waiting.

  Minutes rolled by and I became impatient. With luck, I was able to eventually pry the nailed boards off of the front door. Little good it did me, for the door behind was solid and wouldn't budge.

  “Kitt, are you back there?” I shouted into the door. Nothing. I should have left, just bid my bottle of essence goodbye and take off for someplace warmer. Let the little thief enjoy his dusty watch shop.

  I should have melted off into the night somewhere.

  Instead, I began banging a rather angry symphony on the front door, a stupid move considering what happened next.

  “Evening, son,” said a man in blue, coming up the way.

  “Oh!” I replied, pivoting quickly around. “Evening...constable...”

  The front door started to open behind me. I put my heel to it and forced it shut before the officer could notice.

  “Can I help you?” I asked, a picture of innocence with a boot to the door.

  “It’s late out,” the man said, coming within arm's length.

  “Yes. It is. Very.”

  “Very,” he repeated. “And this place, this—”

  “Watch shop.”

  “Yes, thank you, this watch shop, it's very closed.”

  “Certainly seems to be.”

  “But you were knocking.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You were knocking.”

  “Was I?”

  “You were.”

  “Oh, right, sure. No, not knocking. Merely drumming my fingers. Trying to beat a little warmth into them in this cold. I've worn the tips of my gloves down to holes, you see.”

  I showed him my bare fingers. He rubbed his chin for a moment then made a quiet sound I didn't like at all.

  “What's your name, son?” he asked, raising his eyes.

  “Will...well...uh, that is....”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Christopher,” I said. No point in dragging out the proper monikers at this time of the night. It was far too late for introductions and even farther for telling the truth.

  “Christopher what?”

  “What?”

  “Christopher what?”

  “Christopher what...watt....yes.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Watt. Christopher Watt. W-A-T-T.”

  “Watt?”

  “I am. Nice to meet you.”

  “Of course,” he said in a dry tone. “Mister Watt, do you realize that you are knocking on a condemned building?”

  “Oh? I suppose that explains all the boarded doors and windows.”

  “Yes...”

  “Well, you know, like I said, just trying to keep my fingers warm.”

  “Right...Mister Watt, in the future may I suggest you knock your fingers on a street lamp? Abandoned buildings attract thieves and bums. You wouldn’t want one of those on your heels.”

  “No, I certainly wouldn't.”

  “Right, well, good evening then, Mister Watt...Watt...tell me, are you by any chance related to the Scot?”

  “The Scot, sir?”

  “James Watt, son. The inventor. Steam engine.”

  “Yes! Yes, I...I am...James is, um, my father.”

  “Is he?”

  “That's right...my father...the...Scot.”

  And to my surprise, the officer chuckled and slapped me on the shoulder.

  “Good man, your papa,” he said. “Went and birthed the bloodline of this city, you know?”

  “Suppose he did.”

  “Sound a little prouder. Must feel like your very own city, boy.”

  .“At times.”

  Another laugh. “Well then, Christopher, son of James, you have a safe night.”

  “And you sir.”

  Go away, I remember shouting in my head at the man in blue. For God's sake, go away before—

  “Let me guess, Pocket. Something fantastic happened.”

  “No, not at all. He tipped his hat at me and went about his way.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah...well...not every bit of the story can be fantastical.”

  “Mmm...quick thinking with that Christopher talk though.”

  “Not really. It's my middle name.”

  “Mmm...”

  “Hang on. It gets more interesting.”

  “You've told me that before.”

  I felt myself go weak and I crumpled against the building, my heartbeat a punching drum. There was another push at the door. In a moment it was open, swinging on his hinges. Kitt strolled out.

  “There we go!” he grinned. “Up and back and not a scratch on me. Hey, was that the police?”

  Snow began to fall again.

  “Kid's a pain, isn’t he?”

  “He's a good enough sort, Alan. He's just...”

  “Inconvenient?”

  “Heh. Perpetually so.”

  Kitt quickly ran back into the building as I stood blanketed in snowflakes. I caught the front door before it closed again and whistled at him. He stopped in his tracks and came back over.

  “What's the problem? You're letting snow in.”

  “Where's my bottle?”

  “Oh, I dunno. Probably still upstairs. Lotta junk up there. I didn't check.”

  “Kitt!”

  “What? It's up there. Come up and look while I take care of things.”

  “I'm not going to rummage through an abandoned building while you rob it. Are you mad?”

  “Fine. Stay outside. Be wet and cold.”

  The fox scurried away. Keeping the door cracked with my right foot, I decided to stick to my morals and wait in the snow.

  “Hmph...not so cold...”

  I rubbed my fingers.

  “Not worth it. Not for a silly bottle of green goop.”

  The snow fell harder.

  “You're too nostalgic, Pocket. So you lose your essence. So what? You give it up at bar tops all the time.”

  I laughed. The snow began feeling wetter. I realized it was turning into rain. Soon I was standing in a faint shower.

  “Hmph...still not that cold...”

  Wet. I rubbed my fingers again and shoved them in my pockets. I smiled a sarcastic grin as I remembered what I possessed. I pulled a long, purple cigarette, one of four, from inside and put it between my lips.

  “Okay, old man. Let's look for
a little magic.”

  I had a match. Tried twice in the thin rain to light it. Nothing. I got lucky on the third strike, the rain probably stopped for a second, and a small flame sparked up. I put the match to my mouth...and...splash. A raindrop hit the light, killing it. I flicked the match and crumbled the cigarette in my hand. For some reason, it irritated me. Don't ask me why. It was late.

  The rain got harder. I peeked into the slit behind the door.

  “Hmph...Don't know what you hope to find in a watch shop!” I shouted in at Kitt. I don't think he heard me.

  Fine, I at last conceded, shaking the water off of my coat. It’s not like I had anything more interesting to do.

  I left the rain behind and walked into the former home of a watchmaker. Wet rain outside made the snow mushy and buried a purple paper wad in the dark.

  The front room of the watch shop was uninspiring to say the least. I apologize, dear reader, if after sitting through the previous set-up of breaking into a deceased craftman’s residence, you were anticipating a revelation of unthinkable treasures and mind-melting wonders. I'll admit that I too was half-expecting a trove of pricey pilferables when I entered the room. As I brushed my shoulder through the doorway, I was sure I'd see Kitt with sparks in his eyes, rainbows over his head, and pound signs in his pupils. I thought I'd see the plucky thief, an image of heartfelt yet unscrupulous youth, filling his bottomless pockets with a dead man's riches.

  I had, it seems, wrongly assumed. (Fear not, though, reader. The great wonder is coming later.)

  The room was stale, which was to be expected seeing as it had been boarded up. It looked....well...much like a watch shop. Very clinical, very drab. Dusty desktops. Papers. Unfinished contracts with Tuesday appointments. Scribbles. A random tool here and there. Some sort of tiny wrench that I assumed was for adjusting the very small mechanisms of clockwork.

  And on the floor was Kitt, head back against a dirty wooden case of papers. He had no theatric gleam about him, no young-ragamuffin-of-the-city-out-to-steal-his-way-towards-normalcy.

  “Hey,” he said to me.

  “Hey.”

  “What's the matter?”

  “What?”

  “You're frowning at me.”

  “Oh...” I hadn't been aware. “Why aren't you...eh...”

  “Stealing? Helping myself? Quick fingers? Sweat of the brow?”