It was still raining at the end of the day. Not as hard, but enough to saturate the air with a thick, clammy chill. Michael raised his umbrella and descended the steps. His apartment was not very far. When it was dry out, he typically walked anyway. Besides, he was not fond of his last cab ride. So he set off on foot, holding the umbrella low to his head. His pant legs clung to him. His shoes were heavy with dampness. He wondered how much it was going to cost to have them cleaned. Rounding a corner, he saw a trash can and crammed the useless umbrella in like a spear.
The door to his building was hard to open. Even on a dry day, a hard shove was needed; when it rained the wood swelled, making opening it almost impossible. He twisted the knob and kicked at the door.
“I shouldn’t even be here.”
Michael looked up to see the man from the taxi. “Excuse me?”
“I know you don’t understand, but there is a situation that requires your attention.”
Michael sighed heavy enough to make his shoulders drop. He was not up for another round with the strange Stanley Post.
“What I require,” Michael said, “is to get this door open, so please excuse me.” He shoved at the door, but it didn’t budge.
Stanley approached a few paces. A weak limp caused his left side to lag slightly behind his right. Still, he had a forceful stance that caused Michael to pull away from the door, ready to defend himself if necessary. Stanley spoke with a stuttering bottom lip, perhaps caused by the cold.
“I’m looking for a.…” He searched for the word. “Watch,” he said. He pulled a white sheet of paper out of his jacket. A few stray raindrops hit it, making a distinct tapping sound. Michael waited while Stanley unfolded it, then held it out. The rain softened its surface, and it grew slightly limp in Stanley’s hand.
“There’s been an epidemic of lost watches recently,” Michael said. He watched the sheet move in the air. It flapped about like a stuck piece of trash. Curiosity is a curse, he thought, as he tugged it free.
A line drawing filled the right side of the sheet. To Michael, it didn’t look like a watch, but more like an engineering diagram. It was a perfectly round glass encasement full of gears and cogwheels. It was like a watch, but no hands or numbers marked the front. The left side of the paper was a photocopy of an old newspaper clipping. The words were barely legible. Michael scanned it, seeing a date and a name.
“Why is this thing my problem?” Michael asked. “Tell you what: why don’t you leave me a business card?”
“Oh, I’m afraid I don’t carry business cards,” Stanley said.
“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Michael mocked. He turned back to the door and threw a hard shoulder at it, finally knocking it open. He made a phony, impressed face and left Stanley Post standing in the drizzle.
The inside air did not feel any better and he pulled uncomfortably at his clothes while making his way upstairs to his apartment. He threw the paper on the foot of his bed and sat down to pull off his ruined shoes. He hung his jacket, put on dry cloths and remembered his bare wrist. He went to the nightstand where he kept his watch, spotted it, and put it in place on his arm. The golden hands shined, reading 7:17. He would have plenty of time to get some extra work done.
He traced around his apartment, turning on all the lamps. It wasn’t much of a living arrangement; just three rooms, counting the bathroom. He did have a small balcony off the kitchen, though he never used it. The narrow ledge had a way of making him feel claustrophobic, even with the doors left open.
The bedroom was the largest room, doubling and tripling as a living room and office. It had a queen size bed that stuck out into the center of the floor and a couch against the wall. The room was dominated more by a cluttered desk and work table. Both were covered with sprawled-out forms and order sheets. He flipped on a lamp that sat on the desktop and dropped into his seat. His work for the night was held in place by a paperweight - a miniature replica of an old fashion binding machine. He picked it up and held it in both hands. It was hefty for its size. It was given to him by his father, a gift of blessing for the career path he chose. He set it aside and pulled the stack of papers that had been beneath it. He worked half-heartedly, and after some time found himself slumped back in his chair, with the paperweight back in his hands.
It was these amazing machines that made Michael first want to be a bookbinder - the sound and the smell of them running was alluring. It was enough to pull him away from the Bandolier Leather Stock stores that his father wanted him to take over. His father had been disappointed, but to mend fences he had no other option than to give Michael his blessing. Michael had to admit whatever lured him into bindery was long gone, and he often wondered what his life would have become if he had taken over the Bandolier Leather Stock.
Michael’s life choices were not all that troubled him. Other things were also on his mind. For one, his ruined shoes, but also the mayor’s watch and the paper Stanley Post showed him. Michael crossed the room, picked up the paper from the bed, and strained to read through the copied print.
Although the picture was unrecognizable, the text was about the lost mayoral watch. The watch was originally hand crafted by the watchmaker Ulruth Post and presented to Wind Quarry's first mayor at his commencement dinner. Every mayor of Wind Quarry had passed the watch to the next. Some refer to the watch as “The mayor’s watch” and are wondering if it will be safely returned so Mayor Drasscol can follow suit and present it to the next mayor of Wind Quarry at the next commencement.
The phone rang startlingly loud. Michael darted to scoop it off its cradle before he had to hear it ring again.
“Michael Bandolier… Bindery…” He stumbled through his words, but was cut off.
“Michael, you know about the watch?” The voice was heavy and rough, but easily recognizable.
“Yes sir, I do.”
“It must be a slow week for news because it’s in all the papers.”
“Yes, Mr. Mayor, I saw that.”
Michael thought about the sheet Mr. Post gave him and took another look at the drawing. Now that he thought of it, there were some similarities between the mayoral watch and the one Stanley Post was after. They were both encased in a round bulb of glass with a tangle of visible gears. But beyond that, the thing Stanley Post asked him to find was something different altogether. Mayor Drasscol’s watch had two golden balls that traced a track around the circumference, a larger white-gold ball for hours and a smaller one of yellow-gold for the minutes. Stanley Post’s device had nothing indicating the time, looked like it may have been much larger, and had no band.
“Sir, was it lost or stolen?”
The mayor laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Do you really believe I would misplace that watch?”
“I don’t understand what value anyone would find in stealing your watch.”
“Listen,” Mayor Drasscol said, “the watch, it has sentimental value, a lot of value, but there are other, more serious issues involved. No, I cannot explain.” Michael stared at the sheet in his hand while the mayor spoke. “As I understand, you turned away a Mr. Post this evening.”
“Yes,” Michael said curiously.
“Well, now I’m calling to ask personally for your help.”
“Of course, I can help.”
“That’s great. Go visit Mr. Post in the morning. He will provide you with everything you need to know.”
Michael hung up the phone and read the sheet again. His wrist told him it was still before nine. One hour of research couldn't hurt.
Three