Shall Not Sleep [bxb]

Chapter Five

The bus shuddered and clunked down the road, encasing itself in a fog of its own exhaust. I had never had faith in this town's transit system, and this ride wasn't changing that. When I hopped off the bus in front of a shady drycleaner's, the reek of degraded brakes filled my nose and made me sneeze as the bus chugged away.

In every dusty, dirty direction I looked, I didn't see my destination. Shit. Fuck. I really didn't want to be stuck on the wrong side of town. The bus wouldn't go the other direction for another half hour, and it was hot and dusty and sweat was already prickling at the back of my neck.

Oh, wait. There. The building across the street looked like the building I had seen on Google streetview, but the sign was wrong. It didn't say "Penderson's Antiques"—it said "Penderson's Pawn." A handwritten plywood sign tacked onto the end read "and antiques!!!"

God, what was I getting myself into? No way is a pawn shop with such a professional handwritten sign going to know anything about actual antiques.

Assuming, of course, that the watch is genuine.

Please, please, please, God.

A bell chimed as I walked in. The place was full to the brim with shit. A stuffed parrot, a chipped electric guitar, a potted palm tree too tall to stand up straight, so it was bent in half along the office-like dropped ceiling... just some of the many items clogging this place up. What I was pretty sure was a sex doll lounged in a rocking chair by the front desk. I wanted to leave, but before I could, a man stumbled out from a back room.

"Hello!" He held out his arms in welcome. "The name's Monty. What can I do ya for?"

He wore a Hawaiian shirt and a big gold chain. I had never seen anyone whose appearance was more suited to his job.

"Um, hi. I have an antique I'd like to get looked at, but it doesn't look like you do so much of that, so I'll just be—"

"Whoa, whoa, wait," he said, flapping his sausage-like, ringed fingers. "Didn't you see the sign out front? We do antiques!"

"Really?"

"Well, my brother's the antique guy. He moved his business in here with me after a bad spot of business. Win-win situation, here. Hey, Bill! I got you an antique to appraise!"

A voice shouted back at him from the bowels of the shop: "What is it? I'm not looking at every Tom, Dick, or Harry's great-great-great-uncle's rusty horseshoe."

Monty turned back to me. "Whatcha got?"

"A pocket watch."

"He's got a pocket watch!"

The voice called back: "Good condition?"

"Lemme see, kid," Monty grumbled.

I opened the box and show him. His eyes widened behind their aviator glasses. "Woo-ee! Shinin' like the sun, Billy Boy!"

There was a second of silence, then a great cacophanous crash, followed by a lot of swearing.

"Goddamn it, Monty!" Bill, a stout, gray-haired man cursed as he finally comes into sight. "When will you get that monkey out of here? It tried to kill me again!"

"I told you, he's coming to pick it up on Tuesday. As soon as his cheque clears."

"That's what you said last week." Bill glared at his brother and then looked at me, not bothering to wipe the venomous look off his face. "Show me this watch."

I held out the open box. The watch glinted in the harsh overhead light. Bill's face went blank.

"I think you'd better come to my office," he said. "This way. Mind the shit my brother's too lazy to move."

"It's not shit!" Monty shouted as Bill lead me down the back hallway.

It was, though. We squeezed around a ten-foot-tall monkey statue and Bill opened a door. He ushered me inside.

"After you. It's a closet, but hey, it's mine."

His office was big enough for a desk, two chairs, and not much else. The desk had a big overhead lamp on it, along with millions upon millions of strange tools and magnifying glasses.

"Let's have a look, then," Bill said, sitting down and sliding a pair of glasses onto his nose.

I set it down in the box and Bill picked it up so carefully, you'd think it was made of glass. He peered at it through his glasses, which magnified his eyes until they took up half his face. He looked over every single inch of the watch, including the chain, saying nothing. When he had looked it over, he selected an itty bitty screwdriver from his arsenal and popped open the back of the watch. He inspected its inner workings for what felt like forever. When I leaned against the back of the chair to make myself more comfortable, it squeaked, he looked back up at me.

"I'm quiet because I'm not sure what to tell you," he says. "This is a damn beautiful watch."

"What can you tell me?"

"It's Swiss. Made sometime around 1915 or so, maybe 1916, judging by the inscription. The box," he pointed, "is original. And it's in goddamn near perfect condition. I can't tell you how rare that is. Actually, I can: it's almost unprecidented."

He fixed me with enormous, unblinking eyes. I felt like a pinned butterfly specimen, or a kid in the principal's office.

"What?" I asked.

"How'd you get it?"

"Family heirloom."

"It's pristine. I mean, pris-fucking-stine. I've never seen a more perfect piece of this age."

"It's been in a safe since it was bought," I lied. "But it is what it appears to be, right? It really is from 1916?"

"Yeah, but it could've been made yesterday. I mean... God Almighty. I'm not even sure I could give you a value on it."

"That's okay. I don't need a value on it. I'm not going to sell it."

"Good," he said. "Good."

We sat there, looking down at it as it ticked away. Then I thought of a useful question.

"How much would it have cost back in 1916?" I asked.

"A hell of a lot. If you're not from some filthy rich family, boy, you're from a family of thieves."

It can't be stolen. It has my name on it.

"All right, then," I said, sitting up. "Do I owe you anything?"

Bill sat back in his chair, still looking at the watch with his hand over his mouth. Then he looked up at me. I was scared he'd ask for an outrageous amount of money, but he asked, "Can I just take some pictures?"

"Sure."

He took a couple photos with a clunky, early-model digital camera. As he focused the lens on the back side, he remarked, "That's an interesting inscription. Means something to your family?"

I bit back my smile. "Oh, yeah. It means a lot."

I said goodbye. Bill stayed in his office, shaking his head, and when I stumbled past the giant monkey and out into the shop, Monty descended on me.

"What did he offer you for it? I betcha I can give you more. Whaddaya say? A hundred? Hundred fifty?"

"I'm not selling," I said, heading straight for the door. "Thank you anyway."

"Two hundred!"

I got out the door and onto the street. I set off in the direction of home. Screw the bus—I needed to walk and think. Hard.