City of Dark Corners, Jon Talton [top 10 best books of all time TXT] 📗

in 1896. His son Baron, Barry’s father, trained at Philadelphia’s famous Wanamaker’s Department Store.

Barry turned and scrutinized my suit. “That’s wearing out, Gene. Time for you to come over and buy a new one. Times are tough, but maybe I could barter, give you work chasing shoplifters.”

Harry Rosenzweig tut-tutted and came around the counter.

“Watch and learn, my friend.” He faced me, half a head shorter, with a high forehead and a big smile. It said I was the most important person in his world, I was iron filings and he was the magnet. “Mr. Hammons, it’s so good to see you again. I love this navy-blue suit.” He straightened the fabric on my shoulders with expert hands and gently tugged the coat down. “We have a sale at Goldwater’s on a gray ensemble that would perfectly complement it. A new fedora would top it off. You’ll be togged to the bricks! Remember our motto, ‘The best, always.’ Come by this afternoon, and I’ll personally show you the variety we have.”

“I’d love to,” I said, playing along.

“You see?” He turned to Barry. “We’ll make a merchant prince out of you yet!”

Goldwater shook his head, unconvinced.

Rosenzweig went back around the counter. “So, what can I do for you, Gene? Nice Longines Flagship Heritage wristwatch on special.”

“The detective business isn’t that good.” I gently set the pocket watch I’d found in the dirt last night on the glass of the counter.

“Oh, my friend, please don’t tell me you need to sell your father’s watch.”

I shook my head. I still had Pop’s railroad watch, which, unlike this one, had a hunter case which snapped over the face and a gold chain.

“No, I found it.”

“Well, let’s have a look.” He placed it on a felt-covered tray and brought a loupe to his right eye.

“Oh, my goodness.” And that was all he said for a few minutes. He took out a cloth, gave it a good polishing, and examined it further. Then: “It’s a Hamilton with a Ferguson dial. Double-sunk special railroad variety. The outer Arabic numbers, five to sixty, are enameled black, and the inner numbers, one to twelve in red. Spade pointer hands. Inner hand for seconds. Fancy damaskeening pattern.”

He turned it over and, pulling out some tools, slipped off the back. He continued his inventory of the inside works. Sapphire pellets, compensated balance, lever-set, Breguet hairspring, gold screw-down jewel settings, 21 jewel whiplash micrometer regulator, stem-wind lever set… It was all Greek to me, but his tone was that of a dazzled Howard Carter making an inventory of King Tut’s tomb.

Barry slipped on his glasses and leaned in until Rosenzweig swatted him away. Goldwater was more to the point. “It’s beautiful.”

Slipping off the loupe, Harry said, “This is a very rare watch, Gene. I’ve only seen two like it. Where did you get it?”

When I told them, both men let out sighs. “What are we going to do about Kemper?” Barry said to nobody in particular. When nothing more was said, my mind wandered badly.

In late May of 1918, in the Third Battle of the Aisne, we first encountered German Stosstruppen—stormtroopers employing revolutionary tactics. Hutier infiltration tactics. We didn’t realize they were among us until it was too late, or nearly so. It was an ugly jolt, not least for us inexperienced Yanks. Our front didn’t break, but it was a near-run thing, a bloody education.

“Are you with us, Hammons?”

I snapped to. “Sure, I had a long night.”

But behind my lie was uneasiness. I didn’t like surprises. I wondered anew about the devil’s spell of young Marley over this town, even over these two young men from respectable pioneer families, members of the chamber of commerce, and in the case of Harry at least, a budding politico. I felt guilty about suspecting my friends, but there it was.

Rosenzweig went back to the watch: “It’s hard to see how a man would let it go, even in times like these. But I might be able to give you a few clues about the owner.”

Three

The next night, Wednesday, I went to choir practice at Central Methodist Church. I sing tenor, although I’m actually a baritone with a wide range. But the chancel choir is always short of tenors. We practiced Isaac Watts’s “I Sing the Mighty Power of God” for this Sunday’s anthem. We had sung it before, of course, but not every week could offer up a complex new choral work. I loved it nonetheless, the soaring and confident harmonies, the sentiment of the lyrics.

I sing the goodness of the Lord,

Who filled the earth with food,

Who formed the creatures through the Word,

And then pronounced them good.

I set aside reconciling this with the injustice and violence I had witnessed two nights before. The music made me happy, kept me sane. Not many things moved my heart now, but the music still did. On Sunday, we would be backed by the new pipe organ and facing several hundred worshippers. Tonight, we made do with the Steinway grand piano in the choir room.

As we concluded the last run-through, I heard clapping off to the side and saw my brother. All the comfort and inspiration drained out of me.

Don Hammons was tall and broad-shouldered like me, but he had Mother’s dark-brown hair and eyes. It was like looking at myself through a distorted mirror. A trench coat was draped over his arm as he brought his hands together. But even his applause sounded cynical. This didn’t stop my fellow choir members, especially the women, from surrounding him. Of the two Hammons brothers, Don was definitely the charmer. And the dresser: a soft cream glen-plaid cashmere jacket, tangerine patterned necktie, coral pocket square with a leaf pattern, dark woolen trousers, and wingtip oxford shoes in stone and dark tan.

We walked outside in silence and sat on the steps of the imposing new church building. The nearby Hotel Westward Ho, the tallest building between El Paso and Los Angeles, looked about half full. Like the Hotel San Carlos, Luhrs