Melting Clock Read Online Free PDF

truly describe his own work,” she said with pride. “The clocks are for the table, the size of two heads high and numbers in gold. They are deep, dark red-stained birch wood from the Ural mountains and on the bottom of each clock is an inscription in Russian. How did you break your nose?”
    “It says, ‘How did you break your nose’ in Russian?”
    “You are trying to be witty,” she said dryly.
    “My brother broke my nose, twice,” I said.
    “He wanted to break your nose?”
    “The second time, probably. First time was an accident. He was a violent kid. He’s a violent man.”
    “Brothers are serpents of the mind.” The voice came from the stairway on my left.
    I looked up. Dali stood at the top of the stairs dressed in a clown’s outfit, a big floppy red suit with puffy white buttons, oversized slap-shoes. He wore no makeup. He didn’t need any. I watched him come down the stairs and enter.
    It wasn’t a bad entrance as entrances go, but I’ve lived in and around Hollywood for almost half a century and I’d served security stints when I was with Warner Brothers and on my own. My favorite was the night Thelma Todd walked into a Victor McLaglin party, took off her white mink coat, and revealed one hell of a beautiful nude body. She looked down as if her having nothing on was a complete surprise. I was at the door, backing up the butler to keep out crashers. I saw Thelma Todd from behind. Dali in a clown suit didn’t come close.
    Dali came in, looked at his wife—who nodded—and examined me, touching his nose from time to time as if he were considering how to put me into one of his paintings. I didn’t like the idea.
    “Brothers are vampires,” he said. “Brothers are vampires and fathers are ghouls. Mothers are saints whom we mistreat. You agree?”
    He stopped circling and waited for my answer. Gala seemed to draw in her breath. Somewhere outside and not too far away a noisy lawn mower was being pushed.
    “No,” I said.
    “You need money?” he asked, pointing his chin at me. “You want to work?”
    “It’s either that or learn to barter,” I said. “And I’ve got nothing to trade with.”
    “I like you, Peters,” he said with an accent that couldn’t decide whether it was French or Spanish. “You have the face of a peasant.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    “But I have liked Fascists and Surrealists,” he whispered, leaning toward me so the Fascists and Surrealists would not hear him. “The Fascists wear brown shirts that look like the merde and the Surrealists paint with the merde. They have much in common.”
    “Then I withdraw my thanks.”
    “You think Dali is mad?” he asked, now moving to the matching white chair across from me and trying to sit in it with back-erect dignity, which is hard to do when you’re wearing an oversized red suit and size 30 shoes. Gala moved forward to stand behind him and put her hands on both his shoulders. He reached up with both hands and touched hers. It looked like genuine affection, but I wasn’t the one to recognize genuine affection.
    “I don’t know,” I answered.
    “The difference between me—” he pointed to himself in a grand gesture—“and a madman is that I am not mad.”
    He had said that before. I knew it, but instead of pointing it out I took a chance and said, “Are we going to keep it up like this or is there some place on the program when we have an intermission and you tell me what I’m doing here?”
    “He is rude, Dali,” Gala said, lifting her chin imperiously.
    Dali patted her hands to reassure her.
    “Dali is rude,” he said. “He is honest. Would you like something to drink, Toby Peters?”
    “Pepsi if you’ve got it. RC will do. Water with ice, if it comes to that.”
    Gala left the room. I thought she was going for my drink. She never came back with it.
    When she was gone, Dali turned to me.
    “Three things I wish to tell you,” he said, holding up his right hand in a closed fist. “First”—and