"Telling Time without the Ticking"

Franklin Mallory sat on his couch jittery and nervous, waiting for the woman across from him in his father’s chair to comment on the coffee. Abagail Hoffner sipped a minimal amount, hid her wincing well, and gave Franklin a gesture of ‘yum.’ “You don’t have to lie,” Frank said with the grin he had waited to use for twenty minutes. Russel Weiser was standing in the entrance to the hallway. “You knew my father,” Frank half-asked, half-claimed of Abby. “Sincere condolences. I should’ve said something sooner.” Frank raised his hands in a casual signal to halt the course of conversation. “No, it’s fine. Thank you.” One part general jumpiness was also equal parts eagerness to resolve the conundrum his father set upon him. Frank cut to the chase, “I’m sorry to be abrupt, but I need your help. I think I might be in trouble.”

“Duck and I haven’t spoken in twenty years.” “You still practice, though?” Frank petitioned, leaning forward. “Sparsely, something to throw at the clock.” “Just want you to listen.” Russel sneered at Abby. “Look at this.” Franklin headed past Russel to the end of the adjacent hallway. After a while, a vigilant Abby followed Frank, passing Russel.

She entered the room at the end just after Frank. Inside, were eighteen framed pictures of various images: Portraits; landscapes; flowers-in-vase still-lifes; etc. One was of a man positioning his watch-adorned wrist near his ear with his elbow bent away from him so to listen for ticking. Frank picked this one up. “Was in some storage lot. Couldn’t afford to keep ‘em there, so...” Abby surveyed the frames. She didn’t remember Duck taking such an interest, but it had been a while. “What’re they worth? Do you know?” Frank was ecstatic the question came so soon, “Twenty-thousand dollars.” Abby gave Frank the appalled stare he deserved.

The two returned to the hallway. Russel greeted them, “Twenty-thousand’s a bit generous.” Abby feigned curiosity and interest, “What would you have to say about it?” “They’re my pictures,” Russel barked. Franklin knifed his body through them.

Frank returned to the living room and absent-mindedly sat in his father’s chair. He held the picture of the man with the watch in front of him. Abby sat on the couch. “How’d Duck get the pictures? How do you know their worth?” Without looking up, “He left me a notebook detailing all of their worth and a bunch of other items.” Abby’s eye-line never left Frank. She didn’t say a word. Frank continued, “I guess the registry for the will sent it.” Abby looked satisfied with this answer. Frank added, “It came by mail.” Abby, her face not changed, made one simple request: “May I see the book?”

When she opened the little black notebook, a folded piece of paper fell to the floor. Abby turned the worn pages of the notebook, which resembled one-part bookie’s manifest and another-part idea pad or grocery list. On the pages were scribed names of places and people, different assets with prices written just right, dates, and little notes in the margins. Those marginal notes, so scrunched together as they were, little more than doodles to her, made her think of Duck’s handwriting. She recognized one of the places as White Crest Recreations, which was a gentleman’s club up-state. The items, here, she knew immediately were not a reflection of Duck’s purchases: A Contessa sailboat, a Basquiat painting, a Cartier diamond necklace, Giorgi Armani dresses, various antiquities, a Fender Stratocaster guitar, houses and properties, pricey wine, multiple cars, and a couple of Challenger jets –the prices partnered with each item made her queasy.

“He was keeping a record of other people’s purchases?” Abby asked aloud. “Hell, I already told him that,” Russel whined and looked over at Franklin. “What is she here for?” Abby continued inspecting the notebook. Each new page, seven in total, was headed with the name of what Abby assumed as a country club, and underneath were ten to twenty items listed in columns, each item getting a horizontal row with its price. All of Duck’s paintings were at the bottoms of these lists, and all of them were by far the cheapest priced on the respective chart.

“Tell her what you told me,” Franklin requested of Russel. Russel crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “The White Crest club is an affiliate of some insurance firm. They bought out smaller firms and turned them into appendages whose sole job is to infiltrate these clubs and communities. Most everyone in the club enters and is rewarded a discount off their monthly payments for every new person they convert. Any member could elect to receive your reward in raffle tickets. The more you had, the more likely you were to win something. Except, no one won anything ‘less they were supposed to. The few who wanted their money back were either convinced with a lower payment and some tickets, or they were paid out with other members’ money.” Abby interrupted him, “That’s called a pyramid scheme, doofus.”

Russel disregarded Abby and continued, “I met up with your father. Old Duck and I planned this whole scheme, ourselves. Well, I had those paintings in there and asked if I could auction them off, use the club as a gallery. They said yes. But they didn’t promote it, so all that came were the usual from the club. They wanted to play dumb games, so they decided to auction my art. It was a farce. They were so drunk they didn’t notice that we bought ‘em, ourselves.” Abby’s held an expression that suggested she smelled a rancid odor. “Why would you buy your own pictures for twenty-thousand dollars?” Russel yelled back, “We didn’t. We paid virtually nothing because we knew they wouldn’t take it seriously. Few days later, we got ‘em appraised and made a twenty-thousand-dollar profit.” Russel waled like a prospector.

“Figures,” Franklin huffed. There was a long, pensive pause. Abby broke the silence. “Can’t be easy being Duck’s son. Why do you think it’s been so long since we talked? Honestly, I’m surprised he ever mentioned me.” “He didn’t,” Franklin assured. “Then, how’d you know to get in touch with me?” “Your name was in the notebook, on the last page.”

Abby flipped past the seven charts to a page signed Duncan: A compass cannot choose its North. You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do. Half a page down was another sentence: If ever in a bind, call Abby Hoffner and then the number. “I can’t tell if that’s telling me to do something, not to do something, or if he’s trying to explain himself.” Abby bent down to pick up the paper. “Is this book the only one of its kind? Did he have a spare? Sometimes people do that.” “Not that I’ve seen,” Frank responded. Abby unfolded the paper. She skimmed the page. It was a receipt for the paintings corresponding to the White Crest institution. Before she gave a thorough look-through, she asked a second question.

Franklin placed the framed picture on the table. He began to empathize with the man. He, too, was suspended in a panicked asking of a question, hostage to tardy answers. This made him think of an old album title, ‘How Late Do U Have 2BB4UR Absent?’ He was oscillating between two futures, one where the status quo continues its usual metronomic guidance and one where relativity and entropy resurface to supplant order with the mere whims of what surrounding agents; in other words, business as usual or fish out of water. More than anything, he felt the cold black rectangle of the frame separating himself from the world in a prison doubled as presentation. His father had simultaneously thrown him into the world and left him defenseless to it. Frank finally asked Abby. “What am I supposed to do?”

Franklin slouched back in his chair. Abby and Russel were getting ready to throw out their solutions. Russel went first, “Look, kid. Me and your pops just wanted to stick it to the man a bit. We didn’t know you’d get hit by this. The way I see it is they’re my paintings. If you hand ‘em over to me, I’ll take on whatever the collectors are thrownin’. They’ll jump on my back where they belong.” Abby stood up from the couch with a ferocity that caused a start in Franklin. “What do you know about this man?” she queried, pointing at a flabbergasted Russel. “Have you checked with White Crest? Can they vouch for him being there with your dad? There are receipts here for the paintings from White Crest, but whose to say Russel is the painter? Did your dad ever mention anything about him?” Franklin continued looking at the framed picture as he said, “Dad doesn’t do that. He never mentioned you, either.”

Russel threw in, “What about her? You’ve never met her before today. So she’s mentioned in that little book? Why would your dad have listed the phone number of a woman he hasn’t spoken to in twenty years? Can you be sure that book is even from your dad? Did it come with a notice from a registry? What if she just slipped it in the mail box, herself, or just doodled that bit at the end before you got a hold of it?” Abby couldn’t even look in Russel’s direction. She continued at Franklin as if Russel never spoke, “White Crest is involved in some serious illegal activity, and this notebook is evidence of that. If you keep, sell, or give away those paintings to anyone other than the police, you will be obstructing justice. Those things in there are evidence, now. The only right thing to do is to hand them over to me.” Franklin peers up at Abby, “I can’t end up empty-handed. This whole thing broke me, financially.” Abby sighed and relented. “I will write you a check for twenty-thousand if that’s what it’ll take.” Frank’s face was dosed in disbelief. “Are you serious?” “Come on, man,” sang a frustrated Russel. “It’d be made of pure rubber, my man. Don’t trust her.”

Franklin stared back down at the painting of the man listening to his wristwatch. He focused in on the watch, itself, imagining the silence of no ticking followed by spontaneous ticking. Franklin sighed, “It’s about time, I think.” Suddenly, the ticking was heard by Franklin for real. The ticking pervaded the entire room. Abby and Russel heard the noise, as well, though not evenly spread as ticking would be. It was a sporadic clicking, almost scratching at times. Franklin was lost in the daydream of the painting, but the others were too frightened to realize that the ticking was localized at the front door knob. The sound of a key entered the knob, turning, and the door opening. Abby spoke first, “Duck?” Russel, now horrified, frantically bounced his gaze between Abby and the Duck, apparent. Franklin raised up out of his father’s seat, looking at the two. “The jig’s up, guys.”

“Notorious duo. Russel the Weasel and my old friend Abigail. Good call, son.” Franklin didn’t respond. Before the culprits could respond, “Oh don’t worry. There’s a little tape in that picture frame and a police captain outside.” Duck was loving his part, “You want to know what the combined reward is for you two after expenses? Tell ‘em,” Duck begged of Franklin. Franklin looked over Abigail and Russel, “Twenty-thousand dollars.” Duck cackled and continued his torturing, “One typo in an obit and a rumor of some money, and you guys swoop in like vultures.” The police swarmed the two con-artists, and Franklin picked up the picture of the man with the wristwatch. “What do we do with these?” asked Franklin. “Return ‘em to the clubs. We only wanted to borrow them,” Duck informed. “I think I’ll keep this one,” Franklin suggested. “It’ll come out of your cut,” retorted Duck.