Clock Without Hands Read Online Free Page B

left some tale untold but far be it from him to pry into the manifold affairs of so great a man.
    "Jester—speaking of the devil—"
    John Jester Clane stood in the room with the sunlight from the street behind him. He was a slight limber boy of seventeen with auburn hair and a complexion so fair that the freckles on his upturned nose were like cinnamon sprinkled over cream. The glare brightened his red hair but his face was shadowed and he shielded his wine-brown eyes against the glare. He wore blue jeans and a striped jersey, the sleeves of which were pushed back to his delicate elbows.
    "Down, Tige," Jester said. The dog was a brindle boxer, the only one of its kind in town. And she was such a fierce-looking brute that when Malone saw her on the street alone he was afraid of her.
    "I soloed, Grandfather," Jester said in a voice that was lifted with excitement. Then, seeing Malone, he added politely, "Hey, Mr. Malone, how are you today?"
    Tears of remembrance, pride and alcohol came to the Judge's weak eyes. "Soloed did you, darling? How did it feel?"
    Jester considered a moment. "It didn't feel exactly like I had expected. I expected to feel lonely and somehow proud. But I guess I was just watching the instruments. I guess I just felt—responsible."
    "Imagine, J.T.," the Judge said, "a few months ago this little rapscallion just announced to me that he was taking flying lessons at the airport. He'd saved his own money and already made the arrangements for the course. But with not so much as by-my-leave. Just announced, 'Grandfather, I am taking flying lessons.'" The Judge stroked Jester's thigh. "Didn't you, Lambones?"
    The boy drew up one long leg against another. "It's nothing to it. Everybody ought to be able to fly."
    "What authority prompts the young folks these days to act on such unheard of decisions? It was never so in my day or yours, J.T. Can't you see now why I am so afraid?"
    The Judge's voice was grieving, and Jester deftly removed his drink and hid it on a corner shelf. Malone noticed this and was offended on the Judge's behalf.
    "It's dinnertime, Grandfather. The car is just down the street."
    The Judge rose ponderously with his cane and the dog started to the door. "Whenever you're ready, Lambones." At the door he turned to Malone. "Don't let the doctors intimidate you, J.T. Death is the great gamer with a sleeve of tricks. You and I will maybe die together while following the funeral of a twelve-year-old girl." He pressed his cheek to Malone and crossed the threshold to the street.
    Malone went to the front of the place to lock the main door and there he overheard a conversation. "Grandfather, I hate to say this but I do wish you wouldn't call me Lambones or darling in front of strangers."
    At that moment Malone hated Jester. He was hurt at the term "stranger," and the glow that had wanned his spirit in the presence of the Judge was darkened instantly. In the old days, hospitality had lain in the genius of making everyone, even the commonest constituents at a barbecue, feel that they belonged. But nowadays the genius of hospitality had disappeared and there was only isolation. It was Jester who was a "stranger"—he had never been like a Milan boy. He was arrogant and at the same time overpolite. There was something hidden about the boy and his softness, his brightness seemed somehow dangerous—it was as though he resembled a silk-sheathed knife.
    The Judge did not seem to hear his words. "Poor J.T.," he said as the door of the car was opened, "it's such a shocking thing."
    Malone quickly locked the front door and returned to the compounding room.
    He was alone. He sat in the rocking chair with the compounding pestle in his hands. The pestle was gray and smooth with use. He had bought it with the other fixtures of the pharmacy when he had opened his business twenty years ago. It had belonged to Mr. Greenlove—when had he last remembered him?—and at his death the estate sold the property. How long had