Cast the First Stone by David Warren (i have read the book a hundred times txt) 📗

a decaying brick chimney climbing up the front, a quaint rounded top door, with dark stain. I guess I notice those things now—the color of stain, the hosta around the walk, the vintage Japanese maple in the front yard. I’m going to blame my improved home decorating eye on Eve and her laundry list of house upgrades.

I check the address against the metal numbers on the lintel, notice the bars on the tiny square window, and the outer door, then press the bell. A Gothic chime bullies the place and I don’t hear the footsteps.

The door opens, and I’m sized up by an elderly gentlemen, so thin his bones protrude from a lined, saggy face. Fraying white hair, gnarled hands, but his eyes bore through me as if, once up on a time, he was somebody that understood what trouble looked like.

Or maybe that’s just the bars on the door telling his story.

“Yes?”

I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or intrigued, so I offer my name, adding, “I was sent here by the Vintage Watch shop guy in Uptown.”

He frowns.

“I was hoping…” I pull out the watch.

He stretches out a hand, through the bars, and I hesitate only a moment before dropping it into his grip.

He comes alive as he runs his thumb over the inscription, not unlike I’ve found myself doing. He fiddles with the dial, then with a quickness that startles me, shuts the door.

What—?

“Hey!” I grab the bars, knock on the door, but it’s locked. I lay on the doorbell. “Give me my watch back!”

I’m debating circling around the back when the door pops open and Grandpa is back, holding my watch, a stethoscope hanging from his ears.

Seriously?

He’s listening to the watch as if it might have a heartbeat. I stand there awkwardly, waiting for the prognosis.

This is stupid.

But when he hands the watch back to me, I’m oddly hopeful.

Until, “There’s nothing wrong with the watch.”

Here we go again. “What are you talking about? It doesn’t work, see?” I do a demonstration for him, winding the dial, holding it up so he can see the dead-in-their-tracks hands. “Nothing moves.”

Grandpa has removed his stethoscope, draping it around his neck. He looks at me with a sort of shake of his head. “The watch is working exactly as it is intended. Didn’t anyone show you how to use it?”

I blink at the old man. “No. Actually, I sort of inherited it.”

One untrimmed eyebrow goes up. “Certainly you’ve seen it used.”

This rocks me back. “Of course. It was…well, my boss had it, and he gave it to me when he died. But he wore it for years.”

This has elicited a response, something of understanding because Grandpa is nodding. “I see.”

“But I don’t!”

“Just use it like you saw him use it, and it will do its job.”

“It doesn’t work! It’s job is to tell the freakin’ time!”

“You’re wrong. It’s working exactly how it’s intended.” And with that Grandpa closes the door.

Leaving me to stand on the steps in hot sun.

And now I want to hit something, so maybe it’s time for the gym. Because Eve’s right. I’m a detective and I want answers.

Chapter 4

Quincy’s Boxing Gym is located in north Minneapolis in an old warehouse, with a rolling garage door for the entrance. It’s hip, with exposed piping, metal beams and tiny boxed warehouse windows that give it a vintage feel. With two sparring rings, ten hanging bags, a free weight room, pull-up and dip bars and plenty of graffiti, the place smells of cement, sweat, and raw, hard work.

The Who is playing at ear piercing volumes as I walk in.

I’ve been coming here for twenty years, and frankly, it’s not for the atmosphere, or the music.

It’s because Burke shows up every day at exactly 4:12 p.m., after his day shift ends and once upon a time, it was the one place where we could work off the day.

Now, like I said, I want answers.

It’s early so I change, do a few sets with the jump rope, popping a sweat.

I drop for a set of polymeric push ups, flip over and add in some sit ups, then end with a few squat thrusts.

I’m sweating, my body buzzing and I’m ready to hit something.

I tape up and work the speed bag. The Doors sing about lighting my fire, and I’m breathing hard when I see Burke stroll in.

He glances at me, nods, and heads to the locker room.

I finish my speed bag sprint and do some shadowboxing. Then I glove up and I’m at the heavy bag when he emerges.

He steps up to the bag, just to tame it.

I imagine the bag is John Booker and land my fist in the center. I’ve been at this enough to know how to keep my balance, but I’m still a little unfocused, maybe, so I dig down. I lean in and feel the sharp smack of my fist against the bag, a snapping punch, not a push.

I’m not trying to take myself out, just work off those words. Because what can a watch do if it doesn’t tell time?

The bag swings hard, back at me, and I keep my feet light, following it. I don’t wait to throw the next punch, because that’s for beginners, but dive back in.

I feel Burke at my side before I see him. He catches the bag. “My turn.”

I’m breathing harder than I thought and sweat saturates my shirt. Burke works off my mitts, tosses them aside and gloves up.

“What I don’t get is why Booker gave me the files. And his watch—did you know about that?”

I don’t need a preamble with Burke. He nods and says, “I wondered what this was about.”

“Why couldn’t he just leave it?”

Burke lifts a shoulder, throws a punch. I’m aware that he hasn’t warmed up, but his hit stuns the entire bag, a massive force, and I’m sorta glad we’re not sparring.

I’m clearly out of shape and that makes me even more perturbed.

“I’m surprised you’re surprised,” Burke says, dancing with the bag. “Clearly,