All Tomorrow's Parties

12. EL PRIMERO

FONTAINE'S first glimpse of the boy comes as he starts to lay out the morning's stock in his narrow display window: rough dark hair above a forehead pressed against the armored glass.

Fontaine leaves nothing of value in the window at night, but he dislikes the idea of an entirely empty display.

He doesn't like to think of someone passing and glimpsing that vacancy. It makes him think of death. So each night he leaves out a few items of relatively little value, ostensibly to indicate the nature of the shop's stock, but really as a private act of propitiatory magic.

This morning the window contains three inferior Swiss mechanicals, their dials flecked with age, an IXL double penknife with jigged bone handles and shield, fair condition, and an East German military field telephone that looks as though it has been designed not only to survive a nuclear explosion but to function during one.

Fontaine, still on the morning's first coffee, stares down, through the glass, at the matted, spiky hair. Thinking this at first a corpse, and not the first he's discovered this way, but never propped thus, kneeling, as in attitude of prayer. But no, this one lives: breath fogs Fontaine's window.

In Fontaine's left hand: a 1947 Cortebert triple-date moon phase, manual wind, gold-filled case, in very nearly the condition in which it left the factory. In his right, a warped red plastic cup of black Cuban coffee. The shop is filled with the smell of Fontaine's coffee, as burnt and acrid as he likes it.

Condensation slowly pulses on the cold glass: gray aureoles outline the kneeler's nostrils.

Fontaine puts the Cortebert back in the tray with the rest of his better stock, narrow divisions of faded green velour holding a dozen watches. He sets the tray aside, on the counter behind which he stands when he does business, transfers the red plastic cup to his left hand, and with his right reassures himself of the Smith&Wesson.32-.22 Kit Gun in the right side pocket of the threadbare trench coat that serves him as a dressing gown.

The little gun is there, older than some of his better watches, its worn walnut grip comforting and familiar. Probably intended to be kept in a freshwater fisherman's tackle box, against the dispatching of water snakes or the decapitation of empty beer bottles, the Kit Gun is Fontaine's considered choice: a six-shot rimfire revolver with a four-inch barrel. He doesn't want to kill anyone, Fontaine, though if truth be known, he has, and very probably could again. He dislikes recoil, in a handgun, and excessive report, and distrusts semi-automatic weapons. He is an anachronist, a historian: he knows that the Smith&Wesson's frame evolved for a.32-caliber center-fire round, long extinct, that was once the standard for American pocket pistols. Rechambered for the homely.22, it survived, in this model, well into the middle of the twentieth century. A handy thing and, like most of his stock, a rarity.

He finishes the coffee, places the empty cup on the counter beside the tray of watches.

He is a good shot, Fontaine. At twelve paces, employing an archaic one-handed duelist's stance, he has been known to pick the pips from a playing card.

He hesitates before unlocking the shop's front door, a complicated process. Perhaps the kneeler is not alone. Fontaine has few enemies on the bridge proper, but who is to say what might have drifted in from either end, San Franciso or Oakland? And the wilds of Treasure Island traditionally offer a more feral sort of crazy.

But still.

He throws the last hasp and draws the pistol.

Sunlight falls through the bridge's wrapping of scrap wood and plastic like some strange benison. Fontaine scents the salt air, a source of Corrosion.

'You, he says, 'mister. The gun in his hand hidden by the folds of the trench coat.

Under the trench coat, which is beltless, open, Fontaine wears faded plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved white thermal undershirt rendered ecru by the vagaries of the laundry process. Black shoes, sockless and unlaced, their gloss gone matte in the deeper creases.

Dark eyes look up at him, from a face that somehow refuses to come into focus.

'What you doing there?

The boy cocks his head, as if listening to something Fontaine cannot hear.

'Get away from my window.

With a weird and utter lack of grace that strikes Fontaine as amounting to a species of grace in itself, this person gets to his feet. The brown eyes stare at Fontaine but somehow do not see him, or do not recognize him, perhaps, as another being.

Fontaine displays the Smith&Wesson, his finger on the trigger, but he does not quite point it at the boy. He never points a gun at anyone he is not yet entirely willing to shoot, a lesson learned long ago from his father.

This kneeler, this breather on his glass, is not of the bridge. It would be difficult for Fontaine to explain how he knows this, but he does. It is a function of having lived here a long time. He doesn't know everyone on the bridge, nor would he want to, but he nonetheless distinguishes bridge dwellers from others, and with absolute certainty.

This one, now, has something missing. Something wrong; not a state bespeaking drugs, but some more permanent mode of not-being-there. And while the population of the bridge possesses its share of these, they are somehow worked into the fabric of the place and not inclined to appear thus, so randomly, as to disturb mercantile ritual.

Somewhere high above, the bay wind whips a loose flap of plastic, a frenzied beating, like the idiot wing of some vast wounded bird.

Fontaine, looking into brown eyes in the face that still refuses to come into focus (because, he thinks now, it is incapable), regrets having unlocked his door. Salt air even now gnaws at the bright metal vitals of his stock. He gestures with the barrel of his pistol: go.

The boy extends his hand. A watch.

'What? You want to sell that?

The brown eyes register no language.

Fontaine, motivated by something he recognizes as compulsion, takes a step forward, his finger tightening on the pistol's double-action trigger. The chamber beneath the firing pin is empty, for safety's sake, but a quick, long pull will do the trick.

Looks like stainless. Black dial.

Fontaine takes in the filthy black jeans, the frayed running shoes, the faded red T-shirt hiked above a paunch that betrays the characteristic bloat of malnutrition.

'You want to show that to me?

The boy looks down at the watch in his hand, then points to the three in the window.

'Sure, Fontaine says, 'we got watches. All kinds. You want to see?

Still pointing, the boy looks at him.

'Come on, Fontaine says, 'come on in. Cold out here. Still holding the gun, though his finger has relaxed, he steps back into the shop. 'You coming?

After a pause, the boy follows, holding the watch with the black dial as though it were a small animal.

Be nothing, Fontaine thinks. Army Waltham with the guts rusted out. Bullshit. Bullshit he's let this freak in here.

The boy stands, staring, in the center of the shop's tiny floor space. Fontaine closes the door, locks it once only, and retreats behind his counter. All this done without lowering the gun, getting within grabbing distance, or taking his eyes off his visitor.

The boy's eyes widen as he sees the tray of watches. 'First things first, Fontaine says, whisking the tray out of sight with his free hand.

'Let's see. Pointing at the watch in the boy's hand. 'Here, Fontaine commands, tapping the faded gilt Rolex logo on a padded round of dark green leatherette.

The boy seems to understand. He places the watch on the pad.

Fontaine sees the black beneath the ragged nails as the hand withdraws.

'Shit, Fontaine says. Eyes acting up. 'Back up, there, a minute, he says, gently indicating direction with the barrel of the Smith&Wesson. The boy takes a step back.

Still watching the boy, he digs in the left side pocket of the trench coat and comes up with a black loupe, which he screws into his left eye. 'Don't you move now, okay? Don't want this gun to go off.

Fontaine picks up the watch, affords himself a quick squint through the loupe. 'Whistles in spite of himself. 'Jaeger LeCoultre. He unsquints, checking; the boy hasn't moved. Squints again, this time at the ordnance markings on the caseback. 'Royal Australian Air Force, 1953, he translates. 'Where'd you steal this?

Nothing.

'This is near mint. Fontaine feels, all at once, profoundly and unexpectedly lost. 'This a redial?

Nothing.

Fontaine squints through the loupe. 'All original?

Fontaine wants this watch.

He puts it down on the green pad, atop the worn symbol of a golden crown, noting that the black calf band is custom-made, handsewn around bars permanently fixed between the lugs. This work itself, which he takes to be either Italian or Austrian, may have cost more than some of the watches in his tray. The boy immediately picks it up.

Fontaine produces the tray. 'Look here. You want to trade? Gruen Curvex here. Tudor 'London, 1948; nice original dial. Vulcain Cricket here, gold head, very clean.

But already he knows that his conscience will never allow him to divest this lost soul of this watch, and the knowledge hurts him. Fontaine has been trying all his life to cultivate dishonesty, what his father called 'sharp practices, and he invariably fails.

The boy is leaning forward over the tray, Fontaine forgotten.

'Here, Fontaine says, sliding the tray aside and replacing it with his battered notebook. He opens it to the pages where he shops for watches. 'Just push this, then push this, it'll tell you what you're looking at. He demonstrates. A Jaeger with a silver face.

Fontaine presses the second key. 1945 Jaeger chronometer, stainless steel, original dial, engraving on case back, says the notebook.

'Case, the boys says. 'Back.

'This, Fontaine shows the boy the stainless back of a gold-filled Tissot tank. 'But with writing on, like 'Joe Blow, twenty-five years with Blowcorp, congratulations.

The boy looks blank. Presses a key. Another watch appears on the screen. He presses the second key. 'A 1960 Vulcain jump-hour, chrome, brassing at lugs, dial very good.

''Very good, Fontaine advises. 'Not good enough. See these spots here? Indicating certain darker flecks scattered across the scan. 'If it were 'very fine, sure.

'Fine, says the boy, looking up at Fontaine. He presses the key that produces the image of another watch.

'Let me see that watch, okay? Fontaine points at the watch in the boy's hand. 'It's okay. I'll give it back.

The boy looks from the watch to Fontaine. Fontaine puts the Smith&Wesson away in its pocket. Shows the boy his empty hands.

'I'll give it back.

The boy extends his hand. Fontaine takes the watch.

'You gonna tell me where you got this?

Blank.

'You want a cup of coffee?

Fontaine gestures back, toward the simmering pot on the hotplate. Smells its bitter brew, thickening.

The boy understands.

He shakes his head.

Fontaine screws the loupe into his eye and settles into contemplation.

Damn. He wants this watch.

LATER in the day, when the bento boy brings Fontaine his lunch, the Jaeger LeCoultre military is in the pocket of Fontaine's gray tweed slacks, high-waisted and extravagantly pleated, but Fontaine knows that the watch is not his. The boy has been put in the back of the shop, in that cluttered little zone that divides Fontaine's business from his private life, and Fontaine has become aware of the fact that he can, yes, smell his visitor; under the morning's coffee smell a definite and insistent reek of old sweat and unwashed clothes.

As the bento boy exits to his box-stacked bicycle, Fontaine undoes the clips on his own box. Tempura today, not his favorite for bento, because it cools, but still he's hungry. Steam wafts from the bowl of miso as he unsnaps its plastic lid. He pauses.

'Hey' he says, back into the space behind the shop, 'you want some miso? No reply. 'Soup, you hear me?

Fontaine sighs, climbs off his wooden stool, and carries the steaming soup into the back of the shop.

The boy is seated cross-legged on the floor, the notebook open on his lap. Fontaine sees the image of a large, very complicated chronometer floating there on the screen. Something from the eighties, by the look of it.

'You want some miso?

'Zenith, says the boy. 'El Primero. Stainless case. Thirty-one jewels, 3019PHC movement. Heavy stainless bracelet with flip lock. Original crewdown crown. Crown dial and movement signed.

Fontaine stares at him.