Payment Before Midnight

Mira found the message on the workshop floor, beneath the envelope containing her overdue rent. The Meridian Hotel needed its monumental lobby clock running by eight. There would be important guests, photographers, and, according to the message, “excellent exposure.”

She called the number. “Exposure won't buy a replacement spring.”

“Then tell me what will,” a man replied.

An hour later she stood beneath a clock taller than her workshop. Across the marble floor, hotel chief executive Adrian Shaw read the single page she had brought.

“Half now. Your name on the restoration plaque. No alterations without your approval.” He looked up. “Three conditions?”

“Four. Nobody calls me little clock girl.”

He signed without smiling. “Fair.”

The previous contractor, Bell, smiled enough for both of them. “We ordered a rare mechanism abroad. A temporary repair would embarrass the hotel.”

Mira climbed the service ladder. The brass gears were dusty but sound. The allegedly broken spring was a modern replacement, its serial number filed away. Tucked behind it lay a sliver of green packing paper.

She came down and asked for the maintenance records. Bell reached for the folder first.

Adrian kept his hand on it. “Our contract says she decides what the clock needs.”

At seven, Mira laid three invoices beside the clock's original manual. Each invoice billed for a complete replacement. Each carried a photograph of the same small scratch on the gear casing.

“Your clock doesn't need a new heart,” she said quietly. “Someone has been charging you for the one it already has.”

Bell glanced toward the gala doors. Beyond them, the board was beginning to arrive.