In Dark Corners (25 page)

Sandy nodded. "Swanson's macaroni and cheese."

Neal shifted the bag. "Guess you had some excitement in the laundry room today?"

"Yeah," Sandy answered chuckling, "freaked out old Lady Seminara."

They laughed together, sharing delight in the busybody's misfortune. After the glee died, they stood quietly, the silence growing awkward.

Finally: "Be nice for Billy," the woman said, "the kitten, I mean."

"Yeah, pets are good for kids," Neal agreed, his face feeling stiff, his tongue thick. "Well, I better go."

Before he could move, Sandy reached out and brushed his arm, a soft, intimate caress. "Thanks, Mac, for being so good to Billy…"

He nodded.

"Maybe we could get together, sometime, you know?"

Neal knew; and he was tempted. Sandy was kind of pretty, especially her braided hair—Irish setter auburn—and her eyes, faded denim, almost the exact color of, of…Kay's. He looked away, afraid to blink. "Yeah, maybe
sometime
," he whispered huskily. He shifted the grocery bag again. "Well, I've got to do some laundry now." He didn't even try to hide the slur in his voice.

They stood silent for another moment, then the woman smiled. "Yeah, and I've got to put on the oven. See you, Mac."

He waved goodbye with his empty hand as she disappeared back into the apartment. For a few seconds he stood staring at the door, at the rusting number 4, hanging upside-down. Then, slowly, he turned and climbed the stairs, feeling a hundred years old.

***

Later that night, after the laundry, a plate of warm chili, and half a dozen beers, Neal sat in his shorts staring at an old movie on TV:
Treasure of the Sierra Madre
. It'd had a cult following when Neal was going to junior college. Humphrey Bogart, Tim Holt, Walter Huston, and the Mexican actor, Alphonso Bedoya. The sound was turned down, and Neal stared at the flickering images, brooding: Kay…the dream…the door and number 300…and the letter for 300 S. Montgomery.

Something strange here, he thought, then he sat upright, remembering another cult in junior college. Kay had them over to the apartment once…a religious group? Something about the power of number combinations…damn, he couldn't remember, it'd all been mumbo jumbo magic to him—But Kay had believed it! Jesus! Maybe she was trying to reach out to him with numbers…but why 300? He rubbed his eyes, his head buzzing from the beer and booze. Nah. He forced the crazy crap from his head, focusing back on the TV.

The movie was drawing to a close, Bogart leading the mules toward the Mexican village. Neal drained another Bud, dropping the empty can onto the pile of crumpled empties beside the chair. His face felt numb, like after a visit to the dentist. He blinked, mouthing Bedoya's classic line to Bogart:
Hey, doan I know you
? Unsteadily, Neal rose and moved close to the little screen. The bandits were slicing open the sacks of gold, letting the coarse, sand-like dust trickle out and swirl away in the desert wind.

Neal snapped off the TV before the dumb anticlimax.

That night he had the dream again.

***

The next morning Neal was hung over again, his hands so shaky he couldn't shave, even after drinking a can of Bud. In the kitchen he held his breath, and with two hands holding the glass, he drank a generous slug of vodka. The raw liquor burned his throat, making him retch, but he kept it down; and in a few minutes a warmness spread from his stomach into his arms and legs, calming the tremor in his hands…

Later, after Neal punched in, Danberg signaled for him to stop at the supervisor's desk. Then the big man announced loudly in his shrill voice, "The postmaster got a call from Mrs. Gary on South Hartson." Neal winced; the Garys lived at 102 and were constant complainers. "Well," Danberg continued, glancing at a note, "she says you did
not
pick up her outgoing mail yesterday—" He held up a beefy hand, interrupting Neal's explanation. "—I called her yesterday afternoon, and explained that a carrier was not obligated to pick up outgoing mail when he had nothing to deliver…but she said you
regularly
leave outgoing even after dropping off mail. She says it's a feud with you since she called in last December…Now, McCarthy we're a service organization." Danberg's face was squeezed up into a super-serious expression as though he were lecturing a dull boy about life-or-death. "And a carrier is a service person. If we don't provide service, then we're out of business. We'll all be on the beach
permanent
."

Of course, it was all bullshit, the lecture about service—management really cared only about production, loading carriers down with circulars every day—and the complaint. Neal felt the anger tightening his throat. Mrs. Gary enjoyed taking one mistake and making it an everyday occurrence. She could point the finger, somehow making her feel superior or something. Dammit, Neal swore silently, he'd made a real effort, even picking up letters when she had
no
mail…at least when he wasn't sick. The bitch. He felt dizzy, his legs weak…

Danberg was standing silent, staring at Neal, waiting. Finally, Neal sighed and nodded as if he'd listened to the whole lecture and understood. Danberg waved him away.

In front of his case Neal saw Ray Lewis shaking his head, an angry expression on the black man's face. "Hey, man," Ray said, "don't pay that fool no mind, everybody know he don't know dickshit."

They stepped into their individual cases, Ray still talking, but the angry tone dissolving. "You hear about Thompson?"

Neal picked up a handful of letters. "No."

"Well, he's pulling the plug next month."

Neal paused. Alvin Thompson retiring? He carried City-5 down at the First Street Branch office. Jesus, that meant City-5 would be up for bid—

"That's right," Ray said, as if reading Neal's mind. "And 5's mostly driving, rural boxes and apartments with gang boxes, only two short walking relays in Quail Trailer Park. No dogs, and best of all, you can kiss your buddy Danberg bye-bye."

Despite his headache, Neal smiled. Ray knew he wanted off City-21. Maybe he would bid Thompson's route. He probably had enough seniority to get the bid—

"Hey, Mac, you get 5, you'll need a one-sleeved raincoat," Ray said, chuckling, his good humor returning.

Neal shook his head at the old post office joke: on a mounted route, all that ever got wet during bad weather was
one
arm.

"Say, what about the fog?" Ray added. "Weird, eh? Like the stuff in them English monster flicks…streets'll be slicker than Gaylord's sinker."

"Yeah," Neal agreed, recalling Ray's outrage when the Giants traded away Gaylord Perry, the infamous spitball pitcher. "Unusual spring weather." Sometime during the night the fog had eased over the coastal mountains, filling the valley.

Neal stopped casing, staring at the address of the letter: Resident, 300 S. Montgomery. At first, he thought it was another piece of mail; but no, it was the same piece from yesterday. There was his notation in the corner:
no such number, Ctiy-21
. He turned the letter over and picked up a slight scent. Familiar. He hadn't noticed it yesterday. He held the letter close and sniffed…Jesus! It couldn't be her scent. And why had the clerks thrown it back? On impulse, Neal flipped the letter into the right side of 298 S. Montgomery's slot—where the missing 300 block should be. He knew it was silly; yet, after he put the letter up, he felt a sense of relief, like he had done the right thing. He left it in the case…

***

After delivering South Hartson, Neal rested for a minute at his jeep. He felt weak and a little sick. He rubbed his face and looked around. The fog had almost burned off, but the streets remained wet and slippery, just like Ray Lewis's forecast.

Neal got back into his jeep and eased it over to the low end of South Montgomery.

Putting the relay in his carrying bag, he thought again about Alvin Thompson's route—probably wasn't a mile of walking. And Danberg…yeah, his mind was made up—a change would be good. Maybe he could ease up on the booze…let go of Kay. With a grunt he hoisted the bag onto his shoulder, then began working the street. As he moved up the 200 block, the mist seemed to thicken, stirring a feeling of déjà vu, a sense of nervous anticipation. Then Neal slowed his pace, remembering the confrontation with Silver the day before. He thumbed the mail and sighed: nothing for 298—he wouldn't have to stop at the Joneses'. Maybe he could use the fog as cover and slip by, even if the damn dog was out. He kept off the sidewalk, tiptoeing across the Joneses' lawn, peering left, watching for the dog, his throat dry, his heart thumping against his ribs—

A sound raised the hair on the back of Neal's neck. A metallic jingle—? He wasn't sure. He stopped, cocked his head, and listened. There, faint but discernible: the jingle of a dog collar. Jesus! He swallowed, trying to work up moisture in his dry mouth; and he squeezed the can of dog spray at his side, trying to draw some comfort from the tiny pseudo-weapon. Sweat trickled down his ribs. Several seconds ticked by, but nothing appeared. Maybe he'd imagined the jingle, Neal told himself, or maybe it wasn't Silver, after all. Still, he remained rooted in place, half-expecting
something
to materialize in the fog…only silence, grating silence. Where was that damn dog? Finally, listening intently, Neal forced himself to move on to the corner of Spruce.

For a moment he just stood on the curb, trying to relax. He'd been so tense his stomach muscles ached. He waited, but there was something else. He was drawn to the top letter on his mail bundle:
Resident 300 Montgomery
. Jesus, he'd forgotten about the letter—His vision blurred, and he felt dizzy, overwhelmed by the lingering sense of deja vu. The fog swirled, thickened about him, like a, a…fallen cloud. He shivered with the recognition: He was standing in his own dream…

***

Dimly, Neal sees three people bending over him, strangers, their voices faint, distant.

"My God, he's breathing, call an ambulance!"

Footsteps running, fading out.

"Did you see him in the middle of the street? I couldn't stop."

"He's a postman."

"I couldn't stop."

"Good God, look what he did to that shepherd!"

Neal tried to signal them with his eyes…The letter, it was for her…and he wasn't in the middle of Spruce Street. No…they fade, blurring in the mist. And above the strangers, he sees a doorway…and the numbers: 300. It opens and Kay reaches down, taking his hand, her grip so warm, so smooth, and she's smiling. He feels himself being pulled up, up, up effortlessly like a balloon floating away…up, up through the doorway…And the silvery light caresses him, warming his chilled, broken body…

"What's he grasping?

"A letter…a letter addressed to: Resident, 300 S. Montgomery.

Audio-disc excerpt from the Introduction of
Return Of The Ice Man,
a book confiscated June 7, 2052
.

The nervous chatter grew louder as Exodus II leveled, beginning the long approach to the landing field south of the San Fran Shield. First trip nerves I thought, or perhaps the new travel drugs were not effective. For I, too, sensed an increasing tension in my body as we neared San Fran, and it was certainly not my first trip on a shuttlecraft from the Eye to Earth. Like my Brothers in the Order of Mark, I'd been called to Earth for numerous trials—Guardians of the Instruments of Justice, sworn to carrying out the judgments of
MOSES
. But this trip was different: Not only a big trial, seventeen Symbolists, but coincidently my
first
visit back to my birthplace. I was excited by the prospect.