LIGHTS GLOWED OUT FROM POOLHALLS and poker parlors in the early gloom. The lowering sun across the intersections was angry and red. Roger and his pals cast lengthening shadows down Blixden Avenue as they chased their tin can. Clark got out of the Delahaye and squinted up at the sky. It was banking up with cloud. There was a smell of change in the air.
“That was some phone call.” Roger ran over to him, ragged clothes flapping in the wind. “Mysterious geeks in uniform—and now you’re wearing one yourself! Are you for real, Mr Lamotte, or is this all some feelie you think you’re in?”
“Sometimes wonder. But you did tell Barbara Eshel?”
“I obey ze orders.“ The kid saluted, European style.
“And everything’s okay? Nothing’s happened?”
“Not much.” The kid looked disappointed. Then his eyes traveled up the street toward the mailbox about halfway up. Clark followed his gaze. A thought came into his head.
“Why did you say the postie was mad, Roger?”
“’Cos he is. Hey, listen. The guy’s…”
But Clark was already walking up the street.
“… it’s just.” Roger said as he tagged along beside him. “Well, something falls right into your hands, you take it, right… ?”
The mailbox was affixed to a lamppost beside a dusty willow tree. It was old, its drab paint peeling, U.S. MAIL embossed down the side. But this was probably the box which Daniel Lamotte had used to mail the blue draft of Wake Up and Dream—the one that Timmy Townsend said had never reached him. He crouched to look at it more closely as Roger continued to mouth excuses about whatever it was he and his friends had done. The only part of the mailbox that didn't look old was the lock, where a gleam of freshly drilled-out metal was showing. When he gave the front panel a push, it simply creaked open.