Bobby Null found the Mail & Copy store on University, the place where Chih left messages for Jake. It was only four or five blocks from where they had brought the jewels and cash, where Jake had shot Bobby. Jake must live near here. Bobby felt his abdomen twinge. A few copy machines were lined up on one side of the room, and on the other side was a wall filled with mailboxes. He searched for number 400 and saw through the tiny window a few letters wedged inside. There was a young woman with a nose ring at the front desk, and he approached. He told himself to keep cool. When he asked how people got a mailbox, she said all you had to do was fill out a form and pay ten dollars a month for the smaller boxes.
“What if someone wants to contact me at my mailbox?”
“Mail it, or give me a note. I can put it in the box.”
“Is the real address on that form?”
“Yes,” she said. “Do you want an application?”
“Can I see the form for number 400?”
She hesitated. “Oh, I can’t do that. That information’s private.” Bobby studied her. She looked about nineteen or twenty, maybe a college student doing this part-time. He said, “I’ll give you twenty dollars if you just show me the form. Just leave it on the table for a second.” He pulled out the roll of bills he had taken from Chih. He lay a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. She glanced around the store, which was a good sign.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not allowed.”
Bobby smiled, and slowly peeled off another twenty. He dropped it on top of the other one. He said, “Just for thirty seconds. It’s a joke on my friend. He bet me twenty bucks I couldn’t find out where he lives.”
“But you’ll be down twenty,” she said, motioning to the bills. “It’ll be worth it.” He smiled again. He considered grabbing her hair and flashing his gun, but then he saw her eyes lock onto the bills. He relaxed.
She reached behind the counter. Bobby heard her opening a file cabinet. She pulled out a sheet of paper, placed it on the counter, and quickly took the two twenties. She said, “Thirty seconds.” She walked to the other end of the counter.
Bobby turned over the form and saw the permanent address information. First he saw that Jake’s full name was Jacob Ahn, which he jotted down on scrap paper. The address was 98785 Adali Lane. The college kid came over and pulled the sheet away. “Thirty seconds.”
“Where is Adali Lane?” he asked.
She pointed to a Seattle map on the wall next to the copy machines. Bobby thanked her and looked up “Adali” in the index. He eventually found the coordinates. According to the map, Jake lived next to the University Bridge, again near where they had stopped to sort the jewelry. He walked out. He patted the gun in the back of his pants.
It took him fifteen minutes to find Adali Lane, but as soon as he saw how tiny the street was—with four houses, numbered 100, 200, 300, 400—he knew it was a fake address. He sat down on the curb and cursed. His insides hurt. Everything hurt. Even his goddamn butt hurt when he sat.
Now what?
He stood up slowly and began knocking on all the doors. Most people weren’t home, but he asked two old folks who answered their door if they knew a Jacob Ahn. They didn’t. He walked around the block and searched for any signs of Jake. He didn’t expect to see anything.
He considered waiting at the mail drop for Jake to appear, since there were letters in the box. But that would take too much time. Then he realized that those letters might reveal something—another contact, an address, anything. He headed back to the Mail & Copy store, his limp getting worse. He popped two bennies and waited for the rush.