Chapter Seventeen

Racine, Wisconsin is not the armpit of the world – Trenton, NJ holds the honor. Racine is more like the left earlobe; nobody pays attention to it, but if it were gone you’d probably notice even if it didn’t affect anything in any way that mattered. After a brief layover in Denver, Jarvis rented a car and was at the Racine Post-It Postal Service Center by 3:30 pm. Despite the name of the strip-mall store, no flock of attorney’s from 3M huddled around plotting an infringement suit. Jarvis parked the Ford Escort, which was a mid-sized sedan according to Hertz, and unfolded himself from the front seat. He had planned out a clever ploy for getting the proprietor to divulge the information regarding the identity of the owner for Suite 129. Suite 129 was a 4X6 inch metal plate among a hundred others that looked the exact same on the left side of the store where people used almost identical little keys to open them up and collect their mail. The store was neat and clean. Mail was in the boxes by 7:30 a.m. and the last drop-off time was 5:00 pm, said the beautifully printed signs on the wall above the boxes and taped to the counter straight ahead. Another sign hanging from the ceiling said “Beautifully Printed Signs – Custom Made.”

 

The owner/manager of the franchise was pulling on an overhead handle to release plastic peanuts into a box he was filling for a middle-aged man in overalls drumming his fingers on the counter. The packing material filled a ten-foot wide swath of netting suspended from the ceiling and a fat hose funneled it straight down when the handle was pulled. The old guy filling the box had half a dozen of the white ovals clinging to his plaid shirt and one on his hair.

 

“Be there in a sec, buddy.” He looked from Jarvis to the customer. “Harry, you don’t worry about this. I’ll get it all taped up and sent. Bill you next month.” Harry tipped his cap and grunted, heading out undoubtedly to one of the eleven pickup trucks in the lot.

 

Todd – that was the name on his badge – interrupted his peanut dispensing and walked over to Jarvis, dusting off the bits of plastic. “Help you with something you wanna send?”

 

Jarvis made his first move, like in a chess game. It was an opening and if everything went right, he’d be able to get the name of the box owner before too long. “Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve kind of got a problem. I got something in the mail, and it isn’t mine, and I want to return it – but it could be kind of expensive so I thought it would be better to return it in person.” He looked around. “The address was for here, but I kind of thought it was going to be a store or something.”

 

Todd kept smiling and Jarvis shifted the small plastic bag he carried from one hand to the other, feeling the weight of the silver cufflinks he’d bought as cover to show the owner that he was serious. There was also a fake return address stamp in the bag, to prove he’d actually received the item from here. It was going to take a little bit of fancy footwork. “It was Suite 129. No name on it.”

 

“That’d be Hector Gallego. He was just here ‘bout fifteen minutes ago. Here…” Todd pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and jotted something down on a piece of discarded junk mail. “He probably won’t be back ‘til tomorrow, so there’s his address and phone number. Just give him a call and swing by.”

 

Jarvis refrained from gasping or laughing. He took the envelope and shook Todd’s hand. “Well, thanks very much. I’ll do that – and give him this myself.” He raised the other hand holding the junk he’d bought at the Racine airport and turned to the door before Todd could come to his senses and act like someone from LA. Jarvis was in his car and driving toward the hotel he’d book before he turned around to see if Todd was running after him. Nothing.