Part 82 (2/2)

Oscar looked at his empty mug and empty shot gla.s.s, said to Devin, ”We staying for another?”

Devin nodded vigorously. ”They're buying.”

”Oh, yeah!” Oscar waved at the bartender, circled his finger over the table to indicate another round.

The bartender nodded happily. Of course he was happy. When the tab was on me, Oscar and Devin drank only top shelf. And they threw it back like water. And ordered more. And more.

By the time I got the tab, I wondered who'd gotten the better of the deal. And whether the bill would max out my Visa. And why I couldn't just have normal friends who drank tea.

”You want to know how the United States Postal Service deals with several pieces of mail that don't reach their destination?” Vanessa Moore asked us.

”Pray tell,” Angie said.

We were on the second floor of Bubba's warehouse, which serves as his living quarters. The front third of the floor is mined with explosives because...well, because Bubba's f.u.c.king nuts, but he'd somehow managed to deactivate them for the length of Vanessa's stay.

Vanessa sipped coffee at the bar that begins at the pinball machine and ends at the basketball hoop. She'd just come from the shower, and her hair was still damp. She wore a black silk s.h.i.+rt over ripped jeans and her feet were bare and she kneaded a sterling silver necklace between her fingers as she swiveled slowly from side to side on the bar stool.

”The post office deals with complaints first by telling you mail occasionally gets lost. As if we didn't know. When I mentioned that eleven letters were sent to eleven different destinations and none arrived, they recommended I contact the Postal Inspector's office, though they doubted it would do much good. The Postal Inspector's office said they'd send an investigator by to interview my neighbors neighbors, see if they had something to do with it. I said, 'I put the mail in the box myself.' To which they responded that if I provided them with a list of the destinations, they'd send someone to interview people on the receiving receiving end.” end.”

”You've got to be joking,” Angie said.

Her eyes widened and she shook her head. ”It was pure Kafka. When I said, 'Why don't you investigate the carrier or pickup driver on that route?' they said, 'Once we've ascertained that no one else was involved...' I go, 'So what you're telling me is that when mail gets lost the presumption of guilt is laid on everyone but but the person entrusted with delivering it.'” the person entrusted with delivering it.'”

”Tell 'em what they said to that,” Bubba said as he came into the kitchen and bar area from somewhere in the back.

She smiled at him, then looked back at us. ”They said, 'So will you be giving us a list of your neighbors, ma'am?'”

Bubba went to the fridge, opened the freezer, and pulled out a bottle of vodka. As he did, I noticed that the hair above the nape of his neck was damp.

”f.u.c.king post office,” Vanessa said as she finished her coffee. ”And they wonder why everyone's switching to e-mail, Federal Express, and paying bills by computer.”

”Only thirty-three cents for a stamp, though,” Angie said.

Vanessa turned on the bar stool as Bubba approached with the bottle of vodka.

”Should be gla.s.ses by your knee,” he said to her.

Vanessa dropped her eyes and rummaged under the bar.

Bubba watched the way her damp hair fell across her neck as she did so, the vodka bottle motionless and aloft in his hand. Then he looked over at me. Then he looked at the bar. He placed the bottle on top as Vanessa placed four shot gla.s.ses on the wood.

I looked at Angie. She was watching them with her lips slightly parted and a growing confusion in her eyes.

”I'm thinking I'm just going to cap this a.s.shole,” Bubba said as Vanessa poured the chilled liquor into the gla.s.ses.

”What?” I said.

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