The Messenger (2011 reformat) (19 page)

"Don't
flatter yourself. There are plenty of other employees qualified to take the
job."

"Fine.
Give it to one of them." I was so hoping this wouldn't happen...but I knew
it would, she thought. "Suit yourself, Martin." He grumbled something
further. Jane walked away.

I

Martin Parkins
felt as though his head would explode. His blood simmered; his temples felt
like pins had been driven into them. Where did she get off patronizing him like
that? She was playing games with him! Yeah, she's hot shit now that she's
station manager. Offers me a pissant raise when she knows damn well I should
get Carlton's job.

He closed his
eyes, gritting at his rage. He placed his head down on the table and took deep
breaths. His hands were shaking, his eyelids fluttering. Martin was mad all the
time, perpetually pissed-off at the world and the people who'd given him the
shaft, and he was tired of the shaft. He'd been close to the breaking point for
years; today, though, was the worst.

When Jane Ryan
walked away from his station, his eyes followed her out with the wildest
thoughts: that tight rump in those tight regulation post-office shorts. Her
shirt was tight too-probably deliberately. It made her breasts look like they might
break out of it. The tease, he thought. Likes to tease old Martin, really get
his goat. Wears that shit too tight on purpose.

When she'd
fully left, he smiled. One of these days I'll tune that bitch up but good. I'll
punch her ticket like it's never been punched.

She was good
looking, though. The hot shits always were. Always thought they were a little
bit better than everyone else just because they'd happened to be born
attractive, and because they had a little more education. Truth was, Jane Ryan
was no better than anyone, just luckier. And all Martin was getting was more of
the shaft.

He finished
the last of his two-foot trays, each containing exactly 460 sorted letters, and
decided to take a break. He worked hard too. The only difference was he got no credit.
If Ryan had given him that psycho Carlton's job, he'd make a lot more money and
would finally have the respect he deserved. The bitch had played him, offered
him the shit job, instead, knowing that he had too much pride to take it, and
now she was probably writing that up in his eval report too.

Oh, yeah. One
of these days, she'll get hers.

He slipped out
when most of the processors were cutting out for lunch. Martin didn't want
lunch. He went into the bathroom, took the back stall, and sat down. He slipped
out his flask and took a slug. Kessler's whiskey. Smooth as silk. A couple more
hits and he  tarted to feel better-

-feel better,
that is, in the strangest way.

All he could
think about was Jane Ryan, and those thoughts were getting pretty low-down. He
wasn't mad anymore; he was thrilled. He began to feel very much in control. He
couldn't put his finger on the way he felt-it was impossible for him to
articulate-but it seemed as though a feeling of security had suddenly
overwhelmed him. Like a guardian angel had come down upon him.

A few more
hits on the Kessler's and he knew. It wasn't just Jane Ryan. It was damn near
everyone. The people out there needed guys like Martin to tear down, so that
they could feel better themselves. It built them up to trod on low-key,
mind-his-own-business guys like Martin. Ryan was no different. They were all
having a laugh.

Well, the next
laughs gonna be on me.

He put the
flask away, left the stall, and got ready to go back to work. He felt great. In
his mind he saw all the ways he could start getting back at all these phony
schmucks, starting with Ryan. Yes, he could do a job on her, all right. Just
wait for a time she leaves work a little late, wait for her in the parking lot,
put a gun in her ribs, and drive her out of there. Take her down the coast a
ways, tie her up and have some fun with her for a few hours, and then drop her
snooty ass in one of the sinkholes. Then he could start on the rest of them.

Yes, he heard.

A voice.

But not his
own voice, really.

It was some
other guy's voice.

And in not
much more time, he'd get to know the other guy really well, and he'd understand
it all.

II

Dusk began to
pinken the horizon; sunset was always a spectacular event in Florida, even more
so in a pretty town like Danelleton. Darkening orange bloomed through the
masses of palm trees. A familiar warm breeze flowed over the landscape. Night
was coming.

The houses
weren't all the same but they were all nice: newly painted, well-kept, a
suburban Utopia. The sun set lower over one house in particular- Annabelle's
house, a long hacienda-style ranch with tile shingles and an arched entrance. A
van pulled up in the driveway, whose side panel read strauss heating and
air-conditioning, always on call.

The tall
repairman with wavy hair and goatee got out with tools and clipboard,
enthusiastic for the late call. Erik used to worked all days, mostly commercial
units in St. Pete, and it had been hotter than hell. But these late ones, at a
private residence, were a lot easier to get into, plus he'd often get a tip.

Sometimes Erik
even got lucky. In Florida? All the women? There was nothing better than a
residential call by a housewife whose husband was out of town, and a
good-looking guy like Erik? More than once he'd gotten tipped twice.

I can only
hope, he thought, strolling up the driveway.

Then the hope
was dashed. So much for that idea. Another van was parked up in the drive, not the
home owner's, another service truck,
Paravision CABLETV
.

What the fuck?

A third van
read walton furniture repair.

"Great,"
Erik said to himself. "Two other repairmen in there, too. No nookie for me
tonight." But that was okay. Erik was aware of his blessings. He never
took them for granted.

He walked up
to the front door, then smiled at the probability. Yeah, probably some husband
and wife in their sixties, with a house full of grandkids. Still might get a
good tip.

Before he
knocked, something snagged his eye: the odd door knocker on the center stile.
Fucked up, he thought. It was an oval of tarnished bronze depicting a morose
half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features.

The term bad
omen was not familiar to him.

When he
knocked, and the door opened, though, Erik was hard-pressed not to do a rebel
yell.

A woman
answered, big smile and big bright eyes. She'd have been a knockout in a
friggin' potato sack, but in the see-through black nightgown?

Holy shit. The
motherlode, Erik thought.

"Hi,"
she said. "Come on in. I really appreciate you coming at this hour. It's
not easy to get air-conditioning service after five."

Short, petite.
Shining shoulder-length hair like dark amber. The nightgown's hem was way, way
high- maybe just an inch below her crotch. And if the wind blew? It would be
Muff Town; Erik wasn't sure but he could almost swear that she was pantiless.
She was braless, too, and he didn't have to wonder about that one. Compact
little breasts right there with big dark nipples showing through the shadowy
see-through top.

"No, uh,
no problem, ma'am. We make house calls around the clock."

She giggled
and let him in. "A lot of them say that but try actually getting one this
late. Seriously, I'm really grateful for you coming. When the air-conditioning
is out, this place turns into a oven, even at night. My name's Annabelle, by
the way".

"Erik.
Nice to meet you."

When they
shook hands, Erik found hers hot and moist. And there was a little mist of
perspiration just above her cleavage, and down the front of her legs, too.
Erotic.

Like she'd
just been getting it on maybe.

Still awestruck
by that body in the revealing gown, he followed her through the foyer into the
kitchen. Nice place, just like the outside, which was par for the course in
Danelleton. But again he considered the probability. First of all, he knew
there were two other repairman in the joint right now. Second, Annabelle was
more than likely married to some rich codger who needed the arm candy, and Erik
would be meeting him in a moment.

"Yeah,
you're the first repairman I've dealt with today who actually came when he said
he would."

All right,
this is too funny. Third time she'd mentioned "coming," that and the
fuck-me nightgown, like a bad joke in a T&A flick. Was she doing it on
purpose or was she just naive? Didn't matter. Erik could have some fun with it
too, because he knew this couldn't amount to anything.

"Looks
like you've got your share of repairmen here."

Now she was
leading him down a hallway. It was a little dark but somehow that only
accentuated her body in the gown. The sheer material looked like smoke floating
around her.

"Oh, yes.
The TV man's here too."

"Cable
problems, huh?"

"Yes.
Something was wrong with the channels, so he had to feed a new line into my
box."

Erik had to
frown because if he didn't frown, he'd bust out laughing. "Uh, yeah,"
was all he said.

"And then
I had to call the furniture man too-"

Annabelle
turned with a smile that was impossible not to describe as wanton. Her breasts
stuck out in the veil-like top. "I needed him to fix the knobs on my
chest."

Then she
quickly turned, leading him down the hall. Erik just shook his head.

"I've got
this nice blond-wood chest in the living room. So he fixed the knobs and also
the drawers."

Some sweat was
accumulating on Erik's brow. Just the look of her, and the deliberate words and
the way she'd spoken them-it was all beginning to really get Erik going. But he
knew the scoop now. This was too much, a joke. She was just another bored
housewife playing with the tough-guy repairman. Hubby would be waiting with a
flashlight at the a/c unit, and the fun would be over. That was all right. Just
wait'll the guys hear about this at the shop. With lines like this one was
dishing out? Bet they don't even believe it.

"I even
had the landscapers here earlier," she said.

Erik couldn't,
knew he shouldn't-he didn't need a sexual harassment complaint. But, Jesus! she
was harassing him, wasn't she? He couldn't resist his response. "Let me
guess. You had some bushes that needed trimming?"

"No!"
she laughed. "They tilled my garden!"

You gotta be
shitting me, lady.

The end of the
hall opened into the garage, and through there, another door took them outside
into the backyard. Darkness and pleasant night sounds waited for them.

"Sorry,
the porch light is out," she said, leading him to the unit.

"I've got
a flashlight," Erik said and snapped it on. The strong beam roved once
across her bosom, then she turned. "So what exactly seems to be the
problem?" he asked her. "You getting any function at all?"

"The unit
functions too well, if you want to know the truth. It's on all the time; it's over
responsive, I think. And every time I touch the little control button inside,
it overreacts. I guess my thermostat's too sensitive."

"Oh, I
can fix your thermostat, no problem. But let me take a look at your
inductors." Erik smiled in the dark, threw the flashlight beam down into
the unit's grill. Annabelle stood to the side, hands on knees and bent over.

The unit
kicked on, sounded fine. There's nothing wrong with this, he knew. "Yeah,
it's not out here," he said playing along. "I'll have to go inside,
check that inflow switch, part of the primary front end. That's inside, can't
do that out here."

"You
sound like a man who knows the job."

"No brag,
just fact, ma'am. I've had a lot of experience. It might also be your system's
receiving nodes, too."

"Um-hmm,"
she said.

Erik stepped
closer beside her, where she remained leaning over. A side glance showed him
her bare breasts in the V of her top.

"But you
said you have to go inside?" she asked.

"Yeah,
your control unit. That's where the switch is. It's all integrated, ma'am.
That's what you've got to understand. We're talking about a problem with the
overall mechanical nomenclature of your system's front end."

"Okay."
She whirled around and led him back into the garage. Yeah, this is something,
ain't it? Erik thought. Now was the moment of truth, though. If this was all
tease which he was sure it was-then he'd know in a minute. They were going back
into the house.

"When was
the last time your unit went on the fritz?"