Ghost Rider: Stories by Jonathan Lowe

by Jonathan Lowe

  Calvin went to the closet and slid open the door for a peek. Yes, the shirt in back was still white, but not quite as white as it was twenty years ago. Not as white as he remembered it. He might have worn one like it to his father's funeral, he realized, except that one wasn't much of an affair. No one had showed up then, not even Crockey, his dad's fellow postal contract driver during those couple of years when his old man wasn't driving coast-to-coast for Rodeway. They didn't care. None of them. No more than they'd cared about Randall Thompson, whatever his problems were.

  He closed the closet door, looking up at the horned bull skull over his dresser. Which is worse, Dad? he thought. Disease, accident, or suicide? Marlboros and alcohol had ended Ralph Beach's forgotten life eight years ago, although it took thirty years to do it. And a bus on a wide turn ended his mother's twelve years before that. A bus that had casually squeezed her Valiant into a telephone pole at forty-five miles per hour, leaving him and his dad with no one but each other.

  He went back to the breakfast table, and picked up the letter he'd written the night before. He read it again, one last time...

  * * * *

  Hi Dad,

  Last week I went to the postal doctor about my eyes. He told me to see an ophthalmologist about my sensitivity. I'm fine otherwise. Good thing I still don't need insulin. My allergies aren't as bad because the pollen count is finally down, too. Spring is almost over and the wind has died down, so I won't have to put up with all those plants the Snowbirds bring back from Michigan or wherever the hell they come from in the fall. Only bad thing now is the heat. Got them to fix my air conditioning the other day, and it works fine except for the wheezing sound. It was supposed to be hundred degrees today. Yesterday it was ninety-four. Not quite a record for mid-May, but damn close. Gonna be a long hot summer, and hot as hell, Dad. Humidity's at 10 percent, though. It's a dry heat, they say. But who are they, right? At least I got no problems sleeping.

  My new motorcycle is running great. Did I tell you? Do you know? Goes anywhere—even out into the desert hills where I can explore all those old ghost towns around here, maybe find that silver vein near some mine great-grandfather wrote about before the Apaches got him. Cost eight grand, dad, and I paid cash. Can you believe it? I know you want me to buy a house, and I will someday, I promise. Right now, though, I just don't need a lot of space, see. This duplex apartment is fine. I like it that there's nobody above me moving furniture at 3 A.M.. Got a thick wall between me and that retired guy next door who plays golf a lot at Randolph but collects Social Security disability on the side. I've learned my lesson about apartments, and people.

  Anyway, at work, funny thing, they had a meeting about a postal shooting in Phoenix. Said this carrier got fired by his lady boss, then came back and killed five people, wounded three, and shot himself. Sounds like old times, doesn't it? ‘Course management talked about stress reduction, guns and white powder, reporting anything suspicious. The usual BS. Thing I wonder, though, is why didn't this guy didn't use his imagination. Dummy didn't use his head. Guess he had to be there, to see it happen. What do you think, Dad?

  Later,

  Calvin

  * * * *

  Calvin folded the letter, put it in an envelope, and sealed it. Then he went to the end table in the corner of his living room, and kneeled in front of it. He lit a candle, breathed a prayer, and placed the letter in the copper tray there.

  For a moment he stared at the picture behind the tray. It was old, and faded. In the photo his mother stood in the kitchen of their apartment on East Irvington. The smile she wore was one of endurance, of hope. It had been Thanksgiving Day, but on that bleak and overcast Thursday afternoon she held up a homemade pumpkin pie and tried to smile that fragile smile for her only son and her mostly missing husband, who was always on the road.

  Calvin picked up the letter and wrote IN CARE OF MARY BEACH on the envelope. Then he laid it back in the tray and lit his match. As the letter burned he smiled and stared at the candle until it was the only light in the room.

  Soon it was time to go to work.

  * * * *

  Five minutes before midnight he inserted his I.D. in the sensor at the main post office on Cherrybelle. The gate rolled slowly open, and when it was wide enough he gunned the throttle of his GS, easing out the clutch. He parked in the space closest to the employee entrance, and then turned off the gas pet cock, put his helmet in the right saddlebag, and combed his hair.

  His boss Gary Lennox was on the warpath, he learned. Matuska was on Gary's case about overtime, and Fran had called in sick. Whenever Gary walked around with his clipboard and calculator it was a bad sign. Don't even think about talking to him. Gary was a numbers man, up for promotion, and they were looking at him real hard. Once in a while Gary would even glance up at the bridge overhead, where the inspectors sometimes watched from behind those one-way glass panels spaced every fifteen feet. He pretended to use the glass as a mirror to straighten his tie, but Calvin knew it was really to see if the bridge was swaying. That indicated someone might be up there watching. The bridge made a very slight swaying motion whenever someone was walking inside it. It didn't happen often, but Gary was a paranoid SOB.

  As he worked, Calvin imagined what Gary was thinking. Was it Matuska, the plant manager, up there? Or maybe Harold Graves, the postmaster? Big Brother was always watching, they wanted you to believe, and only sometimes wore a badge.

  On nights like this, everyone knew to stay out of Gary's way. Don't even make eye contact. Just do your job, listen to Top 40 tunes or talk radio on your Sony Walkman, and let the hours creep inexorably to dawn. It was boring as hell, but if you knew your schemes by heart, you wouldn't even have to think about it. Just hit the right keys and that letter would be off to the correct bin for further processing. Fifty letters a minute. No problemo. Of course even this final Letter Sorting Machine was on the way out—the Postal Service's last dinosaur, as the Remote Encoding Centers were already on line, and technology was coming to allow the ability to read hand-written letters. But there were always other crafts to move to, like the Bar Code Sorter, the Flats Sorter, and the Optical Character Reader. They were Level 5 jobs at least, paying time and a half or even double-time for overtime. Same fringes, too, as the carriers who had to fight the traffic, the dogs, and the heat. With six years in, your postal career was secure, at least until the information superhighway flattened it. Nothing less than an act of Congress could get you fired—the union would see to that ... that is, unless you slipped a government check into your pocket. Or any piece of mail. If they caught you doing that, your ass was grass.

  When Gary went out of sight behind some cages, Calvin leaned back to Dave Sominski at the terminal behind him. “Hey, you been to that new place—Fleshdance?” he asked. “Know you'd like it."

  "Where is it?"

  "It's on Craycroft just off Twenty-second Street, I think."

  "Convenient."

  He continued keying, then cocked his head back and to the side of the plexiglass barrier, letting his letters go to the zero bin unkeyed. “Read about it last week. Had a blond there named Wendy Whoppers."

  Dave grinned. “Oh yeah?"

  "Yeah, and this week it's Tonya Towers."

  "Forty-seven D Tonya?"

  Calvin smiled. “You would know. How about tomorrow night, nine-ish?"

  "Absolutely. But how come ya never asked me bef—"

  Dave looked back down at his terminal. His face had lost color. Calvin turned just as Gary Lennox came striding up, clipboard held stiffly at his side.

  "Our unkeyed percentage is starting to slip,” Gary announced, then louder, to Dave: “I wonder why?"

  "Sorry,” Calvin said.

  "Sorry?" Gary pushed his glasses back into place with a forefinger. "Sorry? ... Yeah, I guess you are, aren't you. Learn that from David?"

  "It won't happen again."

  "You bet it won't. ‘Cause if it does you get your first warning letter filed. And David, he gets hi
s third. Don't you, David?” Gary pointed his finger at Dave, held it, then dropped his hand and turned away, shaking his head in disgust. When the Flats Sorter manager came over to him with another clipboard, Gary appeared to explain his distress by pointing back at them while continuing to shake his head. The Flats Sorter manager said something, gesturing with animation, and then both he and Gary laughed. A private joke, probably at their expense.

  * * * *

  In the restroom at break time, Calvin looked up at the stall door. It had been recently painted, but beneath the layer of paint he could still see the message that someone had left as a testament to boredom or union satire. Most of the other messages had been obliterated by the latest coat of brown epoxy, but this one remained because someone had carved it into the door's enamel with a pen knife.

  GARY EATS HERE.

  Calvin took out his own pen knife. As he retraced the outline he thought about all the gossipy manual distribution clerks, the joking bosses, and the other ones he'd read about in the afternoon paper ... the ranks on the outside who often complained about the Postal Service. Some of them were on the government dole, and didn't even have to work.

  He smiled grimly as he quietly left the stall.

  * * * *

  2

  Victor Kazy waited in the hallway with Phoenix Postmaster Douglas Barnard for the heavy mahogany office door to open. The door was always locked for security reasons, Barnard explained, whether or not anyone was inside. But ten seconds after knocking he rattled the doorknob anyway, just to be sure. Barnard was, after all, a Level 26 official representing and overseeing the entire operation of a major postal network which included dozens of stations, thousands of vehicles, and an army of employees whose payroll stretched into many millions of dollars. With hundreds of customer service managers ranging from Logistics to Labor Relations under him, he alone obviously did not feel intimidated by the engraved seal on the door which read: POSTAL INSPECTOR.

  "You in there, Phil?” the Postmaster called, knocking even louder.

  There was movement inside at last. A phone was placed back into its cradle. Then the door was unlocked, and opened.

  A woman stood before them. She wore a gray power suit, minus the jacket. A .38 Smith & Wesson jutted from the brown leather holster at her side. Her dark hair was short and neatly styled, rendering a pleasant frame for her attractive Hispanic features.

  "Well, hello,” she said. “Phil is out, I'm afraid. In the field, as they say."

  Barnard nodded, smiled, and then slipped a hand behind her arm. “Maria, this is Victor Kazy. I suspect you've talked before? Victor, this is Maria Castillo, the youngest ... and might I say prettiest field trainer the Western region has ever seen. Not to mention the best."

  They shook hands. Victor was surprised by the strength of her grip, which seemed to complement the startling intensity of her dark brown eyes.

  "Yes,” he said. “We've talked ... on the phone, that is."

  Funny, how he'd imagined her to be a dowdy school marm. A strong yet feminine woman, she was a pleasant surprise.

  "You've settled in?” she asked.

  "I'm staying at the Holiday Inn for now,” he replied. “Two and a half days from South Carolina pulling a U-Haul by trailer hitch. Stuff's on mothballs at Boxcar Self Storage on McDowell Road.” He fingered the key in his pocket, and added: “Number thirty-four, same age as me."

  Castillo and Barnard exchanged glances. The inspector moved to her desk, tapped an open file. “You're ... married ... aren't you, Victor?” she asked casually. “You mind if we call you Vic?"

  "No, not at all. I mean yes, I'm married. Recently separated, actually. Karen didn't much like my career move, especially the law enforcement part of it. Her father was a cop, got killed breaking up a domestic dispute. Guy used a kitchen knife. Karen was only ten. She grew up between here and Tucson with her mother, who was a teacher, too. Still is."

  His new field trainer nodded thoughtfully."Where?"

  "Casa Grande. Anyway, Karen's staying with her for a while. I requested Phoenix mostly because of that. Didn't realize there'd be such a tragedy here so soon.” He looked at the Postmaster. “Was that a reporter I saw downstairs?"

  Barnard grunted. “Think they own the place. Not as bad as last Friday, though. Wife thought I was a celebrity, said any day now Judge Judy would call, wanna do lunch.” He motioned to Maria. “You got Vic's badge?"

  Maria Castillo opened the desk's drawer, withdrew an I.D. card and a square leather holder the size of a small billfold. Barnard took the I.D. and the holder, which he opened to reveal a silver postal inspector's badge. He read the inscription there to himself, then closed it and handed both I.D. and badge to Victor. They shook hands for the second time.

  "Welcome to the Phoenix district,” Barnard said. “I'm not your boss, but you can always count on my advice and cooperation."

  "Thank you, sir. I look forward to working with you."

  At that the Postmaster left the room, and Inspector Castillo closed and locked the door. “You like some coffee, Vic?” Maria asked him. “It's still morning, and we do work late sometimes."

  He declined, then tried not to notice her figure, which was difficult. Her skirt was proper and professional, but it failed hide the perfect hourglass shape. Did she work out? he wondered. Had she thought about teaching aerobics as Karen had?

  "How late is late?” he asked her.

  She turned from the Bunn coffee maker with a steaming cup, and smiled thinly. “Lately it's been ... late. Ever since the reorganization and this new thrust toward automation they haven't been hiring many new inspectors. We had twenty inspectors here two years ago, now we're down to twelve. Tucson had three, now they've got one. When Postmaster General Maxwell gets through, I think we'll have ten and Tucson none. But that's why the new administration in Washington calls him ‘Max the Ax.’”

  He ventured a smile. “So how do you explain me?"

  Maria blew into her cup. “Special circumstances. After they pulled four more of our inspectors three months ago we had a rash of incidents, and lots of overtime. Mail fraud. A clerk theft of treasury-issued gold coins. A carrier dumping bulk mail. You name it. This bizarre shooting was the last straw, so your final approval came late last week, the day after. Barnard demanded our four inspectors back. They gave us you.” She paused, nodding at his tie. “You're even wearing green."

  He glanced at another desk in front of a large bulletin board. “So where are these other inspectors?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.

  "They're out at the stations. Glendale has four. Scottsdale three. South Phoenix one. Tempe two. It's just me and Phil here. Phil DeLong. He's out doing background checks on new hires from the clerk-carrier exam they had downtown last month."

  "I thought testing was in hiatus for clerks and carriers."

  "Special circumstances again. There were only seven openings, although two thousand showed up for the test. Maxwell is still in favor of letting attrition and retirement decrease the work force, with automation closing the gap. You have to realize too that Max's axe is mostly chopping from the top down. You don't want to cut at the roots when you prune. They're what keeps the fruit growing from the branches that survive.""

  "Otherwise you'd have the union screaming?” Vic asked.

  She nodded. “Me, I've been mostly following up leads regarding postal employee complaints against management ... in my vain attempt to identify possible problems on the floor or on the routes. While Phil's out looking at handgun purchase records, I'm trying to get a few bad apples fired for lying on their applications. That, and getting a few others into a counseling program with the E.A.P.."

  Vic nodded. “What's the E.A.P.?"

  Maria set down her cup in astonishment. “The Employee Assistance Program. You mean they didn't tell you about that at the Academy?"

  He tried not to fidget. “I'm sure they did, but there was a lot to learn in eleven weeks. Some of it was a blur. I mean literally. Th
e defensive driving thing, for instance. How to weave in and out of traffic without sparking road rage."

  Maria grinned as if in memory. “How did you score on the firing range?"

  "Top eight percent.” He smiled. “Hey, I was a high school teacher."

  Her laugh seemed real. Finally, she closed his file on her desk. “So how did you like our murder capital?” she asked.

  "Washington? Not much. But I was only in the city once, to tour Postal headquarters. Spent most of my time at the Academy in Potomac. Did you know it used to be a convent?"

  She nodded, smiling. “Ironic, isn't it?” Her desk phone rang. She picked it up, and her smile soon faded.

  "What is it?” Vic asked when she hung up.

  "It's your first arrest,” she announced evenly. “Let's go."

  * * * *

  The Arcadia branch had long earned its reputation for trouble, Maria explained in the car. A carrier fight in the parking lot broken up with dog mace two years prior, then the suicide of a Level 3 custodian in the supply room, and now a shooting which drew national media attention. Yet after examining the records and interviewing the employees, she and Phil had found no conclusive reasons for the problems at Arcadia. Ollie Westover had been a likable, well-respected station manager there, with an open door policy and a candid approach to complaints. The shooter, who had used Ollie's open door to blow his brains out, had never been seen arguing with him or anyone else. Very embarrassing for an agency still loosely connected to the Federal government—an agency which, years later, was still trying to get over the public's use of the phrase going postal.

  When they pulled into the front parking lot, Vic saw through the plate glass front that a clerk was directing customers away from the window station and into the vestibule where the boxes were. A small queue formed a semicircle on the left side, and there was a dog in there too. As they approached the automatic door on the right, Maria nodded to a panhandler at the other door. The man wore a torn Grateful Dead tee shirt, and was stopping people from leaving by holding his hand open, palm up.