“Give me her forwarding address.”
“What?”
“Tammy Foster’s forwarding address.”
“I don’t have that!” He sounded genuinely surprised.
“Tell me where you send her mail.”
“But I don’t.”
He began to shift from foot to foot. He wasn’t lying. “Explain.”
“It’s like, you know, an arrangement.” I waited. “They pay me. This is Mom’s apartment. I mean she pays the rent but I live here. She doesn’t pay for, you know, food or clothes because she says if I want to waste my time on— Right, okay. So this dude pays me a few bucks a week to collect their mail, and that’s about, you know, it.” He shrugged with his thin arms, inarticulately.
“Does Karp or Foster come and get it?”
“No. I just toss it in the garbage.”
“You throw their mail in the garbage.”
“Well, yeah.”
It would be so easy—my right hand on his right wrist, pull and step, left arm across his throat, whirl and spread my arms, like a dance, and he would drop spine-down over my thigh, snap: less than three seconds, start to finish—but a broken boy would help nothing. The adrenaline ebbed.
“Do you have any mail addressed to them that you haven’t thrown away yet?”
“Yeah.”
“Give it to me.” In the absence of adrenaline I felt mounting irritation.
“Uh, isn’t opening other people’s mail like a federal offense?”
“It’s exactly like a federal offense. So is aggravated assault.”
I reached slowly into my inside pocket, giving him time to register the fact that I wore gloves.
“Whoa! I was just—”
“Bring me the mail.” He scuttled off into the kitchen and came back with five envelopes and two catalogues, all obviously junk apart from one white envelope with a familiar blue logo. “Give me the one from American Express.” It was addressed to George G. Karp. I opened it. A bill. Not a solicitation, but a regular bill. I scanned the list of charges. It seemed genuine. I put it in my pocket. “What else do they get?”
“Stuff. I don’t keep track, you know?”
“Visa? Utility bills?”
“Yeah, like that.”
Why would someone go to the trouble of setting up a mail drop and getting bills and other correspondence mailed to it, only to have those bills thrown away? “How much does he pay?”
“It used to be twenty-five a week, but when he added the Foster chick’s name, I told him, man, I can’t do it for less than forty.”
“Cash?”
“Well, duh. Every other Thursday, in the mail. Paid last week.”
I reached into my jacket again. Before he had backed up more than two steps I pulled out my wallet. He bobbed his head: a combination of relief and greed. I extracted five crisp twenties. “I want to know everything you know about Karp and Foster.”
I put my gloves in my pocket and walked around the Village for a while. Donato had not been able to remember what bills had come or what the cycle was, and he couldn’t describe Karp except that he had, you know, maybe sort of blondish hair? He’d only met him, like, once. Tammy he had never seen. I had taken back four of the twenties.
Tammy had to be here. She’d told Dornan this was where she was going after Naples. Her credit card confirmed it. I had followed the money and it led nowhere except back to Tammy's Atlanta apartment and to a mail drop. But if she hadn't lied to Dornan, then she was here with Karp. Find Karp, find Tammy. I knew Karp was somewhere close: his American Express showed dozens of charges to Manhattan restaurants, mainly in midtown, SoHo, and the Village, with a few in Brooklyn.
I wandered past endless coffeehouses on MacDougal Street. It was only eleven o’clock, not yet lunchtime, but the crowds were growing, the air starting to feel used. A double-decker bus stuffed with tourists rumbled past.
Inside the café there was one spare table and a line at the counter. Most of the people sitting and sipping were talking— half to friends, the other half to their phones. One woman
“What?”
“Tammy Foster’s forwarding address.”
“I don’t have that!” He sounded genuinely surprised.
“Tell me where you send her mail.”
“But I don’t.”
He began to shift from foot to foot. He wasn’t lying. “Explain.”
“It’s like, you know, an arrangement.” I waited. “They pay me. This is Mom’s apartment. I mean she pays the rent but I live here. She doesn’t pay for, you know, food or clothes because she says if I want to waste my time on— Right, okay. So this dude pays me a few bucks a week to collect their mail, and that’s about, you know, it.” He shrugged with his thin arms, inarticulately.
“Does Karp or Foster come and get it?”
“No. I just toss it in the garbage.”
“You throw their mail in the garbage.”
“Well, yeah.”
It would be so easy—my right hand on his right wrist, pull and step, left arm across his throat, whirl and spread my arms, like a dance, and he would drop spine-down over my thigh, snap: less than three seconds, start to finish—but a broken boy would help nothing. The adrenaline ebbed.
“Do you have any mail addressed to them that you haven’t thrown away yet?”
“Yeah.”
“Give it to me.” In the absence of adrenaline I felt mounting irritation.
“Uh, isn’t opening other people’s mail like a federal offense?”
“It’s exactly like a federal offense. So is aggravated assault.”
I reached slowly into my inside pocket, giving him time to register the fact that I wore gloves.
“Whoa! I was just—”
“Bring me the mail.” He scuttled off into the kitchen and came back with five envelopes and two catalogues, all obviously junk apart from one white envelope with a familiar blue logo. “Give me the one from American Express.” It was addressed to George G. Karp. I opened it. A bill. Not a solicitation, but a regular bill. I scanned the list of charges. It seemed genuine. I put it in my pocket. “What else do they get?”
“Stuff. I don’t keep track, you know?”
“Visa? Utility bills?”
“Yeah, like that.”
Why would someone go to the trouble of setting up a mail drop and getting bills and other correspondence mailed to it, only to have those bills thrown away? “How much does he pay?”
“It used to be twenty-five a week, but when he added the Foster chick’s name, I told him, man, I can’t do it for less than forty.”
“Cash?”
“Well, duh. Every other Thursday, in the mail. Paid last week.”
I reached into my jacket again. Before he had backed up more than two steps I pulled out my wallet. He bobbed his head: a combination of relief and greed. I extracted five crisp twenties. “I want to know everything you know about Karp and Foster.”
I put my gloves in my pocket and walked around the Village for a while. Donato had not been able to remember what bills had come or what the cycle was, and he couldn’t describe Karp except that he had, you know, maybe sort of blondish hair? He’d only met him, like, once. Tammy he had never seen. I had taken back four of the twenties.
Tammy had to be here. She’d told Dornan this was where she was going after Naples. Her credit card confirmed it. I had followed the money and it led nowhere except back to Tammy's Atlanta apartment and to a mail drop. But if she hadn't lied to Dornan, then she was here with Karp. Find Karp, find Tammy. I knew Karp was somewhere close: his American Express showed dozens of charges to Manhattan restaurants, mainly in midtown, SoHo, and the Village, with a few in Brooklyn.
I wandered past endless coffeehouses on MacDougal Street. It was only eleven o’clock, not yet lunchtime, but the crowds were growing, the air starting to feel used. A double-decker bus stuffed with tourists rumbled past.
Inside the café there was one spare table and a line at the counter. Most of the people sitting and sipping were talking— half to friends, the other half to their phones. One woman
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