Ronald— had turned out to be just as uptight as Theo had claimed. Conservative to the bone, a fan of both Bush presidencies, the oblong-faced, perpetually distracted Normal— with his long straight nose, thin lips, and headset that seemed as much a part of him as his hands or ears— wore his brownish blond hair short and combed back, his black-frame glasses and constant frown making him look like a sad librarian.
Normal considered Max and his other employees a bunch of slacker losers, which hardly inspired the best in them. Constantly saying, “Bip, bip, bip,” his secret code for “hurry up,” hadn't gained him any new friends either; neither had his favorite, painful pseudo-expletive—“Where the fire truck is…?” Fill in your favorite Jam Pony rider, like for example…
… Herbal Thought, a Rastafarian with a shaved head, short beard, and ready smile, a generous and philosophical instant friend. Frustratingly cheerful, he was always ready to share anything he had— even his ganja, which Max took a pass on— as well as to proselytize for Jah and the theory, “It's all good, all de time.”
The other messenger who befriended Max and Original Cindy, from day one, was a scarecrow with long, lank, black hair, greasy strands of which trailed down over his dark eyes. Sketchy, they all called him— a nickname that applied more to his thought processes than any artistic ability.
More than a little weird (“He the lost Three Stooge,” Original Cindy opined), Sketchy had sold himself out for experiments in a psych lab before he'd signed on at Jam Pony, and many of his friends thought that might explain his somewhat odd… sketchy… behavior.
Today, like most days, the four of them— Max, Original Cindy, Sketchy, and Herbal— were taking their lunch break at The Wall up the street from Jam Pony, a cement slab where the gang hung out, doing bike tricks and generally chilling. Here they sat and wolfed sub sandwiches from a nearby shop. Herbal passed on having a sandwich, however; his main course was a spliff he lit up— not much bigger than Max's thumb— and inhaled deeply.
“Ah, 'tis a gift from God,” Herbal said, as he leaned blissfully back against the table.
“I should become a Rasta,” Sketchy piped in, admiringly. “That's my kinda sacrament.”
Herbal shook his head and made a
at the front of his mouth. “Ah, but worshiping Jah is not about the ganja, man. Worshiping Jah is about faith… faith and growth.”
“Growin' ganja,” Original Cindy said, and they all laughed, including the Rastafarian.
The strong scent tickled Max's nose. “No wonder you think it's ‘all good,' ” she said.
“Hey,” Sketchy said brightly, as if the idea he was about to express weren't something he suggested every day, “who's up for Crash after work?”
“Original Cindy could be up— how 'bout you, Boo?”
Max shrugged. “Guess I could hang for a while.”
The nature of the job— each rider out doing his or her own deliveries— prevented them from tiring of one another's company by the end of a long day; they enjoyed gathering to tell war stories, share anecdotes about Normal, and swap tales of tricky deliveries and asshole clients.
“Cool!” Sketchy turned to Herbal. “You?”
“If my brother and sisters need me to be there, you know Herbal will indeed be there.”
“Don't refer to yourself in the third person, my brother,” Original Cindy said, frowning. “Original Cindy don't dig that affected shit.”
Everybody looked at her, not sure whether she was kidding; and they never found out.
“Okay,” Sketchy said, eyes glittering, proud of himself for organizing something that happened almost every day. “We all meet at Crash!”
“Sounds like a plan,” Max said, rising, only half her sandwich eaten. “Gotta bounce— Normal's loaded me up with every shit delivery that came in today.”
Original Cindy shrugged, smirked. “He jus' knows you can go into any nasty part of town, and come out with your ass in one piece.”
Sketchy frowned in fragmented thought. “Wouldn't that be… two pieces?”
Max left them to argue that one out.
Over the course of the afternoon, she made four deliveries. The first was to a place way the hell up on Hamlin Street, by Portage Bay; the next on the way back on East Aloha Street, just off Twenty-third Avenue East; the third on Boylston near Broadway; and the last turned out to be the Sublime Laundry, downtown.
The place— a combo Laundromat and dry cleaner— looked less than sublime, and too dingy to launder anything except maybe money. The Asian woman behind the counter was about as friendly as a Manticore training officer. Shorter than Max, her black hair tied back in a severe bun, the woman had a raisin face with raisin eyes, and a mistrustful expression.
“Package for Vogelsang,” Max announced.
“I take.”
“I kinda don't think you're Daniel Vogelsang.”
“I take.”
“Mr. Vogelsang has to sign— it's marked confidential, and only Mr. Vogelsang can sign for it.”
“I take.”
Max glanced at the ceiling, rolled her eyes, and thought
“Look, if Mr. Vogelsang isn't here, I'll just have to come back another time.”
“I take.”
“You
take, you aren't him and you can't sign.” Max turned on her heels and headed for the door, the woman's language of choice moving from English to Chinese, her vocabulary expanding considerably from the two words Max had previously heard.
Max had enough Chinese training to know that some of the names she was being called should earn the woman a chance to have her mouth washed out with soap, and even in this shithole laundry, soap wasn't in short supply…
But Max was learning to choose her battles more wisely, these days— attracting attention in Seattle was not on the itinerary.
As she reached the door, a male voice behind her boomed: “Ahm Wei, what the hell's going on out here?”
Max turned to see a heavyset man with blond crew-cut hair, mild features, and a goatee on a droopy-eyed bucket head, wearing baggy slacks and a Hawaiian slept-in shirt.
“She got package,” Ahm Wei said. “She no leave.”
“Ahm Wei, you know when they need my signature, you're supposed to come get me… Young lady! Hold up there.”
Max sighed and swiveled. “You Vogelsang?”
“Could be.”
“You take?” Max mimicked, her patience growing thin, holding out the package. “If you're Vogelsang, this package is marked confidential, which means it has to be signed for personally. No tickee, no laundry, get it?”
“Punk-ass mouth on you,” the guy muttered. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm Vogelsang. Come on in back— I don't do my business out here.”
Already tired of this rigmarole, but not wanting to have to deal with Normal about the rejected package, Max let out another world-weary sigh and followed Vogelsang through double doors into a cramped office. Max's trained eyes automatically took it all in: washer parts, jugs of dry-cleaning chemicals, unidentified stacks of boxes, typical backroom stuff.
But centrally, in front of a wall of battered file cabinets stacked with more boxes and papers, a maple desk squatted, arrayed with piles of papers, the occasional Twinkie box, and empty Chinese takeout containers… a swivel chair behind the desk, a comfortable client's chair opposite, beige walls adorned with bulletin boards bearing police circulars and such…
