Chapter 6

On the Thursday following the party, at eleven-thirty a.m., Ralph Taylor left Auto Circus and drove into downtown Morriston. He parked his year-old Cadillac in front of the large graystone building which housed the Post Office on Second and Market Streets, and stepped out into the brilliant sunshine. He was smiling openly, with smug self-satisfaction and anticipation, as he made his way along the crowded sidewalks, filled with morning shoppers, to enter the mausoleum-like structure.

He walked leisurely along the marble interior corridor, his eyes seeking out and locating the window above which a horizontal sign jutted out at right angles, reading: Parcel Post--Post Boxes. He stopped by one of the canted writing desks set against the opposite wall when he noticed the fat woman with a large parcel under her arm step up to the window and begin an earnest conversation with the smallish figure who sat behind the counter.

Ralph waited patiently, casually puffing on one of his expensive cigars, until the woman had finished transacting her business and left the window deserted. Then the automobile executive sauntered slowly over to the cubicle and leaned his thick elbows on the countertop. He smiled lazily as the gnome-like clerk looked up at him and said in a gravely voice, "Help you?"

"You can," said Ralph, blowing smoke over the clerk's right shoulder with studied disregard, "if your name is Steve Samuels."

The government employee frowned, close-set eyes narrowing. "That's my name, all right. What's it to you, mister?"

Ralph laughed softly, smoothly. "Oh, nothing much. I'd like to take you to lunch, that's all, Samuels."

"Lunch?" The clerk's eyes were almost hidden now beneath their puffy lids, and his rubbery lips were set warily.

"That's right."

"What for?"

"To discuss a certain matter."

"What matter?"

Again, Ralph Taylor blew a stream of smoke. "Concerning a certain young housewife named Cindy Jamison," he said easily.

Fear leapt suddenly in Steve Samuels's eyes, and his claw-like hands clamped hard onto the edge of the counter until the knuckles were white. Sweat popped out in beaded pustules on his forehead and sallow cheeks, and spittle flecked his thick lips. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do, Samuels," said Taylor.

"No... no. You'd better leave now, or--" Samuels let the sentence trail off as more sweat appeared on his face.

"Or what?" Ralph said with a soft chuckle. "You'll call the police, or the building guards? Who're you kidding, Samuels? You don't dare call anybody, and you know it." He lowered his voice even more than he already had. "I doubt if you'd want your superiors to know what kind of little racket you've been running from behind your postal position."

"R-racket?"

"Don't try to bluff it out," Taylor told him, some of the patience leaving his voice to be replaced by hard, authoritative tones. "I know who and what you are, Samuels, and I know what you've been doing with the mails and with some of Morriston's more nubile young wives. I've got you cold, Samuels."

The fear was a living entity on the wizened civil servant's face now, and he looked wildly about him, as if seeking an avenue of escape. His tongue came out like an ugly pink snake to moisten his lips again and again. "What... what do you want?" he managed to quaver.

"I told you," Ralph Taylor said, once again letting his voice go casual. "I want to take you to lunch."

"Who are you, mister? You're not--"

"From the authorities, state or federal? No, I'm just a private citizen, Samuels, with what you might call a personal stake in this matter."

Samuels's eyes flickered nervously to the clock overhead. It was almost noon. "I... I get off at twelve, for an hour."

"That's fine. We'll go down the street, to Marian's Steak House."

The postal clerk's eyes flicked over Taylor's shoulder, and he hissed, "Customer. I... I have to wait on him now."

"Sure," said Ralph carelessly. "I'll be waiting out front for you at noon, Samuels. And you'd better be there, if you know what's good for you."

The frightened man nodded spasmodically, still sweating, and Ralph Taylor turned away with the smile playing over his mouth once again. He walked slowly down the gloomy marble corridor and passed through the exit door into the bright noonday sunlight.

Steve Samuels went through the motions of waiting on the customer who had come up, his hands and mouth working mechanically, to do and say the proper things. But his brain was whirling furiously. Fear lived in him like an animal in a dark cave. Who was that casually grinning man who had come out of nowhere to threaten his very existence? How could he have known about Cindy Jamison? How could he have known about the others as well, about the use he was making of his position and the government regulation allowing him to open public mail at will?

And most important, what did he want? What did he intend to do with his knowledge?

Blackmail? the clerk thought suddenly, as the customer turned to leave the window. Samuels stared unseeingly at the retreating back. Was that it? Did the big, grinning man intend to blackmail him? Oh, Christ, if that was it, he was completely trapped; he had no bargaining power. He was a poor man, his job at the Post Office paying only a mere pittance, enough to keep him alive and clothed and with a roof over his head. He couldn't pay any blackmail sum, no matter how small...

Oh, Jesus, Jesus! What was he going to do? But wait... maybe it wasn't blackmail for money; maybe the stranger was after something else, something he, Samuels, could supply and supply easily. Maybe... But there was no use speculating on it now; he would know soon enough, when he went with the stranger to lunch. Again, his eyes flicked up to the clock, saw that it was three minutes 'til noon. There were no customers in sight, and so Samuels hurriedly closed his window. He began to shrug into his hat and coat and his hands were trembling as he did so...

Outside, finishing the last of his cigar with relish, Ralph Taylor waited nonchalantly for the appearance of the postal clerk, watching the lithe young girls in their short skirts and dresses passing by on the street. He felt good, damned good; he felt as if he was on top of the world right now.

He had that ugly son of a bitch right where he wanted him, by the short hairs, by the balls. Samuels would do anything he asked him to do; the bastard had no choice but to do it or risk exposure and a probable jail sentence. Ralph had recently sold Morriston's postmaster an almost new Cadillac, and consequently was on pretty good terms with the man; all it would take would be a few well-chosen words, and it would be all over for the clerk. The postmaster would be inclined to believe a man of Ralph Taylor's stature and respectability over a simple rank-and-file postal clerk, that was for sure...

As he waited, Ralph let his mind wander back to the night of the party and Cindy Jamison's soft young legs spread out wide under him. He could almost feel the soft, sensitive, wetly warm walls of her sweet young cunt squeezing and clasping his heaving cock as he fucked deep and hard into her, could almost feel her hardened cervix slamming against his bloated prickhead, could almost feel the unleashed torrent of cum which had finally escaped his balls to fill that tender little pussy of hers to overflowing...

Goddamn! She was some fine little piece of ass, all right, and the random samplings he had had of her--that fuck two nights ago, the sucking of his cock unbeknownst to her that it was him at their mountain cabin-- had only made him want more of her, want her completely and totally his, want her as his plaything to do with as he bid. That was the way that ugly son of a bitch Samuels had had her, according to the story Norma had said she related; that was the way he, Ralph Taylor, wanted the wife of his best friend and star salesman.

And that was the way, with the help of Steve Samuels, he was going to have her...

Samuels came down the Post Office steps at five past twelve and stood next to Ralph, his eyes mirroring the fear and hate which were inside him. Taylor smiled, but said nothing; he started off down the street, walking leisurely, and the wizened civil servant came tagging along at his heels like a dog following its master. Elation was strong inside the automobile executive as they made their way through the thickening lunch-hour crowds.

Marian's Steak House was jammed with businessmen and secretaries, blue-collar workers and shoppers. The waiter at the door greeted Taylor and Samuels as they entered, gravely informing them there would be a short wait and nodding to the group of people standing about waiting their turn at tables. Ralph slipped him a folded bill, whispering that they were in a hurry, an important business conference, and the waiter miraculously found them an empty spot upstairs on the mezzanine moments later.

When they were seated, and Ralph had ordered two rare sirloin steaks with mixed salad and garlic French bread, the postal clerk leaned across the table and said in a voice barely audible above the buzz of lunchtime conversation from the tables around them, "All right, whatever-your-name- is. You've got me to lunch, and I'm willing to listen to what you have to say. I'll listen. Now what's on your mind, mister?"