I Am the Messenger

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end is irritated but, thankfully, belongs to Marv. In the background, I can hear men at work. Hammering. Swearing. Foundations for Marv's voice, on top.

"Well, thanks for picking up the bloody phone, Ed," he tells me. Personally, I'm in no mood for this right now. "I was beginning to think--"

"Shut up, Marv." I hang up.

Predictably, it rings again. I pick up.

"What the hell's wrong with you?"

"Nothing at all, Marv."

"Now, don't start this rubbish with me, Ed. I had a real rough night."

"Did you try to kill someone, too, did you, Marv?"

The Doorman looks at me as if to inquire whether the phone might be for him. Quickly, he gets back to his bowl and licks it, searching for a few stray coffee fumes.

"Again with this nonsense?" Nonsense. I love it when a guy like Marv uses a word like that. "I've heard some excuses in my time, Ed, but nothing like this."

I give up. "Forget it, Marv. It's nothing."

"Well, good." Marv's always happiest when I have nothing to say. He gets to the point he's been hoping to make all along. "So have you thought about it?"

"Thought about what?"

"You know."

My voice loudens. "No, Marv, at this point, I wouldn't have a single clue what you're talking about. It's early, I've been out all night, and for some reason I'm not really emotionally equipped for this little heart-to-heart of ours right now." I feel like hanging up again but resist. "Could you help me out and tell me exactly what we're talking about?"

"Okay, okay." He acts like I'm the biggest bastard on earth now and that he's doing me a favor by not hanging up on me. "It's just that some of the fellas are asking whether you're in or out."

"Of what?"

"You know."

"Fill me in, Marv."

"You know--the Annual Sledge Game."

Well, shit, I chastise myself, that barefoot game of soccer. How in the hell can I have forgotten about that? What a selfish bastard I am. "I really haven't given it much thought, Marv."

He's unhappy now, and not just an unhappy kind of unhappy. Marv's boiling. He delivers me an ultimatum. "Get keen then, Ed. Let me know within twenty-four hours if you can play. If not, we'll get someone else. There's a big waiting list, you know. These games are a highly sought-after tradition. We've got blokes like Jimmy Cantrell and Horse Hancock dying for a run...." I tune out. Horse Hancock? I don't even want to think about just who in the hell that could be. Only when the phone starts beeping do I realize that Marv's hung up on me. I'd better ring him later and tell him I'll play. Hopefully someone will break my neck in the middle of a giant nettle patch. That'd be nice.

As soon as I get off the phone, I take a plastic bag out to the cab and unload the guilty party from the trunk. I put it back in the drawer and try to forget about it. I fail.

I sleep.

The hours go numb around me as I lie in bed.

I dream about last night, the crackling sun of morning, and the shivering giant of a man. Is he already back in town? Has he walked back in or even managed to hitch? I try not to think about it. Every time those thoughts climb into bed with me, I roll over, trying to squash them. They seep out.

It feels like midafternoon when I wake up for good, but it's barely eleven. The Doorman's wet nose kisses my face. I return the cab, come home, and take him for a walk.

"Keep your eyes peeled," I tell him when we make our way onto the road. Paranoia has broken into me. I think of the guy from Edgar Street, though I know he's most likely the least of my concerns. It's whoever sent me the Ace of Diamonds I need to worry about. I've got a bad feeling they'll know I've completed the card and will deliver the next one soon enough.

Spades. Hearts. Clubs.