I Am the Messenger Read Online Free PDF Page A

forgot to pick up the coffee table. I’m still not sure how I’m going to fit it in my cab, anyway.
    I force myself to stop thinking about it. It’s irrelevant. What I need to focus on is why this card’s turned up and where it’s come from.
    It’s someone I know.
    That’s certain.
    It’s someone who knows I play cards all the time. Which should make it either Marv, Audrey, or Ritchie.
    Marv’s out. For sure. It could never be him. He could never be that imaginative.
    Then Ritchie. Highly unlikely. He just doesn’t seem the type to do this.
    Audrey.
    I tell myself that it’s most likely Audrey, but I don’t know.
    My gut feeling says it’s none of them.
    Sometimes we play cards on the front porch of my house or on the porch at someone else’s place. Hundreds of people might have walked past and seen us. Once in a while, when there’s an argument, people laugh and call out to us about who’s cheating, who’s winning, and who’s whingeing.
    So it could be anyone.
     
    I don’t sleep tonight.
    Only think.
    In the morning I get up earlier than normal and walk around town with the Doorman and a street directory, finding each house. The one on Edgar Street is a real wreck of a joint, right at the bottom of the street. The one on Harrison is kind of old, but it’s neat. It has a rose bed in the front yard, though the grass is yellow and stale. The Macedoni place is up in the hilly part of town. The richer part. It’s a two-story house with a steep driveway.
    I leave for work and think about it.
    That evening, after delivering Ma’s coffee table, I go to Ritchie’s place and we play cards. I tell them. All at once.
    “You got it here with you?” Audrey asks.
    I shake my head.
    Before I went to bed last night, I placed it in the top drawer of the cabinet in my bedroom. Nothing touches it. Nothing breathes on it. The drawer is empty but for that card.
    “It wasn’t any of you, was it?” I ask. I’ve decided I can’t skirt around the question.
    “Me?” asks Marv. “I think we all know I don’t have the brains to come up with something like this.” He shrugs. “That, and I wouldn’t invest that much thought into the likes of you, Ed.” Mr. Argumentative, as usual.
    “Exactly,” agrees Ritchie. “Marv’s far too thick for something like this.” Now that he’s made his statement, he becomes silent.
    We all look at him.
    “What?” he asks.
    “Is it you, Ritchie?” Audrey questions him.
    He jerks a thumb over at Marv. “If he’s too dumb, I’m too lazy.” He holds his arms out. “Look at me—I’m a dole bludger. I spend half my days at the betting shop. I still live with my mum and dad….”
    To fill you in, Ritchie’s name isn’t even really Ritchie. It’s Dave Sanchez. We call him Ritchie because he has a tattoo of Jimi Hendrix on his right arm but everyone reckons it looks more like Richard Pryor. Thus, Ritchie. Everyone laughs and says he should get Gene Wilder on the other arm and he’ll have the perfect combination. They were a dynamic duo if ever there was one. How can you argue with movies like Stir Crazy and See No Evil, Hear No Evil ?
    Exactly.
    You can’t.
    Just, if you ever meet him, don’t mention the Gene Wilder thing. Trust me. It’s the one thing that sends Ritchie into a bit of a frenzy. He can’t stand it. Especially when he’s drunk.
    He’s got dark skin and permanent whiskers on his face. His hair is curly and the color of mud, and his eyes are black but friendly. He doesn’t tell people what to do and expects the same in return, and he wears the same faded jeans day in, day out—unless he’s simply got several pairs of the same type. I’ve never thought to ask.
    You can always hear him coming because he rides a bike. A Kawasaki something or other. It’s black and red. Mostly he rides it without a jacket in summer because he’s ridden since he was a kid. He wears plain T-shirts or unfashionable shirts that he shares with his old man.
    We’re all still