It was a perfect day, sun beating down on the city and the harbor, the mercury stuck at eighty-five. A wisp of wind came in off the ocean, cooling the sunbathers a touch but not enough to send anyone packing from the beaches to the parking lot. No one was complaining: This was San Diego in mid-July. Life was perfect.
Jimmy Gamble worked the counter at the post office in Grossmont Center, just east of San Diego State University. He enjoyed dealing with people and found the job rewarding-or as rewarding as working for the U.S. Postal Service can be. He arrived for work on Thursday, covering the ten-to-six shift, his favorite. Early mornings were for birds looking for worms, not for people who enjoyed a few cups of coffee before working the postage meter. He pinned on his name tag and stepped up to the counter.
Something on the floor near the cash register caught his eye. A prepackaged book of ten stamps was lying on the floor. He took a couple of steps, stooped over, and picked it up. He glanced back at the wall, where hundreds of similar packages hung in neat rows and columns. Now, how the hell did that get there? He shrugged, brushed off the dust, and slipped the renegade package onto the most accessible peg, then returned to his counter and opened for the day.
The sixth customer in his line asked for a package of ten stamps for mailing a standard letter, and Jimmy pulled the package off the wall and set it on the counter. The man also had two small packages: one for Phoenix, the other for Boston.
“That will be twenty-three dollars and sixteen cents,” Jimmy said, printing a receipt and making change.
“Thank you,” the man said.
“You’re welcome, Mr. English,” Jimmy said, reading the name off the return address on one of the packages.
The man did a double take at the sound of his name, and Jimmy pointed at the return address. English smiled at the extra initiative the postal employee had taken and returned to the July sunshine. The smile was still on his face as he climbed behind the wheel of his Cadillac and steered for Maderas Golf Club.
It was a perfect day for golf. What the hell, it was a perfect day.