The chirp of the mail cart wheel as it trundled down the office hallway alerted everyone that Harold had arrived, and they paused as he passed each cubicle, handing off letters to some, packages to others and the shrugged apology to a few for having nothing. In return, nothing was what he received; maybe the occasional nod or muttered thanks but rarely a greeting of any kind.

The position of mailman in the manufacturing company was the perfect cover for Harold; he happily did the job anonymously and without complaint . . . or suspicion.

Della Walker, first cubicle outside the row of manager's offices, and silk sheet dream of every pant clad member of the company, always thanked him. She even inquired about his day now and then with one of those throw away questions that didn't really want an answer.

He didn't mind, it gave him a few extra moments to loiter, and watch as she sorted the mail for the different managers, much to the chagrin of the angry heads popping up from their cubicles like prairie dogs. Harold enjoyed those short moments of fantasizing about Miss Della Walker.

"C'mon, Pope, move your cart, you're holding up production." Tony Renesto, the company sales star chided as he slipped past, grinning at Pope's choice of scenery. "Way above your pay grade, friend."

"I don't know what-"

"Right." Tony laughed and hurried off down the hall.

Harold smirked after the retreating Tony then blushed as he caught a more pronounced smirk from Della. He pushed his cart back to the elevator and gnawed at his lip while he waited for the doors to open then he pushed the cart on and over to one side; nodding to the other passenger.

"Neither rain, snow nor tardy elevators, eh?"

Harold acknowledged the quote and obliged the man with a chuckle.

"They busy up there in sales?" The man asked, overly congenial.

"They always look it anyway," Harold responded.

"Hah! That's what they say about us."

"Who is us?"

"Procurement. Bill Staines," the man said, thrusting out a hand.

"Harold Pope."

"Have you done the mail on our floor, Harold?"

"Yup, I always start at the top and work down."

"Heh, heh, don't we all." The leer lingered as the doors opened and Bill jigged off without a goodbye."

The doors opened again at the basement level and he pushed the cart down the hall to the mail room, parking it and flopping down at a desk.

"Carton for Pendergrast in accounting and another post card for you. Your friend sure likes to keep you up to date on his travels. Sends one every time he changes socks it seems." Syd Dowdy dropped a signature slip on the desk and shuffled back to his counter.

"I'll take it up later. I need to sit a bit."

"All you young people do today is sit. Sit and look at screens on the wall, on the desk, in your hand. Wonder you all don't go blind."

Harold liked the old man. Dowdy had been with the company for years; before it was a company he felt. With his printer's visor and sleeve garters and the slow shuffle when he moved around, Harold felt transported in time. He glanced at the post card and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

"Jist make sure you get that carton up there before three, boy. Don't want no black marks on the mail room 'cause of laziness."

"I'll take it up when I go to lunch, Syd."

"Good, then you can weigh those boxes on the skid there and put the postage stickers on them."

"And what are you going to do?"

"I think I'll sit a bit." White teeth flashed brightly in the black face and the eyes twinkled.

********

Della Walker handed out the last of the mail, finishing in the office of General Manager, Peter Braxton.

"Aah, at last!" Peter beamed, tearing open the envelope. "A confirmation from Betts Fashions. They are taking the entire line of summer handbags."

Della leaned casually against the large, slate-topped desk.

"That sounds wonderful. Congratulations, Peter."

She knew the effect she had on the various men in the company and was more than willing to exploit that knowledge if she saw an advantage and starting at the top was never a bad thing.

The first name basis had already been established at a previous company celebration over drinks; Peter insisting, through a slightly foggy haze of several neat, Jack Daniels.

"It is wonderful and may just lead to some handsome bonuses at raise time."

"It's a bonus just working for you, Peter." She gave him a teasing smile.

He looked up from under his brows. "I'm not that gullible, Della."

"I never ever thought you were." She slipped around beside him and ran a finger around his ear.

"Della! The door - anyone can see . . ."

She moved away and lingered in the doorway. "Drinks after work?"

"Shirley expects me home . . ." He explained with embarrassment.

"Oh well, see you tomorrow then . . . Mr. Braxton."

She closed the door as she left and Peter clasped his forehead.

********

Lunch break came and Harold dropped off the carton then headed for his favourite diner to relax and read his post card. The lunch diner was nearly empty, losing business to the newer wine bar restaurants but it suited Harold just fine. He could eat in comfort without being rushed or bothered and the fries were the best he had tried anywhere.

He poured some ketchup on the edge of his plate and dipped them in the puddle while he read. The message, innocuous enough yet in reality it was a cleverly coded instruction, which Harold memorized then tore into tiny bits, leaving them on his ketchup smeared plate.

He paid his bill, tipped the waitress, who accepted it without comment, and hurried out.

********

At the end of each day, the bar in the Parkhurst Hotel was the go to place to unwind before heading home - or not. The padded bar stools were well filled with like souls, comparing peeves or telling war stories as they laughed and drank. Down tempo lounge music was piped in to counter and take the edge off some of the more vocal patrons.

More intimate unwinding took place in the secluded banquettes around the walls of the vaguely lit room.

Della's laugh sounded genuine to the young man opposite, but the joy never quite reached her eyes, which were busy watching the entrance to the lounge. She had made a mental bet with herself and was becoming a tad annoyed with the fact she might lose.

"So, the salesman says, thank you for purchasing this burial plot. I hope you'll be very happy here." The young man slapped the table and laughed. "Get it? Happy here? Burial plot?"

"I get it. Uproarious." Della suddenly sat up as she saw Peter enter the lounge, pausing to look around. She mentally cashed her bet then turned a high voltage smile on her companion. "Be a dear and get me another martini, two onions?"

"Sure." He winked and slid out of the banquette.

Peter saw the movement and then he saw Della raise a finger that waved, beckoning him over. As he settled down the young man returned looking puzzled and annoyed.

"I think you have the wrong seat, buster."

Della touched his arm. "No, this is an old friend and we haven't seen each other for a while. You don't mind do you? Maybe another time?"

Clearly put out, he gave a disgusted shrug and turned away.

"Aah, my maritni?"

The request sounded so natural he instinctively handed her the drink then flamed in embarrassment as he realized he'd been made a fool of and dismissed.

"That was cold."

"I thought you had to get home to Shirley." She ignored the remark and sipped her drink, watching him over the rim.

"And so you were here trolling for substitutes?"

"No, just keeping the first string warm."

Peter fiddle with the young man's abandoned drink coaster. "I said the office was celebrating the recent success and I would be home later."

"And are we celebrating?"

"Don't play games, Della. You know very well why I'm here."

"Yes . . ." Her foot came up and rubbed his leg slowly.

********

From his favourite seat at the end of the bar, Tony Renesto observed, with interest, the intimate behaviour of the couple across the room. He swallowed his drink and signalled for another right away. Third time this month, he thought, a coil of anger twisting in his stomach.

The drink arrived and he stared hard at the tea coloured liquid, working to suppress that anger. Twice she had turned him down at work and there she was rubbing up her leg against their boss . . . their married boss. Just as he raised his drink, they got up from the booth and crossed the lounge to the hotel lobby.

Tony banged down the glass and followed, waving off the bartender's question. He stopped by the entry and watched Peter Braxton get a key from the desk then, with Della on his arm, they went to the elevators. Looking at his watch he clumped back into the lounge. The man on his stool took his drink and moved without question after seeing the dark expression.

Nursing a refill, Tony ran a scenario through his head where he informed Della that he knew about her fiddling with their boss and maybe Mrs. Braxton would be interested in knowing too. The idea felt good and he expanded it to having Della beg him not to tell, offering the proverbial anything if he didn't.

Tony laughed and finished his drink, tossed some bills on the bar and left. He went to the desk and asked about the couple that took a room twenty minutes earlier, saying it was his buddy and they were supposed to get to a business meeting.

The clerk just gave him a wise smile but added the fact that he hadn't missed him . . . yet.

********

Della stood in front of the bathroom mirror repairing her hair and makeup, smiling smugly as she listened to Peter on the phone in the other room tell his wife the meeting just ended and he was sorry he didn't get home as soon as he'd hoped.

I bet, she laughed to herself. He sure didn't show any signs of sorry for the past hour.

"Want to go downstairs and have a congratulatory drink?" She asked, leaving the bathroom.

He fastened his tie and slipped his jacket on. "I can't, I just told Shirl I was on the way home."

"Oh, c'mon. You can say there was an accident or something. Just one drink." She draped her arms over his shoulders and leaned against him. "Just one drinky?"

"Della, I really can't - not tonight."

"So it's wham bam-"

"Don't! Don't go there. You know that isn't true."

Peter removed her arms, picked up the room key and held the door. It didn't matter, she reflected, she got what she wanted.

Tony started his Lexus and pulled slowly away from the curb as he saw them leave the hotel, slowing to catch the parting kiss with his phone camera. Let her deny that, he snarled aloud, accelerating rapidly down the street and out of their sight.

2181 Words Total (Microsoft word count)