Going Postal

He’d fooled them all, and there they were, thanking them for fooling him.
    A quiet voice from the doorway behind him said: “Mad Al and the boys told me what you did.”
    “Oh,” said Moist, not turning around. She’ll be lighting a cigarette , he thought.
    “It wasn’t a nice thing to do,” Adora Belle Dearheart went on, in the same level tone.
    “There wasn’t a nice thing that would work,” said Moist.
    “Are you going to tell me that the ghost of my brother put the idea in your head?” she said.
    “No. I dreamed it up myself,” said Moist.
    “Good. If you’d tried that, you’d be limping for the rest of your life, believe me.”
    “Thank you,” said Moist leadenly. “It was just a lie I knew people would want to believe. Just a lie. It was a way to keep the Post Office going and get the Grand Trunk out of Gilt’s hands. You’ll probably get it back, if you want it. You and all the other people Gilt swindled. I’ll help, if I can. But I don’t want thanking.”
    He felt her draw nearer.
    “It’s not a lie,” she said. “It’s what ought to have been true. It pleased my parents.”
    “Do they think it’s true?”
    “They don’t want to think it isn’t.”
    No one does. I can’t stand this , Moist thought. “Look, I know what I’m like,” he said. “I’m not the person everyone thinks I am. I just wanted to prove to myself I’m not like Gilt. More than a hammer, you understand? But I’m still a fraud by trade. I thought you knew that. I can fake sincerity so well that even I can’t tell. I mess with people’s heads—”
    “You’re fooling no one but yourself,” said Miss Dearheart, and reached for his hand.
    Moist shook her off, and ran out of the building, out of the city, and back to his old life, or lives, always moving on, selling glass as diamond, but somehow it just didn’t seem to work anymore, the flair wasn’t there, the fun had dropped out of it, even the cards didn’t seem to work for him, the money ran out, and one winter in some inn that was no more than a slum he turned his face to the wall—
    And an angel appeared.
    “What just happened?” said Miss Dearheart.
    Perhaps you do get two…
    “Only a passing thought,” said Moist. He let the golden glow rise. He’d fooled them all, even her. But the good bit was that he could go on doing it, he didn’t have to stop. All he had to do was remind himself, every few months, that he could quit anytime. Provided he knew he could, he’d never have to. And there was Miss Dearheart, without a cigarette in her mouth, only a foot away. He leaned forward—
    There was a loud cough behind them. It turned out to have come from Groat, who was holding a large parcel.
    “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but this just arrived for you,” he said, and sniffed disapprovingly. “Messenger, not one of ours. I thought I’d better bring it straight up, ’cos there’s something moving about inside it…”
    There was. And airholes, Moist noted. He opened the lid with care and pulled his fingers away just in time.
    “ Twelve and a half percent! Twelve and a half percent! ” screamed the cockatoo, and landed on Groat’s hat.
    There was no note inside, and nothing on the box but the address.
    “Why’d someone send you a parrot?” said Groat, not caring to raise a hand within reach of the curved beak.
    “It’s Gilt’s, isn’t it,” said Miss Dearheart. “He’s given you the bird?”
    Moist smiled. “It looks like it, yes. Pieces of eight!”
    “ Twelve and a half percent! ” yelled the bird.
    “Take it away, will you, Mr. Groat?” said Moist. “Teach it to say…to say…”
    “‘Trust me’?” said Miss Dearheart.
    “Good one!” said Moist. “Yes, do that, Mr. Groat.”
    When Groat was gone, with the cockatoo now balancing happily on his shoulder, Moist turned back to the woman.
    “And tomorrow,” he said, “I’ll definitely get the chandeliers back!”
    “What? Most of this place doesn’t have a ceiling,” said Miss Dearheart, laughing.
    “First things first. Trust me! And then who knows? I might even find the fine polished counter! There’s no end to what’s possible!”
    And out in the bustling cavern, white feathers began to fall from the roof. They may have been from an angel, but were more likely to be coming from the pigeon that a hawk was just disemboweling on a beam. Still, they were feathers. It’s all about style.

    S OMETIMES THE TRUTH is arrived at by adding all the little lies