Spencerville

gravel driveway. He noted, too, that there was a man on the porch, and he was certain that the man noticed the police car driving by.
    Cliff used his mobile phone and called his desk sergeant. “Blake, it’s me. Call Washington, D.C., Motor Vehicles, and get me whatever you can on a Keith Landry.” He spelled it out and added, “Drives a black Saab 900. Can’t tell the year and can’t see the plate number. Get back to me ASAP.” Cliff then dialed information. “Yeah, need a number for Landry, Keith Landry, County Road 28, new listing.”
    The information operator replied, “No listing for that name, sir.”
    Cliff hung up and called the post office. “This is Chief Baxter, put me through to the postmaster.” A few seconds later, the postmaster, Tim Hodge, came on the line and said, “Help you, Chief?”
    “Yeah, Tim. Check and see if you got a new customer, name of Landry, RFD, from Washington. Yeah, D.C.”
    “Sure, hold on.” A few minutes later, Hodge came back and said, “Yeah, one of the sorters saw a couple of bills or something with a forwarding sticker from D.C. Keith Landry.”
    “How about a missus on that sticker?”
    “No, just him.”
    “This a temporary?”
    “Looks like a permanent address change. Problem?”
    “Nope. Used to be a vacant farmhouse, and somebody noticed activity there.”
    “Yeah, I remember the old folks, George and Alma. Moved to Florida. Who’s this guy?”
    “Son, I guess.” Cliff thought a moment, then asked, “Did he take a P.O. box?”
    “No, I’d have seen the money if he did.”
    “Yeah. Okay… hey, I’d like to take a look at what comes in for him.”
    There was a long pause, during which the postmaster figured out this wasn’t a routine inquiry. Tim Hodge said, “Sorry, Chief. We been through this before. I need to see some kind of court order.”
    “Hell, Tim, I’m just talkin’ about lookin’ at envelopes, not openin’ mail.”
    “Yeah… but… hey, if this is a bad guy, go to court—”
    “I’m just askin’ for a small favor, Tim, and when you need a favor, you know where to come. Fact is, you owe me one for your son-in-law’s drivin’ while totally fucked-up.”
    “Yeah… okay… you just want to see the envelopes when they’re sortin’—?”
    “Can’t always do that. You make photocopies of his stuff, front and back, and I’ll stop in now and then.”
    “Well…”
    “And you keep this to yourself, and I’ll do the same. And you give my regards to your daughter and her husband.” Cliff hung up and continued to drive down the straight county road, oblivious to his surroundings, contemplating this turn of events. “Guy comes back, no phone yet, but wants his mail delivered. Why’s he back?”
    He put the cruiser on speed control and chewed on a beef jerky. Cliff Baxter remembered Keith Landry from high school, and what he remembered, he didn’t like. He didn’t know Landry well, at least not personally, but everyone knew Keith Landry. He was one of those most-likely-to-succeed guys, hotshot athlete, a bookworm, and popular enough so that guys like Cliff Baxter hated his guts.
    Cliff remembered with some satisfaction that he’d jostled Landry in the halls a few times, and Landry never did a thing, except to say, “Excuse me,” like it was his fault. Cliff thought Landry was a pussy, but a few of Cliff’s friends had advised him to be careful with Landry. Without admitting it, Cliff knew they were right.
    Cliff had been a year behind Landry in school, and he would have ignored the guy completely, except that Keith Landry was going out with Annie Prentis.
    Cliff thought about this, about people like Landry in general who seemed to have all the right moves, who went out with the right girls, who made things look easy. And what was worse, Cliff thought, was that Landry was just a farmer’s son, a guy who shoveled barnyard shit on weekends, a guy whose folks would come to Baxter Motors and trade in one shit car for a newer piece of shit and finance the difference. This was a guy who didn’t have a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of, and who was supposed to shovel shit and bust sod all his life, but who went on to college on a bunch of scholarships from the church, the Rotary, the VFW, and some state money that the taxpayers, like the Baxters, got hit for. And then the son-of-a-bitch turned his nose up at the people he left behind. “Fuckhead.”
    Cliff would have been glad to see the bastard leave,