style="font-size:15px;"> Largo looked at the money. Whether it was a bribe or a tip, it was the largest amount of money anyone had ever offered him for a delivery.
There was another scream, this one more violent than the others. Largo grabbed the coins from the man’s hand and gave him the package. “Good luck,” he said, but the man had already slammed the door shut. Largo put the coins in his pocket and looked at the delivery form. There was no name on it, just the address.
Perfect. My first delivery as chief courier and I’ve already committed an offense that could get me fired.
With no other choice in the matter, Largo signed the form Franz Negovan, the name of a boy he’d known growing up in the Green. He was anxious and angry as he left the building, thinking that if all of his deliveries were like this, he wouldn’t last long as chief courier.
Downstairs, as he expected, the children who’d been playing war earlier were clustered around his bicycle. A dirty blond girl of about ten sat on the seat and looked at him with eyes that were forty years older and harder.
“We watched it for you,” she said. “Made sure nothing bad happened to it.”
Largo had been through similar shakedowns before and had known this other ritual of the Green was coming. When he’d been in similar situations as a child, when he’d had little to give or trade, the result was usually a beating or his running as fast as he could—and his bicycle being stolen or destroyed. These were only children, but in the Green, age didn’t mitigate danger. Fortunately, now things were different. He hoped.
He reached into his pants pocket and came up with some of the coins he’d brought from home and a few from the gray-haired man—all silver. He’d put the gold ones in his jacket. He said, “And you did an excellent job, I see. Here’s something for your trouble.”
The girl accepted the coins and counted them carefully. When she was done she nodded to the other kids and hopped off Largo’s bicycle. As soon as they were across the yard, the girl distributed the money to the other children and the war game resumed without missing a beat. Largo unchained his bicycle, dropped the lock into his shoulder bag, and pedaled slowly back down the route he’d taken earlier. As much as he wanted to speed away from the misery and memories of the Green, he kept to a moderate pace. To go faster was something else that he knew would show weakness. There were many unspoken but universally understood rules in the district, and he’d learned them all the hard way. The one odd thought that struck him as he pedaled away was that if, as a younger man, he hadn’t left Haxan Green, a hard-eyed little girl like the one at the tower block could have been his daughter. It made him think of his own family.
Largo had grown up with his parents in a decaying mansion by the canal. His father had a wagon and a sick horse that he’d probably bought under the table from an army stable. Father rode the wagon all over Lower Proszawa looking for scrap to sell and, like Largo, making the occasional delivery. Largo’s mother panhandled and picked pockets in the street markets around the Green. Largo had been a pale, scrawny child, and his parents had been very protective of him. Maybe too much, he thought now. He was always cautious and nervous around confrontations. Even his encounter with the scabby man, as well as he’d handled it, left him feeling slightly ill, which was humiliating.
Because no one had been home during the day to take care of him, Largo went with his father on his rounds. His mother worried about taking a small boy to some districts even more dangerous than Haxan Green—kidnappings were frequent and children were often sold off to fishing ships along the bay or pimps in the city. To protect the boy during his rounds, his father put him in a wooden crate up front in the wagon. It was through the air holes in the side of the crate that Largo first learned Lower Proszawa’s winding streets and alleys.
Later, he would become an expert while running from gangs wielding chains and knives or bullocks looking for his parents. Of course, he’d never admitted any of this to Remy. It was too embarassing. Besides, she talked as little about her family as Largo did about his, and it made him wonder if she had secrets too.
On his way back to the office, Largo was delayed by a caravan of double-decker party Autobuses. The city’s merrymakers always grew more boisterous in the days before the anniversary of the end of the Great War. Buses and street parties were some of the few places where the upper and lower classes mingled easily because each had the same goal—a gleeful obliteration.
When Largo returned to the courier office, Herr Branca was waiting for him.
“And how was your first foray into new territories?”
“Excellent. It went very well,” Largo said.
Branca glanced up from his paperwork. “I’m glad to hear that. König was seldom so cheerful when returning from Haxan Green.”
Largo smiled but wasn’t sure it was entirely convincing. “That’s too bad. As for me, I found the building, delivered the parcel, and made my way back without any problems.”
“Good. And there was no trouble with the client?”
Largo’s stomach fluttered for a moment as he thought of the forged receipt. “None, sir. Our meeting was both cordial and efficient.”
Branca chuckled. “Efficient. Again, something I’ve not heard about the Green before,” he said. Then he became more serious. “Tell me about the client. What was he like?”
The question took Largo by surprise. Herr Branca had never asked him about a client before, let alone one as peculiar as the gray-haired man. “He was just a man. An old man with gray hair and spectacles.”
“How did he appear to you?”
“Sir?”
“Was he in good health? Happy? Apprehensive? Was there anyone with him?”
Largo considered how best to answer the question. “He was surprised that I wasn’t König, but when I explained that he had moved on—I didn’t mention the bullocks, sorry, the police. After that he accepted the package without incident.”
Branca looked Largo up and down. “And was there anyone with him?”
“Yes.”
“A man or woman?”
“I’m not sure. I think a woman. But the person was in another room and I couldn’t see.”
“Of course,” Branca said, and Largo wondered what that meant. He started to say something but Branca cut him off.
“What was his condition? Dirty? Clean? Did you see his hands?”
“No. I didn’t see his hands.” But he recalled that that wasn’t true. The gray-haired man had tried to grab the parcel. “Well, I did. But only for a moment.”
Branca scribbled something on his papers. “Were his hands dirty, by any chance, especially the fingers?”
Largo thought about it. “I suppose they were, a bit. His fingers, I mean. A bit black.”
Branca held out his hand. “Let me have your receipt book.”
Largo handed it to him nervously.
His supervisor looked at the signed form for a long time. “And this is his signature?”
