36

Luis had looked at it and had told him it was probably

police? He hadn't. He was too frightened. They had argued

with a postcard pinched betweenl his fingers. It's a Doomsday

ostcard, Asshole, with my name on it and today's date!

a sick joke. Maybe the idiot clerk John had recently fired

vetting back at him. And anyway, had John called the

was

ack and forth for a while until Luis's cellphone had gone

off on the hall table with its campy "Oops I Did it Again"

ring tone. John had leapt for it and had cried out, Who the

fuck is Phil? Answer, truth be told, was the guy from Sutton

Place, but Luis had dodged the truth unconvincingly.

John's emotions had red-lined and, according to Luis, the

normally mild-mannered fellow had lost it, grabbing the

aluminum softball bat that he had abandoned by the front

door a decade earlier after tearing an Achilles tendon in

an adult-league game in Pelham. John had wielded it like

a lance, pushing the end into Luis's shoulders, screaming

obscenities. Luis