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?”
Quietly, Largo said, “Yes, sir.”
“I don’t see any smudges or dirt. Anything to indicate his dirty fingers. You’re sure they were blackened?”
Largo nodded. “Yes,” he said, then quickly added, “I held the book for him. He didn’t touch it. I’m sorry if that was against procedure.”
Branca tore the signed page out of the book and put it with the papers on his desk. Then he put the book in a drawer. “Not against procedure at all, Largo. However, in the future it would be best if the client was in possession of the book when they signed it. Please remember that.”
“Of course. I will,” said Largo, relaxing a little. It seemed that Branca’s preoccupation with procedure had kept him from examining the signature closely enough to recognize Largo’s handwriting. But he couldn’t help being curious. “If I may ask, sir, was this client special?”
“How do you mean?” said Branca, leaning casually on his desk.
“I mean, will I be questioned like this after each client? It’s no bother, you understand. I just want to know if I should pay special attention to them.”
“It’s always good to pay attention to clients,” Branca said, distant and officious, “especially for a chief courier. And no, I won’t interrogate you like this after each delivery. However, this was your first in your new position, so I thought it best to go over it carefully.”
“I hope I performed satisfactorily,” Largo said, hating himself because it sounded like groveling—and he had been sounding like that the whole day. Still, his position was tenuous enough that it seemed better to err on the side of caution, especially with Branca, who had dismissed other couriers as if swatting a fly.
“You did fine. But from time to time I’ll be asking you about other clients. A new procedure from management. Quality control and all that. They may wish to conduct interviews with some of them to see that we’re staying on our toes. I’m sure you understand.”
“I’ll make sure to pay more attention,” said Largo.
“Very good.” Branca gave Largo a new receipt book, then pressed the button on his desk that called a Mara. It brought out a large green folder that looked as if it might contain papers. “The address is on the front. You’ll find this delivery a bit less colorful and more posh than your last one. The Kromium district. Do you know it?”
“Very well.”
“Good. Herr Heller is an important client, so get there quickly. After this delivery you may go to lunch. And take your time. As chief courier you get a full forty-five minutes. Do you know why regular couriers only get thirty?”
“Because we, I mean they, are in such demand during working hours?”
Branca shook his head. “It’s to keep them from drinking too much and getting into trouble. It’s assumed that there will be no problems like that from the chief courier.”