The Outskirts

Memorandum

To: File

From: Frank Flounder

Date: 12/17/10

Subject: The Outskirts

I have retrieved Harvey's home address from the mailroom and am standing outside his apartment building. My mission has been unsuccessful.

Harvey lives in a converted warehouse on the outskirts of town. There are no people here and the warehouses stand like sentries along the empty streets. The river is three blocks away. It smells of oil and rotting fish.

I went to Harvey's building and convinced someone to buzz me in. I claimed to be an investigator, which is true. The building is dim and sunlight creeps through giant, dirt-caked windows. I knocked on Harvey's door, but no one answered. Eventually, a neighbor, his face gaunt and unshaven, peeked out from a nearby apartment.

"Do you know the man who lives here?" I said. 

"Maybe," the neighbor said.

I approached him. He tried to shut his door, but he is old and not as quick as he once was.

I shoved a business card through. "If you see him," I said, "tell him we need to talk. It's important."

The neighbor opened his door and took my card. He was naked from the waist up. His ribs were showing.

"You ever seen his paintings?" I said. 

"Harvey?" said the neighbor, quizzically. "Far as I know, he's a mailman."

"Mailperson," I said. 


F.F.