'Alright,' Billy said. 'Let’s go out back—' He turned. 'Nicole!'
A girl strode out of the back room. She was young. Maybe only just turned eighteen. She sported dishevelled hair and a drab, mousy complexion. She wore attire that matched Billy’s. A faded pair of jeans and a polo whose logo read “Jameson Post!”.
'What, Dad?' she grumbled. 'Stop fucking yelling.'
'You’re up front for half an hour. I need to look at some tapes in the back room.'
Nicole looked King up and down. 'Who’s this?'
‘A private investigator.’
Her eyes widened. 'Bullshit. The fuck have you done?'
'Nothing. Just stay here.'
What a pleasant relationship, King mused.
He followed Billy behind the counter and through a narrow doorway. He crouched to avoid smacking his forehead on the doorframe. This building was obviously constructed decades ago. The back room was old and dilapidated. Paint peeled off the walls and paperwork lay scattered across three trestle tables, each with some variation of broken appendages. King eyed one of the tables, sporting three legs taped firmly with multiple layers of duct tape. Clearly a post office made just enough money to get by. There seemed to be a budget of zero for repairs.
Billy collapsed into a tattered leather armchair and wheeled it up to an ancient computer. A few clicks of the mouse and the screen displayed a grid of four separate security cameras, two on the exterior of the building and two inside. The lower left screen showed Nicole behind the counter, absent-mindedly chewing gum. Billy squinted at the monitor and perused slowly through the different options. Pause, rewind, skip. He clearly hadn’t found the need to study security footage in years.
'Now it’s here somewhere…' he tutted under his breath.
King waited patiently. He took the time to scrutinise his surroundings. Trying to get a sense of how Billy lived.
Frugally, he concluded.
The whitewash bleakness of the decorum suited the contents of the room. Nothing — save stacks of paperwork — was there that did not need to be. There was no room for trivial possessions.
'Here we are,' Billy said, leaning so far forward on his chair that his nose hovered barely a centimetre from the screen.
King stepped closer, studying the footage. Billy had pulled up a replay, about thirty seconds long. It appeared to be from two days ago, judging by the timestamp along the bottom. He touched a single finger to the space bar and the clip began.
For the first five seconds, there was no movement. Just a continuous shot of the row of post office boxes. Then, a brief blur of activity on the side of the screen. Someone walking past the frame. Another five seconds of nothing.
Then a figure stepped into frame, heading for the box King had found empty. A woman. She appeared to be in her late twenties. The cameras were ancient, meaning the footage was blurry, but he could make out her long brown hair and lithe frame even through the horrid resolution.
'She’s cute,' he said.
'Oh, gosh, that’s Kate Cooper,' Billy said, shaking his head. 'What’s she doing getting herself into this mess?'
'Who’s Kate Cooper?' King said. 'Because this could turn out very, very bad for her.'
'She’s a nobody. Definitely not one to get wrapped up in all this shit. She’s lived around Jameson for maybe a year now. Runs odd jobs, that sort of thing. I think she’s from England. Got a bit of an accent. Nicest person you’ll ever meet…'
'You got an address?'
Billy paused. 'You’re not going to hurt her?'
'I’m a private investigator,' King said. 'I’m just trying to find out what’s going on.'
Billy scrawled on a scrap piece of paper. 'If you do find out, be sure to let me know.'
'Will do.'
‘Will you give me a call later? To fill me in?’
‘I don’t have a phone. At least, not for now.’
A pause. Billy looked at him. He looked back.
Billy said, ‘You’re the weirdest private investigator I’ve ever met.'
'You meet a lot of private investigators?'
'No. But you’re still strange.'
Billy motioned to hand King the scrap of paper, then recoiled, then leant forward again. Contemplating something.
'Spit it out,' King said.
‘I don’t quite know how to put this.’
‘Put it however you want.’
‘Well, I feel like I have an opportunity here.’
‘An opportunity?’
‘To fix a problem. I feel like you’re the man to help.’
‘Elaborate.’
‘Look, it’s not exactly legal. I don’t want to get into trouble.’
'Don’t worry. I’m not working with the police.'
‘No shit. You’re not a private investigator, either.'
King shrugged. There was no point continuing to lie. He had everything he needed. 'Name’s Jason King.'
'Who are you, Jason King?'
'Someone who has nothing better to do than snoop around when they see something fishy.’
'You’re American.'
'You’re observant.'
'You’re some kind of soldier. Or were, at least.'
'How’d you know that?'
'I overheard you talking to Suzanne.’
'Good hearing.'
‘I’m not deaf. It’s a quiet place. Listen, mate, I’m willing to help you out with all this investigative stuff. I can tell you’ve got no ill intentions. I’ll give you Kate’s address. And I have a lot of money saved up. I can give you that, too.'
'What do you need?'
‘You told me you’re trying to do the right thing.’
King raised an eyebrow. 'If you’re suggesting I’m some kind of hero, I’m not. I’m just curious.'
'Look around,' Billy said. 'What do you see?'
King glanced left and right. 'A shithole.'
Billy smirked. 'You’re honest, too. Anyway, I’ve got nothing. It’s taken me years to save what I’ve got hidden away without anyone finding out.'
'How much?'
'About twenty grand.'
King whistled. 'Not bad.'
'Yeah, well, it’s yours if you can help. You heard of the Iron Rangers?'
He shook his head.
'Then you’re definitely not from around here.'
'They sound like bikies.’
'You bet. Batshit crazy too. They’ve got a clubhouse a couple of dozen k’s out of Jameson. And the little police station here has either been paid off or doesn’t give enough of a shit to try and intervene. They make every small business around here pay them a wage each week. They call it protection, but everyone knows what it really is.’
‘They’ll beat you up if you don’t pay?’
‘To say the least. They’re a toxic bunch.’
‘How many?’
‘Four.’
‘Are they tough?’
‘They seem so.’
King paused, trying to think of another way to put it. ‘Are they from around here?’
He nodded. ‘All local boys. Fell in with the wrong crowd.’
‘Small town thugs,’ King said, nodding.
‘All the minuscule profits I make go straight to them. The money I’m offering you is all I’ve managed to store away.’
King remained silent.
'You’re a strong guy,’ Billy said. ‘I bet you could kill me with one hand.'
Still no response.
'I need you to make them stop.’
'You think I can scare an entire motorcycle gang by myself?'
‘Like you said, they’re local thugs. I feel like you’re something else.’
King raised an eyebrow. ‘Am I? That’s a wild assumption.’
'Look, just go have a look around. You said yourself that you’re curious. I can see it. This postal box shit has nothing to do with you. You could be out of here in a heartbeat, but you’re hanging around.'
'This is some action-hero crap you’re asking me to do, Billy.'
'Just rough a couple of them up, mate. It’s twenty thousand dollars. I bet you did a hell of a lot more for a hell of a lot less in the past.'