Day Twenty-Three - Morning and Midday

     Casper asks Balor permission to leave for town early this morning. That’s the thing about stakeouts; the more time you can waste on them, the better the chances of success. He promises he’ll do his share of chores when he gets back. Balor is admittedly puzzled over why the time that the weeding and watering gets done would matter, much less why Casper feels the need to rush off to town. The old man doesn’t ask though. Something about plausible deniability. He does, however warn Casper to expect Myr. Apparently the drunk intends on paying Smith a visit sometime today, likely this afternoon if his sleeping habits are any indication. God knows how and why Myr, of all people, has gotten himself wrapped up in Smith's business, but at least now Casper knows to keep an eye out. Not that he plans on being seen anyways.

     He doesn't use his usual churchyard shortcut to sneak into town. He's right in time for people to start flooding through the doors for sermon, too many witnesses to risk exposure by jumping the tree line practically in front of them. He'd normally wait until the crowd disappears inside, but time is of the essence. The sooner Casper can find a good watchpost and situate himself there, the better.

     He backtracks, opting instead to cut through the orchard on the other side of the path and finding his way from there. It works. He sticks to the backroads, the narrow crannies between buildings, places where there's no or few windows. He duck beneath sills, pokes his nose out from obscure alleyways to case the main road and check angles. There's a good spot between two buildings, just about opposite the pub. There's a rain barrel there that he'll take cover behind. He only has to lean out a bit to see the bank's front and, if he has the bad luck to get spotted and asked what he's doing, he'll say he's waiting for the pub to open so he can grab some lunch there. The locals can corroborate for him. He goes there all the time after all.

     He settles in. Makes himself comfortable, as much as he can on bare, hard earth. And now... 

     He waits.

     It's not the first time he's cased a place out, not by far, but it is the first time he's done so all on his lonesome. Usually he'd be doing this with one or two others, enough eyes to keep watch on all the exits, plus a runner, should the need to pass on messages arise. The bigger the place, the more exits, the more people needed, the more important the runner becomes. He'd started out as a runner himself. He was just a tyke then, smaller than he is now, just getting into the game. Still figuring things out: where to eat, how to beg, how to survive the winter. It was tough. Getting picked up into the gang like he did was his lucky break. He wouldn't've survived a second winter otherwise.

     It was a good arrangement really, one that benefitted both parties. The gang got their runner, one no one would take notice of since little runts like him scurry around the place all the time, regardless of which quarter you visit. They even trained him up for the task too, they'd practice 'til he could recite a message word for word, even backwards if they asked him to. Always did have a good memory. He wouldn't tell no one either, no one he wasn't supposed to, that is. That's how he earned his keep. In return, he got food and board and good company, all in one. They treated him good, they did. Casper got his fair share of the spoils. They taught him new tricks too, useful things like picking pockets and jimmying locks. How to steal. How to lie. How to live. How to survive. The important things. He was good at it too, still is as a matter of fact, and it served him far better than any lessons about arithmetic and literacy people tried to beat into his skull.

     He moved up through the ranks, paid back what he was given with hard work of his own. Now, here he is, doing a job all on his lonesome. Not how he saw things would go, back when he was a tyke, but that's life for you.

     He didn't see himself getting shut into the workhouse either.

     It begins to drizzle one of those lazy spring rain showers. The eaves Casper's sitting under are wide enough to cover him, assuming he keeps close to the wall. Water drops into the rain barrel in front of him from above. A tuneless plink-plonk keeping time with the directionless course of his thoughts as he sits and waits. Bored. Hoping for something to happen so that he'll not have wasted his time. That's the thing about stakeouts too: sometimes you'll come away with a whole lot of nothing to show for it. A goddamn waste of time.

     Casper pokes his head out from under the eaves and around the corner, more for a chance to stretch than to see if anyone's coming. The rain's picked up a bit of a haze in the distance. He won't be able to hear a carriage or a wagon or horses or nothing coming down the street. Just the hush of a rain curtain and the plink-plonk of the filling water barrel. The world's gone mute and still.

     The rain slows, stills, fizzles out. It's as good a time as any for Casper to take a walk about, stretch his legs before they start cramping from sitting too long. May as well check around the angles he's missed from this position, see if anything's changed while he's been posted.

     He goes around the back of the post office, not surprised to see a large set of doors set there; they'd have to be big to easily move parcels in and out, should a delivery arrive. The back road leading up to it is matched for size as well, large enough to easily accommodate a wagon’s passing. Casper hesitates before gingerly testing the doors. Locked. Also unsurprising. What does surprise him is the sound of someone scrabbling at the lock from the other side shortly after.

     Shit.

     Casper bolts around the nearest corner, skidding badly with the sharp turn on damp earth. Not a moment too soon, the door opens. Casper holds his breath. Listening. The door soon closes again and Casper sighs a breath of relief. Someone’s in the post office after all, someone lucid at that. Either the druggie’s gone dry or Smith’s gotten some spare hands to man the post office. A shilling says it’s another out-of-towner. Fortunately, they're not all that bright, otherwise they'd've followed the muddy tracks straight to Casper.

     Casper searches the building for a convenient window or two so he can get a look at who's inside. No such luck. There's a few on the second story, but they sure as hell aren’t within reach. Then there’s the modest front window, but he’s not keen on milling about in the open street for all to see. He’s not given up on the project yet. He’s still got a trick up his sleeve.

     He picks up a couple of small stones, just the right size for throwing. He sizes up the back door again, making rough measurements between it and the nearest piece of cover, around the corner of the building. The distance checks out of course. This’ll be another rehash of the mad scramble he pulled off about a minute ago, with one or two additions. No, if anything’s going to cause him trouble, it’ll be the tricky angle and the timing.

     Once again, it strikes him how much easier this’d all be if he had at least one other able body here to help.

     It’s nothing too complicated really. What is boils down to is a modified game of chap-door-run. The knocking and running are easy. It’s the split-second aim and throw before you get spotted that’re bound to go wrong. Casper pulls it off though. A textbook execution. The chap opens the door, at which time Casper has already run for cover by the corner. A stone goes skipping across the ground in the direction opposite of where Casper’s hiding in plain sight. The noise catches the fellow at the door’s attention and, while he’s looking the wrong way, Casper gets a good gander at the back of his head. Not as useful for identification as a face, but Casper recognises him anyways.

     It’s the druggie. Nobody particularly special, just him again. How disappointing. So much for Casper’s shilling bet.

     He ducks back around the corner and safely out of sight before the druggie gets wise to him and figures to look in his direction. He’ll wait ‘til the druggie calls off the search and heads back inside, then he’ll meander back to his post to take up the watch again. He’s wasted enough time here as is.

     He can hear the druggie step out a bit further from the doorway, looking for whoever it is that’s been mucking about with him. Casper quietly retreats a step or two, just in case. He hears the druggie shuffle on the spot for a bit. He’s sure taking his sweet time, or is he taking time to be sure? Lethargy or nerves?

     “Mista Smit?” The druggie calls. “Y-ya there Mista Smit…? Ya got th’ deliv’ry already?” Delivery, eh? Suddenly Casper’s changed his mind on the worthiness of this impromptu diversion. The druggie wanders out a little further. “Hullo…?” He mills a bit, a few stray stones crunching underfoot. Definitely nerves. “Anybody there…?” His voice is projecting Casper’s way and Casper holds his breath in spite of himself; the druggie’s facing his way, but he’s not so sure if there’s anyone there. The druggie sighs and meanders back to the building. He lingers a little longer on the threshold, but, soon enough, the door clicks behind him.

     Casper comes strolling out, giving the post office a considering look as he mulls out what to do from here on in. Looks like Myr’s not the only fellow Smith’s set up an appointment with. Someone’s been keeping busy. Wouldn’t be all that surprising if he’d booked himself solid today. The roads are empty every Sunday ‘til mass is done, the perfect opportunity to anything from passing on secret messages to smuggling in… whatever the hell it is Smith’s ordered in. It’s likely either some kind of illicit good or something horribly disgusting. Maybe both. More eyes in jars perhaps? Running low on bat spleen?

     NOPE. Not gonna think about it.

     And with that, Casper banishes that line of thought short before it runs away, dragging him along for the ride. You know what? He doesn’t want to know what Smith’s bringing into town this time, or what he plans on doing with it. It’s how the delivery’s coming in that’s caught his interest. If there’s a lot of stuff or heavy cargo, they’ll be using a cart, right? If there’s a cart, maybe he can hitch a ride out?

     Getting a free ticket out of here beats his original plan to find something to blackmail Smith with to (hopefully) speed things along. This is shaping up much better than he’d originally expected.

     Casper snuggles back into his old post beneath the eaves and resumes his watch, the bank across the street fixed in his line of sight. It’s scarcely different from what he’d been doing before he got segued at the post office, except now he’d keeping his eyes peeled for that impromptu delivery. He’s not all that far from the turn off from the main street and onto the back road leading to post office’s rear entry. There’s no way anything’s going to get by him without his knowing.

     Midday rolls around and the clouds start to thin out, the sun poking through on the rare occasion. Casper shifts, impatient. Mass will end soon. If that delivery is coming today, it better come quick. Smith must think so too, because there he is, poking out his head out the door of his establishment, looking none too happily down the main street. He checks his pocket watch, frowning at it too. Late it is then. Smith shoves the watch back into his breast coat (Casper notes where, should an opportunity present itself later) and goes charging across the street, straight to the post office. Casper ducks back into the alley, but, no, Smith’s not giving him or his hiding spot a second’s thought. His mind is elsewhere.

     Casper carefully watches around a corner as Smith goes pounding on the post office’s door. The druggie is quick to answer.

     “Mista Smit! I ben wondrin’ where you-”

     “Yes, yes,” Smith butts in, “they been in yet?”

     The druggie looks around, scratches his head abashedly. He says something to Smith, volume too low for Casper to pick up. Whatever it is, Smith doesn’t like what he’s hearing.

     Smith cuts him off again through the druggie’s baffled gesturing. He only talks for a few seconds, again, voices low.

     The druggie jabs a thumb towards the back of the building and Smith motions for him to get out of the way already and get going.

     They both disappear into the building.

     “Shit,” Casper breathes. The druggie might’ve looked over his little prank, but Smith’s more observant than that. His little venture is not without consequences. He looks over at the shoe prints leading up to his little recess beneath the eaves, wondering if the tracks he’s been leaving around are confused enough that he needn’t worry or if he should abandon his post.

     The hell with it. He needs to change position anyways now that he knows the post office is where the action’s going to be at. That decided, he makes to slip away into the main street. As the saying goes, when someone goes knocking at the back door, you exit through the front door. Cover’s a moot point when someone’s coming to find you anyhow.

     He steps onto the main street, wondering where to hole up next. Hardly a second passes before he sees who else than Ezekiel-fucking-Myr turn onto the street from the far side by the town square. The literal only other person Casper would rather not see today, and there he is, walking towards him, squinting through the sunlight with what Casper can only guess is another hangover.

     To be fair, Balor did warn him.

     Needless to say, Casper doesn’t stand around with his mouth hanging open. Back he goes to the little alley with the rain barrel under the roof eaves, praying Myr was too fed up with the light to have gotten a good look at him. As if the drunk doesn’t have enough problems with him as is.

     No way forward, no way back, better think fast boy.

     He can’t scale the walls. There are no features on them that’d help him climb, like a downspout. The brick work is too neat, too featureless; he won’t be able to get a hold on them. For lack of better alternative, he’ll have to retreat into the back way and hope Smith has either decided tracking him isn’t worth the bother or hasn’t gotten close enough to rout him.

     It takes a bit of circumnavigating and some quick, if spotty, recall of where he’s been and when, but no, Casper doesn’t bump into Smith. Situated in his new position overlooking the unloading area behind the post, Casper isn’t convinced Smith actually bothered to go look for him. Might’ve took a gander at the prints all over the place and figured someone was fooling around, but left it at that, like Casper wasn’t worth the trouble. How insulting.

     Casper will show him not to be so careless. Up he goes creeping to the back door, pressing his ear to it to see if he can’t pick up anything. Well, there’s voices, but nothing decipherable. He tests the door again; maybe they forgot to lock it with all the recent in and outs. There’s a tell tale click as the latch gives. They’re still talking. They haven’t noticed. A small crack is all he needs.

     “-didn’t see nothing? No one at all?” Smith asks.

     If Casper looks at it just right, he can see them at the front desk, silhouetted by the front window; they’ve left the door to the back-storage area open, so Casper has a direct line of sight through it.

     “Nope,” the druggie chirps back. “Coulda swore ya came knocking, but…” He fidgets sheepishly.

     Smith sighs. He lets the druggie sweat it out in silence for a spell. “If they get in, tell them to keep their wits about,” Smith finger wags. “Otherwise, if anyone comes a’knocking uninvited, don’t fool around with it, you come straight to me. Got that?”

     “Sir, yessir Mista Smit,” the druggie salutes.

     “Now I mean it. No lolly-gagging about, no distractions, the minute they ring, you get your sorry ass off the floor and you go knocking at my door.”

     “Uh, who’s they, sir? The ‘truders or the deliv’ry man?”

     “Both, preferably,” Smith grumbles. “In all likelihood, the shipment’s been delayed to tomorrow, so you be ready for them. And for the love of God, get the storage into shape already. There’s enough rubbish laying about as is and I’m not going to make my people wait around all day because you can’t clean house. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times.”

     The druggie stumbles out more “yessirs” and “right away sirs” while he stumbles into the storage post haste. Casper gets himself clear none too soon. Something bumps into something else, presumably the druggie into a shelf or into the many crates laying about on the floor, then the sound of something breaking.

     “What in blazes did I just say!”

     “Sorry sir!”

     At any rate, Casper’s heard enough.

<== Day Twenty-Two - Afternoon to Evening    ==> Table of Contents <== 
     Day Twenty-Three - Afternoon & Evening ==>