The Old Turk's Load by Gregory Gibson

pinochle, and walk unchallenged up the stairs to the air-conditioned office where the occasional COD or Adult Signature Required had been delivered.
    Mr. Reardon rose from behind his desk, only half surprised to see the Mailman.The slouched form was instantly recognizable, even if the face was now obscured by a dark beard. He thought, reflexively, that there might be a package for him, then remembered what he’d heard of the Mailman’s story—the cancer, the drugs. Poor miserable junkie. The guy was here to tap him.
    “Merster Eardon.”
The sounds the Mailman made grated in his ears. “Come on in. Siddown.”He’d give him $50—once—Reardon
decided, and that would be the end for him at CIA. The thought of junkies felt like lice in his clothes.
    That feeling shot past the Mailman, stoned on his scheme, as high as he’d ever been. It was better than smack, better than being in love. If he was going to be dead anyway, he might as well do this thing.
“I nee to fie Lloy Samberlan.”
    Reardon, who’d been preparing to dispense a handout and some tough love, was confused, could not parse the burp-talk.
The Mailman pulled out his pad, printed, I need to find Lloyd Chamberlain, and pushed it across the desk.
Reardon nodded, relieved. Chamberlain was one of the rats the lice lived on.The Mailman wanted in on some kind of low-level drug deal. Well, that would be easy enough, and save him $50 to boot. He consulted his books, wrote a phone number and an address on the pad, and handed it back, eyeing the Mailman coldly.
“Don’t come back here,” Reardon said.
“Doan worry,” the Mailman burped.
Standing in the Shadows
A
    fter three days of standing in the shadows, of being one with the Fairlane, of extended bladder management, of disciplined, grinding surveillance, Jarkey was getting a good sense of her routine. That gave him a better opportunity to pick his spots so he could be sure the lighting was right—always a critical factor when using a telephoto lens. Kelly wanted lots of photos. He said pictures always made his clients feel they were getting their money’s worth.
    Jarkey snapped away—Gloria leaving her pad in the Village, Gloria in the Lower East Side at Gallagher’s place. Gloria up at Morningside Heights heading to an office in the front of a firstfloor apartment, to visit a looker whose name turned out to be Irene Kornecki.Those visits happened in the afternoon. She’d leave Gallagher’s with a briefcase or an armful of folders, spend a few hours up on 116th, then go home to Bank Street empty-handed. Jarkey used the backward directory to get the phone number for the address, called it, and heard a woman’s voice say, “Irene Kornecki’s office.”
    Jarkey suspected she might be an MD in on a drug ring being run by Gallagher as a sting for the Feds. He told the voice that he’d like an appointment. The lady asked him for a brief description of the problem. He told the lady he had a pain in his lower back and was informed that he’d reached a legal office, not a doctor. That changed his suspicion about the drug ring.
    A little asking around got him the information that Kornecki was a Columbia Law grad on a short list of lawyers to whom civil rights demonstrators were referred. That meant dozens of minor beefs, hence the folders. When, on the afternoon of the fourth day, Kornecki got out of a cab in front of Gallagher’s, the loop was closed.
    In all, it’d been an excellent run.
Jarkey picked up the last of the photos from the lab, put them in with his notes, then went over to Fifty-Third, collected Kelly, and drove him uptown and down, to Kornecki’s, Gallagher’s, and Gloria’s, taking him through their various movements. Particulars were important to the detective.
Once he was sure Kelly had all the locations down pat, he laid out the narrative that accompanied the images. Gloria and her boyfriend were working for the Feds, dishing them info about demonstrators and other revolutionary