“Don’t want to. His job is to deliver the mail, not be my buddy. I don’t talk to the meter-reader or the paperboy or the telephone man either. No offense, but that was something I never liked about Ronda. He was always stopping to chat with everyone—”

“Ronda was a good man,” Doug said simply.

“And don’t you dare say anything bad about him,” Tritia ordered. She nailed him with dark stern eyes.

Hobie was about to say something else but apparently thought the better of it and shut his mouth. He gave Doug a condescending smile of male camaraderie, a smile that all but said that his wife was being a typical foolish female. Tritia was right, Doug thought. Sometimes his friend was an insensitive asshole.

Tritia walked up the porch steps and slammed the door behind her.

“Anyway,” Hobie said, “I don’t like the new guy.”

“I don’t either.”

“Weird sucker. He’s so pale. And that red hair. Shit, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was dyed. He is kind of faggoty-looking.”

“Well, I don’t know about that…” Doug said, his voice trailing off. He wasn’t sure what he thought, he realized. He had no concrete beliefs about the mailman, only an unfounded dislike, a strong sense of unease sharpened by impressions gleaned from a few random meetings. He was not usually given to such impulsive, instinctive judgments, and he was a little surprised at himself. Ordinarily, he prided himself on giving everyone the benefit of the doubt, on believing only the best about a person until shown otherwise. His negative opinion of the mailman, however, had been born fully formed; he had experienced an instant dislike of the man without knowing a single fact about him.

Dislike and fear.

And fear, he admitted. He was, on some level, for some reason he could not quite understand, afraid of the mailman. And that too had been instant.

Hobie pulled open the door of the pickup and hopped onto the ripped seat. He dug into the right front pocket of his Levi’s and pulled out his key ring. “Well, I gotta be going. You’re coming with me to the meeting, though, right?”

“You got it.”

“All right. We’ll kick some butt.” He slammed the door, grinning, and started the engine. “I’m on poon patrol tomorrow and Friday, but I’ll give you a call before Monday.”

“Okay,” Doug said. “Have fun.”

“I will,” Hobie said, pulling his mirrored shades from his T-shirt pocket, putting them on. “You bet I will.” He backed up quickly and swung about on the road, turning the truck toward town. He waved once, a short swipe of his hand above the cab of the pickup, and then was gone.

Doug walked back up the steps.

“Kick some butt,” Billy said, putting down his BB gun.

“Don’t you repeat that,” Tritia called from inside.