Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 35, No. 10, October 1990

Now Charley was on firm ground. He knew all about satellites and communication systems. They were the things that spies spied for. He was finally able to relax. He was sure that he had done the right thing. Now that his father’s work was out in the open, his position as a spy was clear. But now was the time to stop the conversation. A spy wasn’t supposed to let anyone know what he did, not even his family. So Charley knew that he had to change the subject before his father gave too much away.

“I have to make a report on the postal system for my class project,” he volunteered.

“That’s nice,” his father said. “Perhaps you would like to visit the main post office some day next week. I go there frequently to check on shipments, and it might help your report to see something of the duties that are performed there.”

“I think I have enough information,” Charley said. “But thank you anyhow. Mrs. Lansdale helped me with the hard part already.”

Driving to his business headquarters the next day Mr. Burton kept finding a nagging thought poking at his mind. He couldn’t quite get a handle on it, but in time he would. Funny about Charley, he thought. Making a report on the postal system. Well, it was probably just as well that the boy didn’t need to go to the post office for a tour. The post office would be a very busy place for the next several days while Mr. Burton’s fellow workers tried to trace that envelope. Strange the way that material had disappeared and then turned up again. It wasn’t important material, but it could have been. He would have to be more careful, would have to do more of his work at his company’s headquarters and less of his work at home. Security would have to be shored up. He would have to try harder. He would have to go deeper undercover to look more like an ordinary businessman. It was back to the old rigid rules again. He shook his head in irritation as he passed the signpost bearing an arrow and the words LANGLEY AIR FORCE BASE. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

A vision of Charley’s puzzled face came to him as he pulled into his usual parking space. Poor kid, he thought. What a shame to see him so confused about things. But he was much too young to talk to about, well, spies and such. The little guy wouldn’t even understand what the word undercover meant. Well, thank goodness the boy didn’t have to worry about such things. It must be easy being a fourth grader, Mr. Burton thought. It would be so easy going through life without any worries at all.

Out the Window by Lawrence Block

There was nothing special about her last day. She seemed a little jittery, preoccupied with something or with nothing at all. But this was nothing new for Paula.

She was never much of a waitress in the three months she spent at Armstrong’s. She’d forget orders and mix up others, and when you wanted the check or another round of drinks, you could go crazy trying to attract her attention. There were days when she walked through her shift like a ghost through walls, and it was as though she had perfected some arcane technique of astral projection, sending her mind out for a walk while her long lean body went on serving food and drinks and wiping down empty tables.

She did make an effort, though. She tried. She could always manage a smile. Sometimes it was the brave smile of the walking wounded and other times it was a tight-jawed brittle grin with a few tabs of amphetamine behind it, but you take what you can to get through the days and any smile is better than none at all. She knew most of Armstrong’s regulars by name and her greeting always made you feel as though you’d come home. When that’s all the home you have, you tend to appreciate that sort of thing.

And if the career wasn’t perfect for her, well, it certainly hadn’t been what she’d had in mind when she came to New York in the first place. You no more set out to be a waitress in a Ninth Avenue gin mill than you intentionally become an ex-cop coasting through the months on bourbon and coffee. We have that sort of greatness thrust upon us. When you’re as young as Paula Wittlauer you hang in there, knowing things are going to get better. When you’re my age you just hope they don’t get too much worse.

She worked the early shift, noon to eight, Tuesday through Saturday. Trina came on at six so there were two girls on the floor during the dinner rush. At eight Paula would go wherever she went and Trina would keep on bringing cups of coffee and glasses of bourbon for another six hours or so.