Homer opened the door.

"Come on in, Randolph. "

Jaffe hated the way he said Randolph, with the faintest trace of contempt in the word, as though he knew every damn crime Jaffe had ever committed, right from the first, the littlest.

"What are you waiting for?" Homer said, seeing Jaffe linger. "You've got work to do. The sooner it's started, the sooner I can find you more. "

Randolph stepped into the room. It was large, painted the same bilious yellow and battleship gray as every other office and corridor in the Omaha Central Post Office. Not that much of the walls was visible. Piled higher than head-height on every side was mail. Sacks, satchels, boxes and carts of it, spilling out onto the cold concrete floor.

"Dead letters, " Homer said. "Stuff even the good ol' U.S. Post Office can't deliver. Quite a sight, huh?"

Jaffe was agog, but he made sure not to show it. He made sure to show nothing, especially to wise guys like Homer.

"This is all yours, Randolph, " his superior said. "Your little corner of heaven. "

"What am I supposed to do with it?" Jaffe said.

"Sort it. Open it, look for any important stuff so we don't end up putting good money in the furnace. "

"There's money in them?"

"Some of "em," Homer said with a smirk. "Maybe. But most of it's just junk-mail. Stuff people don't want and just put back in the system. Some of it's had the wrong address put on and it's been flying backwards and forwards till it ends up in Nebraska. Don't ask me why, but whenever they don't know what to do with this shit they send it to Omaha."

"It's the middle of the country," Jaffe observed. "Gateway to the West. Or East. Depending on which way you're facing."

"Ain't the dead center," Homer countered. "But we still end up with all the crap. And it's all got to get sorted. By band. By you."