The building he sought was recipient of some dismal marathon of renovation. Redbricked and ornate, it curved subtly along the corner; opposing at the intersection were two vacancies and a storefront pronouncing tremendous unheard of bargains on used furniture.
Mac pulled into a parallel slot directly in front of the entrance. The meter was sealed off by a Chamber of Commerce sack in an attempt to induce consumers to this sector of downtown with free parking. He took his box to the door, already propped open, and looked inside tentatively.
The raised wooden floor was wet and a bar with gold footrail glistened: a fossil hotel lounge, easily overlooked along this stretch of DeSiard, was undergoing conversion to a nightclub. It was dark inside. He waited, trying to see if any person would become visible.
Halfway out a side opening rested an old upright piano in mid-transport, dusty as a recently unearthed archaeological artifact.
"Ahem. Package delivery." Nothing for a while, then feet scuffling, unseen. A voice? "Got a package here. Need somebody to sign."
"Just leave it." Unembodied, gravelly.
"Okay, only I got to have a signature."
Nobody appeared. "Can't come out now." Mac had no idea where the person speaking was, physically. "Just take a second, get your Ben Hancock," he tried to joke.
"DROP IT! Yer want me to get you fired? That package belongs to me, and you are in unlawful possession, you sonofa." Mac put it down hurriedly, and still looking around for the voice, skedaddled for the car.
In a moment, after the Fury had hustled away, footsteps down the stairs from dim upper regions. Jimmy Lee, still sleepy from his nap. Invaded first by those damn hammers, and now this. He walked over, picked up the package, headed down the street just as the owner of the building and workers return from lunch.