The large marble hallway was silent and empty. A large newly erected, iron grillwork stood just beyond the first doorway to keep people from entering the unused area of the building.

       The numerous teller windows and the brass-plated mail drops were set in heavy mahogany woodwork. The windows were now in a state of lucid stillness; gathering dust their only visitor.

       A large glass and mahogany air lock extended into the hallway from the front door. It had been built to keep the icy cold winds of Utah winters from disturbing the loose mail and the postmasters, when the main floor was occupied by the US Postal Service.

       High-vaulted and decorative ceilings were silent testimonials of a distinctive craft, long since passed. Fine crafted fretwork and large wreaths, done in raised decorative relief, adorned the ceiling. In colors of sky blue and turquoise on a soft background, they lent subtle elegance to the old sandstone building. Large, white, suspended globes of light illuminated the darkness of the solitary hallway. Only occasional wandering lovers broke the tranquillity.

       Faces on a few yellowing posters, hidden behind a glass encased bulletin board, stared out at the emptiness. Below them, built into the wall, stood an old podium once used to address letters; its inkwell covered by a leather patch hastily tacked into place.

       Suddenly, an old wrought iron passenger- operated elevator came to life from the floor above. The soft, whirring noise broke the silence, as it slowly crept down to the main floor and stopped with a slight jolt. The brass accordion gate slid back, and a tall, dark- complected man in light summer clothing stepped out into the short hallway; the stillness echoed around him.

       Len Cress was a good- looking man, deeply tanned, with black hair, hazel green eyes, and in good physical condition from his athletic days. He knew the smoking slowed him down, and he was planning to give that up, along with some other bad habits he had picked up during his mid-life crisis. Vietnam had started haunting him again, but instead of seeking help as he had done before, he was letting it push him into a whirlwind of drugs, money, kinky sex, and anything else that held the allure of excitement and danger. He dressed in style, Foconnables, Gucci loafers, and his third Nautica watch for color coordination. He drove a three- month old Lexus and held sway over Amy --a lovely lady and sexy creature if there ever was one. If he had all that, he thought, why was he so fucking unhappy?

       For a moment, he stopped to study the beauty of the old elevator as he slowly closed the gate. Then, he turned and took a couple of steps out of the vestibule and into the main lobby. He took his cigarettes from the pocket of his shirt. While he lit one, he studied the door in front of him, which still bore the number 175. Through the glass, he could see the emptiness of the unused area of the first floor.

       It may have been the serious trouble he was in or the alcohol that now fogged his mind. Maybe it was just plain loneliness. A strange feeling prompted him to turn left and walk the few feet down to the main hallway instead of using the usual exit to his right. It was his interest in the old building's restoration that seemed to draw him. It gave him something to regard and think about, other than his problems.

       He stopped by a large, marble corner buttress and stood there, quietly smoking, watching the carved scroll work that adorned its top. Its beauty, however, could not stop him from pondering his dilemma. Shit, he thought to himself, all that was left in his life were the three D's: Drugs, Divorce, and Depression. Sometimes he wondered why he went on.

       And then, of course, there was the Airlift.

       Slowly, his eyes traveled down the large empty hallway; they took in all the splendor of the restoration work. As his eyes reached the iron fence, he saw a lone figure suddenly step out into the hallway and go into a firing crouch with a weapon held at ready and pointed straight at him. The killer had been hidden between the glass, the mahogany air lock, and the iron fence. He turned to move, but his feet felt as if they were imbedded in cement. His legs were slow to respond to his brain's command.

       He instantly knew that the killer was a professional and that he, Len Cress, would soon be dead.

 

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