Courier work is generally straightforward, especially if you only work inside an office building. You'll deliver papers and small packages from reception to recipients, pick up letters from employees when called, and deliver them to the office.
Richie was given a space on the third floor near the kitchen: a small nook housing a coffee machine, an electric kettle, a refrigerator, and a microwave. Each of the four floors had a similar small kitchen. Office workers stored groceries they brought from home in the refrigerator and came there for tea or coffee. The busiest time was lunch, when people would come en masse to heat up their food. But by that time, Richie's workday was over.
Nearby was an office run by a youthful, slender girl with chestnut hair, gray eyes, and a thin face. Her name was Helen, she wore bright, ankle-length dresses, and at thirty-something, she looked twenty-five at most.
Richie's workstation is a chair at the end of Helen's desk. He's been assigned a cordless telephone-black, massive, with a retractable antenna.
The phone rang. Richie reached out, picked it up, and answered:
- The courier is listening.
"Hee-hee!" a feminine giggle came from the speaker. "Ahem... Mister Courier, a package has arrived for the contracts department. The courier is waiting on the ground floor."
"I understand, Miss Mayer," Richard replied calmly. "I'll be right down."
Helen, hiding a smile, looked at the important-looking boy, who rose from his chair with dignity and slowly, straightened his jacket and walked towards the elevator.
Richie soon reached the turnstile in front of the reception desk on the first floor. A security guard immediately opened the turnstile for him to pass through.
The courier who delivered the package turned out to be a young man of about twenty. He was as thin as a rail, dressed in a dark blue tracksuit. He had bright red hair. A swamp-green canvas messenger bag hung from his belt.
"Have you brought a package for the contracts department?" Richard asked.
- What?!
The red-haired courier stared at the boy with his big green eyes in surprise.
"Boy, who are you?" he asked.
Richie pointedly adjusted the badge on his chest, which read:
Richard
Courier
Rich Group
The red-haired guy's eyes widened even more. He said in surprise, almost exclaiming:
- No way! I went through hell to get a job as a courier at a prestigious company. How come? Dude, how old are you and how did you get hired here?
Richie, drawling his words affectation, answered the young man:
- I'm eight, and I got a job here through connections.
The secretary, watching the new courier, who had become the talk of the office, snickered into her fist. The corners of her lips curled upward. She knew perfectly well who Richard was related to. And if you think about it, the kid really did get the job through connections. But if you know his last name, it's clear Richie doesn't need the job.
The guard sat there, stone-faced, oblivious. It seemed like even if Richie stood on his hands and started wiggling his ears, he wouldn't even notice, merely obligingly opening the turnstile.
Rich Group employees, in the smoking room or over coffee, speculated on the origins of such a peculiar courier. The leading theory was that Richie had somehow misbehaved and was forced to work as punishment. The second most popular theory was that his father had decided to teach his son to work, so that he would grow up to be a worthy member of society, rather than turn into yet another irresponsible and immoral rich kid squandering his parents' money. There were other, less popular theories, too. The most interesting, for example, was that the Duke of Westminster was trying to gain publicity by saying, "Look, my son works."
"Um..." the red-haired courier came to his senses. "I was told I needed to hand the package over to the head of the contracts department."
"It doesn't matter what you were told," Richard replied. "We have our own rules at our company. How do you imagine this? You won't be allowed inside the office. And sending a respected man who runs an entire department away just to pick up a package from a courier is stupid. That's what I'm for. Young man, if you'd like, I can take your paper to Mr. Summers for his signature. Or I can sign it myself."
"Uh-uh..." the red-haired messenger drawled. "I need to call the office and check."
"No problem!" Richie grinned. "There's a phone on the wall behind you. Call."
Ryzhik turned around, walked over to the phone, and started calling someone. After a while, he returned and handed the boy the package. Then he slipped him a clipboard with a piece of paper attached.
"Sign here," he said.
Richie signed his name with a flourish, then more deftly intercepted the small parcel, nodded to the guard, who immediately opened the turnstile, and walked off toward the elevator.
At this point, the red-haired courier froze, like an operating system installed on a faulty hard drive. Without taking his eyes off the signature, he muttered angrily:
- What a little bastard! A damn comedian! Where did he fall from?
The whole point was that on the line opposite the inscription "Delivery to Rich Group, 70 Rich Street" there was a sweeping signature:
Rich