the smuggler’s bible


Outside, it’s raining—a real blower up from the gulf.

Huron scrapes the desk clear with one broad arm, retreats across the room and comes back with a scuffed plastic box that he sets gingerly in place. He wipes his hands on his shirt and starts rummaging among cables and sockets. The rig looks ancient, but it’s got enough horsepower to cash any check Huron may care to write.

“Fuckin’ storm’s fuzzing the signal,” he says over a sharp crackle as he connects the power lead. “But old Huron will see you clear, darling. Oh, he’ll see every vulgar angle.”