the smuggler’s bible

Pale

Pale’s man parks the car and gets out, stretching his legs. He leans on the hood for a minute, lights a cigarette. The lot’s empty, but a line is forming at the service window facing the park. The street on the other side is quiet and shady. Somebody far off is mowing the lawn.

Behind him, a window rolls down.

“All clear, boss.”

“Good man. Come on, girls.” A door opens, cloth rustles. “I told you, don’t smoke around the kids.”

“Yeah, boss. Sorry.”

“Sure, just cut it out.” A hand touches his shoulder. “Want anything? They have waffle cones.”