the smuggler’s bible


He sets it all up, same as it is in the old yellow photograph he found in the album in the great-grandson’s closet. A rocking chair—mahogany—and a little table for the board and chessmen. Who the hell knows what was in the cups, so he brews a pot of green tea and sets two mugs steaming on the windowsill. Then he pulls up a stool and moves a pawn.

“C’mon, old man,” he says. “We both know it’s bait and we both know you want it desperately. So quit scaring the kids and come get your ass kicked.”