the smuggler’s bible

Edgar Barton

Danny takes him to the place down a few blocks closer to main street. It doesn’t have a name, really, just grey-white neon piping that reads “EAT” but never lights up. They both ride in the back. Danny has a new driver—fresh white cuffs, dark glasses. Or maybe it’s the same guy. Hard to be sure after so long.

The coffee comes in white cups, eggs and toast afterward. They’ve still barely spoken.

“Seen Wendy?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“That’s fair. She said as much anyhow. Do you still think I’m a son of a bitch?”

“Maybe forever, Danny.”