the smuggler’s bible


The men return on Wednesday. They huddle near the front door with the collars of their long coats turned up, glaring at the foot traffic. They are wearing dark glasses, but (through binoculars) Ernestine can just make out their eyes flickering rapidly among the passing faces.

“See?” she says, pointing over the railing of the walkway on the eighth floor.

“Yeah, pretty weird, I guess.”

“It’s a pattern. I think they’re looking for me.”


“Because they’re creeps,” Ernestine says, hefting a brick and sighting down her arm. “A woman learns to trust her gut on affairs of this nature.”