the smuggler’s bible


Meinhard grinds his cigarette out on the bridge’s rough stone balustrade, then flicks the butt at a fish swimming by underneath.

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Whatever. Fucker eyeballed me.”

“Get a grip.” Yami pulls a folder from her bag. She looks around carefully, then hands it over. “So? Normal rates?”

“For a normal job.”

“What if there’s a teensy little hitch?”

“Like what, for example?”

“Like if it was political.”

“You’re giving me a headache.”

“Don’t worry, he sucks. We can goose the pay.”

“Fine. I’ll need a couple days,” Meinhard says. “And next time let’s meet at a bar.”