the smuggler’s bible


Dancer sits in a booth by the window, drinking coffee alone and watching the traffic crawl by in the rain for two hours.

Keep an eye out for anything suspicious, he mutters, stubbing another cigarette in the ashtray. We don’t want to be embarrassed again.

The waitress comes and Dancer settles up. He steps out into the weather, belting his coat tight, then turns up the street toward the pumpkin patch.

Sure, whatever. Easy assignment. But at no point—never—did anyone even attempt to explain how to distinguish suspicious from the general day-to-day nefarious tomfoolery popular among the October crowd.