the smuggler’s bible

Barraclough

Daybreak in Tinsel Town, and the city trades aspects. The night owl haunts, shimmering in the distance along a swooping ribbon of highway, fade into a snowy mist blowing in off the mountain that washes everything to match the white fuzz of television static.

“The papers aren’t even finished with the opera house,” Barraclough says. “I keep spiking interview requests.”

“It’s gruesome, so they love it. Nine beautiful dancers dead, and the production of the Nutcracker Suite with them.” Pontchartrain stirs her hot chocolate. “You ever get tired of this shit?”

“I’m gingerbread. Old cookies just get tougher and tougher.”