the smuggler’s bible

Rōwe

Rōwe slides the pistol into his jeans against the small of his back and gets out of the car. He turns the corner behind the laundromat and looks for three white bricks close together in the wall. Margot said that’s where she saw it.

The buildings are canted so the alley narrows slightly. Probably the sun doesn’t shine down here unless it’s dead noon, if ever. He’s wondering at his chances now, after six, when he notices movement in the weeds and low growling he feels in his bones.

“Well, nobody ever said you were a liar, Margot,” Rōwe whispers.