the smuggler’s bible

Valerija

Valerija cranks the throttle and pops her motorcycle onto one wheel, screaming (literally, with her face) under the long stretch of streetlights in front of the diner on the corner of Fourteenth and Blossom.

“Did she see?” Valerija yanks off her helmet. Her eyes are wide. Her palms ache from clenching.

“I mean, she isn’t even in there. I told you, she doesn’t work tonight.”

“Okay, but was she watching?”

“Take a breath. Please, drink this. Sit down.”

Valerija knocks the bottle of water onto the pavement. “Shit and goddamnit,” she says, kicking the starter. “I’ll have to go again.”