Patrick Quinlan - Smoked

Lola stared at Pamela, waiting for an answer. At last, Pamela raised her hands as if she were under arrest. “Okay. I’m not going to say anything.”

Just then, a key turned in the lock, the door to the apartment opened, and the object of their attention walked in. Smoke Dugan appeared in the flesh, a dapper grin on his face, his cane in one hand, a paper bag with a loaf of long French bread cradled in the other.

Again Lola realized how happy she was to have him. Some would say that Lola could have any man she wanted – and that was probably true, as far as it went. She could have any man for a night or two, any muscle bound young man who wanted her for only one thing. Smoke wanted that thing, too. And that was great. But he wanted more, and he wanted to give more. The past year, she reflected, had been the fullest, and the happiest year of her life.

“Ladies,” he said. “Fantasize no more. The man of your dreams has arrived.”

Night in the French Quarter.

The crowds swirled down the narrow streets. Above them, the lacy ironwork of the Spanish-style balconies were like tropical gardens teeming with ivy, begonias, ferns and young women flashing their breasts to passers-by. Shouts and laughter, and strings of Mardi Gras beads came from the streets below. Camera flashbulbs popped.

Disneyland for drunks, Cruz had heard it called.

He leaned against an ornate light post on Decatur Street, watching the people move along. He wore khaki pants and a large colorful Hawaiian shirt that hung down below his waistband. He slowly sipped from a plastic bottle of lime seltzer.

A young guy in gym shorts and a t-shirt peeled off from a group of college kids, boys and girls, all-Americans. The guy wore a baseball cap backwards. His shirt – pulled tight to a chest inflated by many hours in the gym – said DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS. He had a big plastic tumbler of a fruity drink. He came toward Cruz, stumbling just a bit and grinning. He was four or five inches taller than Cruz, and probably outweighed him by seventy pounds. It looked like a lifetime of mild success at sports had convinced the kid he was immortal. He reminded Cruz of one of those kids he had seen on TV, the ones that threw the cheerleaders in the air at college basketball games.

“Hey Scarface,” the kid said. “How ya doing?”

He stuck his hand out. Cruz ignored it.

“The girls over there? They think you’re cute. They want you to come out with us.”

Cruz glanced over at the gaggle of college kids across the street. The group looked over at him. A couple of the girls laughed. He turned back to the kid.

“I’m busy.”

The kid poked Cruz’s shoulder.

“Didn’t you hear me? They think you’re cute. The way you got your hair all greased up. It’s cute.” He poked Cruz again. It was more of a push the second time.

“I want you to do something,” Cruz said. He hadn’t moved from the post.

“Yeah? What’s that?” The kid smirked.

“I want you to look right here, into my eyes, and listen to what I tell you. Okay? Look right here.”

The kid did so, and already the wild light was dying from his own eyes. In an instant, he saw something there, something Cruz well knew. It was the reason Cruz rarely looked directly into the eyes of the straight world. It did him no good to go around scaring grocery cashiers and rent-a-car clerks.

“You’re a good kid, right? Grew up in a nice house? Gonna have a nice life, sell stocks or some shit. Right?”

The kid nodded. He looked down at his sneakers.

“No, don’t look away. I want you to look right here.”

With some effort, the kid lifted his gaze again. Cruz spoke quietly, his voice raising just above a whisper – but loud enough for the kid to hear.

“Good. That’s good. Now I’m only gonna tell you this once, but I think once will be enough. I said I was busy, and I meant it. You stay here any longer and I’m gonna cut you up and feed you to my dogs. You understand, right?”

The kid looked down again, nodded.

“Okay. Now get lost.”

An hour passed.

It was after midnight. The streets were still jammed. Cruz had hardly moved since the kid had left. No one had spoken to him since then. He watched the door of the hotel across the street, trying not to grow annoyed.

He had called upstairs a few minutes ago. Carmine was still up there in his room. When Carmine had answered, Cruz had affected an accent, looking for Pablo, and Carmine told him to go fuck himself, he had the wrong number. Rather, he had slurred it. Carmine was drunk again.

Carmine Giobbi. Carmine the Nose.

Carmine had money problems. He had borrowed so much that he had no way to pay it back. It was okay when he owed it somewhere else. But once you started burning your own people for money, the game was over. Carmine couldn’t even pay the juice anymore. Half a mil, the dossier said he owed.

Half a mil? Cruz suspected it was more than that.

Carmine had already been gone a month with no contact. That was way too long.

Now it looked like he had no plans of coming back. It looked like he was going to stay down here and drink. Cruz had watched him two full nights so far, and by the end of them, Carmine had been so drunk the whores he picked up could hardly keep him standing. Carmine was a big heavy man. He had a goddamn big nose, too.

They couldn’t have Carmine down here, drinking every night with strangers. The time had come to send him home.

Here came the big lug now. He stepped out onto the street from the hotel and started down the block. No surprise, he looked just like an enforcer on vacation. White silk shirt, top three buttons open, showing his hairy chest and his gold crucifix, hanging loose at the bottom as if to cover a piece in his waistband. There was no piece, at least, not the night before.. Cruz had crept close enough to Carmine the night before to thoroughly examine the area at the bottom of his shirt. Carmine might be loaded with weapons in his hotel room, but he went out at night unarmed. Khaki pants and alligator shoes rounded out Carmine’s clothing ensemble.

His gold watch sparkled. Of course it was a Rolex. Cruz had gotten an up close look at it in a bar the night before. It was a wonder nobody had rolled Carmine for it yet, for the watch and that fat billfold he kept whipping out.

What was wrong with this guy?

He was drunk already. Sure. He had probably been knocking them back in his room since whatever time he woke up. Sitting on the balcony, drinking, watching the day pass into evening, watching the evening pass into night, the crowds gathering, the streets glowing with excitement.

Cruz pushed himself away from the light post and started walking.

Up ahead, Carmine weaved through the crowded streets. His big shoulders bumped a couple of people out of his way. Carmine was a handful, all right.

Cruz kept a safe distance. He watched as the Nose entered an open air bar, grabbed a woman’s ass, then got in a shoving match with the woman’s boyfriend. He nearly shoved the guy through the wall. The bouncers, three of them, walked him out of there, consoling him with pats on the back. Big guys were all the same, and they liked to see those pushy, big guy traits in each other. A guy Cruz’s size pulled that kind of shit in that bar? Those bouncers would take him outside and tap dance on his skull.

Carmine stumbled on. He went into another bar and grabbed another woman’s ass. This ass grabbing, this was something new.

After an hour, Cruz had had enough.

The streets were still crowded, but the tone had changed. People were very drunk now. Women screamed for no reason at all. A man leaned over and puked into the gutter. A small crowd gathered around a young man who had fallen down and lay sprawled on the concrete, unable to stand. Carmine staggered along through it all like the monster from Frankenstein. Then he stopped, looked around and turned down an alley.