Forty-One

Although he prefers his pipes and exotic hand-rubbed blends of richly flavored tobacco, Mr. French keeps an exquisite cherry wood humidor packed with an assortment of cigars for guests.

He beams at my request as though I’ve paid him the highest of compliments, which makes me feel a little less like a mooch. He leads me excitedly through his apartment to show me his collection. When I tell him I want to sit on the front stoop and just let my mind melt for a while, he hums and haws before producing a thick Cuaba Pirámides.

“This one is from 2008.” He smiles with delight when I frown, as this allows him to figuratively slip into his retired professor’s robes and impart some wisdom. “Like fine wine, cigars are a natural product that benefit from aging in the right environment. The years have been kind to this one, bringing out notes of chocolate, cinnamon, and a pinch of nutmeg that weren’t evident when it was first rolled.”

“Aren’t Cuban cigars illegal?” I ask.

“Most of the best things are.”

He snips the tapered end for me before handing it over with a thin stick of cedar and a heavy silver lighter that resembles the jowled face of a British Bulldog.

“You light the cedar first,” he explains. “And use its flame to light the cigar. Makes those first puffs much smoother, plus the ritual is all part of the fun.”

“Will you join me?” I ask.

“I would be delighted, Miss Flynn, but I am afraid I must decline. I have a Skype call lined up with a fellow philatelist who has unearthed an unusual find that I am anxious to see.”

“Stamps wait for no man. Perfectly understandable,” I say.

Mr. French beams again. “Enjoy the cigar.”

Sitting on the front steps, I follow Mr. French’s cedar-stick ritual until the cigar is lit. The draw is smooth and fills my mouth with velvet smoke.

“You shouldn’t expose yourself like this,” says Pinch, appearing on the sidewalk below me. “You’re making yourself a target.”

I release the smoke from between my lips with a heavy sigh. “I think you may have scared them off for a bit,” I say. “That was a hell of a shot.”

“I was aiming for the window.”

“Bullshit.”

Pinch grins and moves to sit beside me on the steps. “I didn’t know you smoked,” he says.

“I don’t,” I reply. “Except for when I do.”

“Ah. Spoken like a woman.”

“That’s me.”

“You don’t have another do you?”

“We can share.”

I pat the space beside me, take another deep pull, and hand him the cigar. He doesn’t hesitate to place it between his lips.

Exhaling, he hands it back and says, “Nice.”

“Mmmm,” I agree.

We sit and smoke for a while, sharing the cigar in silence like a pocketful of secret kisses doled out one by one.

“The Red Swan has a fierce temper,” Pinch says.

“Shhh. I’m trying to relax.”

“We need a plan to get him off your back.”

“Already have one.”

“Oh?”

“Joe Brown has information that Lebed doesn’t want made public,” I explain. “Swannie’s been searching for him for twenty years.”

“How does that help you?”

“I found him. We’re meeting tonight.” Smoke rises from my mouth to dance upon a salty breeze. I can taste wood, spice, leather, and earth. “If Joe shares that information, I can use it to protect all of us.”

“Do you think he will?”

“I rescued both his daughters. The guy owes me.”

Pinch plucks the cigar from between my lips and raises it to his own. “Not just a pretty face,” he says.