Aaron Conners - Tex Murphy 02 by Under a Killing Moon Page B
Authors: Under a Killing Moon
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present location.
I was about to return to the warmth of my speeder when a thought struck me. I knew that tracking someone down by way of their preferred brand of cigarette is desperate at best, but I didn’t have anything else to go on. What I really needed was a crack team of investigators to go through the phony countess’s sitting room. With a staff of fully trained professionals, experienced in fingerprinting, collecting DNA samples, and analyzing microscopic fibers, maybe something would turn up. And I had connections in the San Francisco Police Department.
Unfortunately, I’d seen them at work often enough to decide they were mostly a bunch of knuckleheads. Their ringleader, Lieutenant Mac Malden, was an old acquaintance. I pulled out another dollar bill, fed it into the machine, and entered the number for the downtown precinct. Inferior help was better than no help at all. I also made a mental note to ask Mac if he knew anything about the unmarked speeder on Chandler Avenue.
Malden wasn’t in his office, so I left a brief message on his voice mail, asking him to call me at my office at his earliest convenience. I disconnected and returned to my speeder, then flew through a heavy downpour to the Cigar Bar. It turned out to be a rustic hole in the wall down by the Wharf. When I stepped inside, the smell of fresh tobacco reached out and embraced me like an old lover. The interior of the shop was long and slender and brown, appropriately enough. Sets of display cases faced each other down the length of the store. The hardwood floor was marinated in the blended aromas of cherry, vanilla and Cuban leaf.
I walked down the left side of the shop, inspecting the wares. Case after case was filled with handsome wooden boxes teeming with Cubans, Hemingways, and Ashtons. The
shelves above were full of cigar cutters, vintage lighters, cigarette cases, and other smoking accouterments. I turned toward the right wall and its selection of hundreds of pipes. There was also a substantial magazine section containing every periodical published for the patrons of the disappearing art of smoking. It was heavenly. If I’d had the money, I could’ve spent the entire day here, smoking myself into a stupor.
Behind the long counter (and a cloud of smoke), a small, bony man with a bad toupee was ladling rough-cut tobacco from a large glass jar into a small plastic bag. He looked up at me, and his leathery face crinkled into a crooked grin around a neatly hand-rolled cigarette. “Afternoon.”
I pulled the pack of Luckies from my overcoat pocket and walked to the counter. The man stopped ladling and extended a lighter. I leaned over until the tip of my cigarette touched the flame, then straightened up, releasing a long stream of smoke. The leathery man looked me over approvingly.
“Baby Luckies. Don’t see many people smoking’ those these days. Not really enough.
Looks fine on you, though. Compliments the get-up nicely. You know, I gotta fedora like that. Pricey. Not really the style, but like I say, quality never goes out of fashion.
Am I right? You bet I am.”
He glanced over the counter. “Wing tips, too. Nice touch. There ya go again…quality.
These days, I dunno, businessman types wearing this new footwear - what do they call it? - active dress shoes, or something’ like that. Who are they kiddin’? Sneakers are sneakers. Now those wing tips of yers, that’s a shoe. Am I right? Sure I am.”
He took a quick drag from his smoke, then extended his hand. “Sorry if I’m talking yer ear off. Name’s Gabby. Not my real name, of course, but my friends call me that, and anyone who smokes Luckies is a friend in my book, sight unseen.”
We shook with our free hands. “My name’s Murphy. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gabby.”
Gabby stubbed out his smoke and returned to ladling. “Murphy, eh? Good, solid name.
Suits ya. So, what can I do for ya, Murphy? Pack of Luckies?”
“Sure.”
Gabby turned and stood on
I was about to return to the warmth of my speeder when a thought struck me. I knew that tracking someone down by way of their preferred brand of cigarette is desperate at best, but I didn’t have anything else to go on. What I really needed was a crack team of investigators to go through the phony countess’s sitting room. With a staff of fully trained professionals, experienced in fingerprinting, collecting DNA samples, and analyzing microscopic fibers, maybe something would turn up. And I had connections in the San Francisco Police Department.
Unfortunately, I’d seen them at work often enough to decide they were mostly a bunch of knuckleheads. Their ringleader, Lieutenant Mac Malden, was an old acquaintance. I pulled out another dollar bill, fed it into the machine, and entered the number for the downtown precinct. Inferior help was better than no help at all. I also made a mental note to ask Mac if he knew anything about the unmarked speeder on Chandler Avenue.
Malden wasn’t in his office, so I left a brief message on his voice mail, asking him to call me at my office at his earliest convenience. I disconnected and returned to my speeder, then flew through a heavy downpour to the Cigar Bar. It turned out to be a rustic hole in the wall down by the Wharf. When I stepped inside, the smell of fresh tobacco reached out and embraced me like an old lover. The interior of the shop was long and slender and brown, appropriately enough. Sets of display cases faced each other down the length of the store. The hardwood floor was marinated in the blended aromas of cherry, vanilla and Cuban leaf.
I walked down the left side of the shop, inspecting the wares. Case after case was filled with handsome wooden boxes teeming with Cubans, Hemingways, and Ashtons. The
shelves above were full of cigar cutters, vintage lighters, cigarette cases, and other smoking accouterments. I turned toward the right wall and its selection of hundreds of pipes. There was also a substantial magazine section containing every periodical published for the patrons of the disappearing art of smoking. It was heavenly. If I’d had the money, I could’ve spent the entire day here, smoking myself into a stupor.
Behind the long counter (and a cloud of smoke), a small, bony man with a bad toupee was ladling rough-cut tobacco from a large glass jar into a small plastic bag. He looked up at me, and his leathery face crinkled into a crooked grin around a neatly hand-rolled cigarette. “Afternoon.”
I pulled the pack of Luckies from my overcoat pocket and walked to the counter. The man stopped ladling and extended a lighter. I leaned over until the tip of my cigarette touched the flame, then straightened up, releasing a long stream of smoke. The leathery man looked me over approvingly.
“Baby Luckies. Don’t see many people smoking’ those these days. Not really enough.
Looks fine on you, though. Compliments the get-up nicely. You know, I gotta fedora like that. Pricey. Not really the style, but like I say, quality never goes out of fashion.
Am I right? You bet I am.”
He glanced over the counter. “Wing tips, too. Nice touch. There ya go again…quality.
These days, I dunno, businessman types wearing this new footwear - what do they call it? - active dress shoes, or something’ like that. Who are they kiddin’? Sneakers are sneakers. Now those wing tips of yers, that’s a shoe. Am I right? Sure I am.”
He took a quick drag from his smoke, then extended his hand. “Sorry if I’m talking yer ear off. Name’s Gabby. Not my real name, of course, but my friends call me that, and anyone who smokes Luckies is a friend in my book, sight unseen.”
We shook with our free hands. “My name’s Murphy. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gabby.”
Gabby stubbed out his smoke and returned to ladling. “Murphy, eh? Good, solid name.
Suits ya. So, what can I do for ya, Murphy? Pack of Luckies?”
“Sure.”
Gabby turned and stood on
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