FIC: Smoke Rings
Title: Smoke Rings
Author: Samantha Coyle
Words: 616
So, it turns out it actually is that easy. A deep voice, a dark coat with padded shoulders, a costumey Humphrey Bogart hat balancing low on my brow and that is all it takes to gain entrance into the ever-so-exclusive club. The sign outside says “Gentlemen Only, Please,” and yet here I am, walking undisturbed through the front door.
The place is like something out of a film noir classic, with the exception of the well-publicised “state of the art ventilation system.” The walls in the lobby are a comforting bloody red, a stained mahogany draped with a breath of wispy georgette. Behind the little freestanding sign that says “Welcome, Sir,” hangs a colorful, Picasso-like poster introducing the King Cigar Club. The crowned figure in the poster squints through the soft yellow light, as if trying to figure me out. His disjointed and geometric features peer at me from behind his trails of ethereal and aromatic smoke.
“You keep quiet,” I whisper, smiling.
Following the soft murmur of Miles Davis’ Round Midnight, I peer around a corner into the main hall. It’s an intimate drawing room, and feels smaller than I thought it would. From my vantage point along the periphery I can see the bloody red walls and two small conversation areas, each balanced delicately on Turkish carpets, the sofas and chairs ridiculously upholstered in creamy chocolate leather with too many buttons. I see a large framed painting encased in glass, a subdued arrangement of calla lilies in the center of the room, and a display case near the back door. Reflected in the polished copper ceiling tiles I see two gentlemen, each quietly marinating in the tendrils of his own fragrant smoke.
And there he is, the target of my attention.
He doesn’t notice me as I pull my collar up closer to my ears and slip into the main hall, taking a seat slightly behind him near the twinkling display case. Bottles of vintage Irish whiskey and collector humidor accessories wait numbly on the glass shelves for an appreciative audience. I melt into my chair. For the moment, at least, my attention is elsewhere.
My breath slows and my heart races as I watch his reflection, in the display case, then the painting, then the polished ceiling tiles. He handles his newspaper like a lover, his delicate fingers caressing each page as it turns, moving like a wave from one side of his lap to the other. He takes a sip of his usual drink, Jameson 1780 with ice, and lets his hand linger on the sweating glass before reaching back to scratch his neck, leaving a shiny trail of condensation under his dark hair.
An hour passes, maybe more. It's Dave Brubeck on the radio now. The second gentleman stands to leave, and the two bid each other a polite farewell. The front door clicks shut. We are, finally, alone. In the sudden quiet I hear another voice, this time it’s my own.
Do the job. Just do the job.
I lean forward, fingering the cool steel that has been resting, eager, in my oversized pocket. My own invisibility surprises me. I never cease to be amazed by being so overlooked in a moment like this, the only moment that really counts.
I pull the gun from my pocket. For now, we two are alone, and my vision narrows to the back of his neck, to the long-dried trail of condensation under his dark hair. We may not be alone for long, I think, aiming. Now. Do it now. I squeeze the trigger, slowly, hearing the shot through the silencer as if from a distance, before slipping, unnoticed, through the haze of smoke rings and out the back door.
Author: Samantha Coyle
Words: 616
So, it turns out it actually is that easy. A deep voice, a dark coat with padded shoulders, a costumey Humphrey Bogart hat balancing low on my brow and that is all it takes to gain entrance into the ever-so-exclusive club. The sign outside says “Gentlemen Only, Please,” and yet here I am, walking undisturbed through the front door.
The place is like something out of a film noir classic, with the exception of the well-publicised “state of the art ventilation system.” The walls in the lobby are a comforting bloody red, a stained mahogany draped with a breath of wispy georgette. Behind the little freestanding sign that says “Welcome, Sir,” hangs a colorful, Picasso-like poster introducing the King Cigar Club. The crowned figure in the poster squints through the soft yellow light, as if trying to figure me out. His disjointed and geometric features peer at me from behind his trails of ethereal and aromatic smoke.
“You keep quiet,” I whisper, smiling.
Following the soft murmur of Miles Davis’ Round Midnight, I peer around a corner into the main hall. It’s an intimate drawing room, and feels smaller than I thought it would. From my vantage point along the periphery I can see the bloody red walls and two small conversation areas, each balanced delicately on Turkish carpets, the sofas and chairs ridiculously upholstered in creamy chocolate leather with too many buttons. I see a large framed painting encased in glass, a subdued arrangement of calla lilies in the center of the room, and a display case near the back door. Reflected in the polished copper ceiling tiles I see two gentlemen, each quietly marinating in the tendrils of his own fragrant smoke.
And there he is, the target of my attention.
He doesn’t notice me as I pull my collar up closer to my ears and slip into the main hall, taking a seat slightly behind him near the twinkling display case. Bottles of vintage Irish whiskey and collector humidor accessories wait numbly on the glass shelves for an appreciative audience. I melt into my chair. For the moment, at least, my attention is elsewhere.
My breath slows and my heart races as I watch his reflection, in the display case, then the painting, then the polished ceiling tiles. He handles his newspaper like a lover, his delicate fingers caressing each page as it turns, moving like a wave from one side of his lap to the other. He takes a sip of his usual drink, Jameson 1780 with ice, and lets his hand linger on the sweating glass before reaching back to scratch his neck, leaving a shiny trail of condensation under his dark hair.
An hour passes, maybe more. It's Dave Brubeck on the radio now. The second gentleman stands to leave, and the two bid each other a polite farewell. The front door clicks shut. We are, finally, alone. In the sudden quiet I hear another voice, this time it’s my own.
Do the job. Just do the job.
I lean forward, fingering the cool steel that has been resting, eager, in my oversized pocket. My own invisibility surprises me. I never cease to be amazed by being so overlooked in a moment like this, the only moment that really counts.
I pull the gun from my pocket. For now, we two are alone, and my vision narrows to the back of his neck, to the long-dried trail of condensation under his dark hair. We may not be alone for long, I think, aiming. Now. Do it now. I squeeze the trigger, slowly, hearing the shot through the silencer as if from a distance, before slipping, unnoticed, through the haze of smoke rings and out the back door.