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about parking tickets. He kept a delivery sign on his visor, which he always turned down when he double-parked. Besides, when you kept folks supplied with smokes, they generally cut you some slack. It wasn’t like you were coming to read their meters or bother them somehow. You made sure that they had a good supply of their favorite butts. All they had to do was dig down into the loose change, drop a few coins in, pull out the knob under their brand, and listen for the satisfying clump as the pack dropped down, and there they were, ready for another day, maybe more, maybe less.
    Clay parked on a side street by City Hall. Plenty of spaces today. He picked one in the sun. It was a chilly autumn day, and it felt good to sit in the car for a minute and feel the warmth. As he relaxed, that vague unease crept back into his thoughts. Something wasn’t right. It stayed out at the far edge of his waking mind, the kind of warning that you usually didn’t recognize until it was too late. Clay remembered that feeling, remembered cultivating it, listening for it even when it wasn’t there. A long time ago, listening to that little voice meant life or death. Be careful. Watch that cellar window. Stay behind that tree. The signs that were too slight to be seen fully, the noises that were out there, beyond his range of hearing, gathering together and nagging at the border of his mind, calling out to him in a faint, tiny, faraway voice. Listen to me, listen to me. He had been careful, he had listened. He had watched the barn door, seen the snout of that Mauser. He did stay behind that tree, he could still feel the bark against his cheek, the thud of bullets.
    Jesus fucking Christ on the cross! Clay opened his eyes, found his hands gripping the steering wheel, white around the knuckles. He let his hands relax, dropping them to his lap and resisting the desire to bring them up to his face and bury it in them. Breathe. Look around, it’s Meriden, not anywhere else. He pulled the keys out of the ignition, stuffed them in his jacket pocket. He held out his right hand. It shook a little. Too much coffee, maybe.
    He got out, opened the rear door and grabbed the first box, arranged with an assortment of brands, extra Raleighs and Luckies. The Police Department was on the lower level, heavy smokers among that bunch. He crossed the street, whistling softly, a tune long ago forgotten but now in the forefront of his mind, pushing everything else out, demanding to be heard. He walked down a long hallway, his whistling echoing off the painted cinderblock walls and linoleum floors. The cigarette vending machine stood at the end of hall, a municipal worker bending down to grab his pack. He gave Clay a wave. Glad to see ya.
    Clay set down the box, took out his keys and opened the front of the machine, revealing rows for each brand, Camels already sold out. He broke open a carton, and dropped a handful of them down the slot.
    “Aw shit,” he said out loud, surprising himself. He looked around, feeling foolish and guilty. They had done it again. This carton had Virginia tax stamps, not Connecticut. No accident there, Virginia had the lowest cigarette tax in the country. A big distributor could shave off a bundle in taxes by bringing a truckload up from the south. He’d bet some of the cartons had no tax stamp at all.
    Tri-State my ass. Not unless it was Virginia, North Carolina and Connecticut. There was nothing left to do, nothing he could do. He had hours of work to go, and he couldn’t worry about tax regulations. He filled every brand, not looking at the stacks of packs as he slid them down each row. If anyone said anything, he’d plead ignorance. Let ‘em talk to Al. He locked the machine and squatted to cover the single packs at the bottom of the box with empty cartons.
    “What’s new, Clay?”
    The voice came out of nowhere as Clay was starting to stand up with the cardboard box. A sharp jolt went through him like he had touched a frayed