Smoke & Silver

The rain pounded the pavement outside like the headache that pulsed in my skull. I reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of painkillers, washing a pair down with the whiskey and water that used to be whiskey on the rocks from the top of the desk.

It was another slow night, God knows I'd had enough of those in the last year. The bar I owned was dangerously close to having to close down, closer than we'd ever been, and that was a thought I couldn't handle tonight. I finished off the watered whiskey and looked out of the office window. The way the neon shone in the filthy puddles of the street was almost pretty. Would have been pretty, if I wasn't in such a sour mood. I watched a man in a long coat and hat that was a throwback to the days of Sinatra jaywalk across the street and pause in front of the bar. The hat shadowed his eyes as he looked up at the sign, and a weekend's worth of stubble darkened his sharp jawline. He ducked his head to the rain and walked into the bar, out of my line of sight. I turned back to my books.
There was too much red and not enough black in the ledger lines.

I glared at the numbers and lit another cigarette.

I stared out at the rain until I finished the smoke, having to jam the smoldering filter into place amongst a pile of its brethren, each filter smudged with my red lipstick. I watched the last curls of smoke fade into the air, weaving in and out of the neon cast through the venetian blinds on my office window.

A knock came on the office door.

“What do you want?” I snapped.

“A word with a pretty woman.”

“You're looking in the wrong place, mister.”

“I don't think so.” His voice was soft and teasing, familiar.

“No one here but a tired and pissed off broad.” I reached for another cigarette. This was the last thing I needed tonight.

The handle of my door turned. It glinted in the light from the bare bulb in the corner lamp. He stepped into my office, all six feet of him shimmering with rain. The smoke from the room and light from the dim bulb helped hide his face, but he was the same man I'd glimpsed out of my window.

“Georgia, I need your help.” He said, taking off his hat. His slate blue eyes locked with mine, sending shivers down my spine that I hadn't had in years.

I reached for my empty whiskey glass without thinking, trying to affect a coolness that I certainly wasn't feeling.

“John. It's been a while. You never call, you never write, I thought something awful had happened to you.” I said. The vitriol helped even my voice as I reached back into the desk for the whiskey and another glass. I wiped the glass out with a shirt sleeve before pouring a drink for each of us. He shrugged out of the long coat, hanging it under his hat on the coat rack by the door. John was like the cigarettes he smoked: tall and smooth. His sharp features could almost cut you with feelings you didn’t know you had. But I’d been to that rodeo once before. I even got the belt buckle and permanent scars.

He'd aged, as surely as I had, but time hadn't worn down the edges on his cheekbones or dulled that spark in his eyes. His hair was still the color of watered whiskey, but there were streaks of silver beginning at his temples. It was as stylishly tousled as it used to be, and wet from tonight's rain. His white shirt was rumpled, like it'd been tossed into luggage fresh out of a truck stop dryer, and tucked into tight grey slacks that rested on his straight-razor hipbones.

I wasn't able to keep from watching him out of the corner of my eye as he swept the junk out of a chair across the desk from me. The newspapers and junk mail fluttered to the floor like autumn leaves. I saw him try to meet my eyes as he sat, almost daring me to say something about the mess he'd made. Little did he know, I'd been living in this mess for long enough that I felt like a rat more often than not. My head pounded and I prayed the aspirin would kick in before it killed me, or before he did.

He took the glass that didn't have crescent moons of crimson lipstick clinging to the rim and downed the drink in one shot. I followed suit.

“You know damned well why I haven't kept in touch.”

“Still breaks my heart.”

“Cut the shit, Georgia. We both know you don't have one of those.”

“Not anymore.”

Looking at him, I remembered all of the nights we'd spent making each other gasp and claw at cheap sheets. We'd clawed at each others' hearts too, but never cared to bring that up, even when the games were over. Neither of us had ever learned how to be gentle, and together, we crashed like waves on a stormy beach. We were never able to work out who was the storm and who was the harbor, but the damage was done just the same.

His eyes softened, no longer hard slate circles, but glimpses of summer days from years gone by. I remembered the warmth of his skin and the taste of his kiss. I snatched up the glasses and poured us a second drink before that thought could drag me further down the rabbit hole I'd spent most of my twenties in.

“So. It's not a social call. What the hell do you need from me after all of this time?”

He reached into the hip pocket of his jeans and tossed something on my desk. It clanked and rattled amongst the overdue bills and ink stains. I picked it up, shaking it and hearing a faint skittering inside as things rolled and shivered inside of the small bottle. It was covered in clay and wrapped with twine and what I assumed was human hair.

“Where the fuck did you get this?”

“It gets better. Look closer.”

There was a fingerprint in the clay at the bottom.

“I don't have the FBI fingerprint database stored in my head, John.”

He reached across the table, hand fisted, thumb sticking up like he was telling me what a great job I'd done. I felt myself quirk an eyebrow.

“It's my thumbprint.”

“What the fuck, John?”

“No, Georgia, listen. I found that in my mailbox tonight.”

“After you'd cracked open a bottle.”

“I'm between cases. Sue me.”

“So you found something with your thumbprint on it. So what?”

“I didn't make that.”

“Are you sure?”

“That's my hair.”

“So, you pissed off some girl who made a gris-gris bottle to fuck with you. So what?”

“You're the only gris-gris girl I know.”

I doubted that. We had both run in circles that flirted with the occult when they weren't outright based on it. Magic was hard to come by in the world, but it could be obtained for the right price, be it effort, knowledge, or your very soul. Those that were able to get their hands on it usually made it a point to use it whenever they could. Back in college, we'd been a part of a group of scholars and stoners that tried our best to scratch out niches for ourselves. John and I had a knack that most of the others didn't. His magic was always a bit too flashy, a bit too Hollywood. Mine was subversive, manipulative, but I could still work a hell of a protection charm when necessary.

“Guy then. You're as open about your sexuality as I am.”

“Georgia. If it's someone I fucked, it was you.”

“I haven't thought about you in years.”

“Liar.”

I paused. I wanted to kill him for bringing it up, but that would only prove him right. I sighed again and set the bottle on the desk.

“What do you want, John?”

“I want you to undo that hoodoo and help me find out who did it.”

“Then hold on to your spurs, cowboy.” I emptied my ashtray into a discarded glass and set it back in front of me, popping the little cork on the bottle. He did jump back from the desk a bit, which made me smile, until I looked at what exactly I dumped out of the vial.

“Oh, you pissed someone off good.” I dropped the vial into its contents and opened a drawer on the desk. Out came a wooden crate about the size of a shoebox.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Hey, you came to me, so shut your mouth and drink your whiskey like a good boy.”

He mumbled something snarky under his breath, but I didn't pay attention to what it was. He was dutifully silent while I cobbled together a quick protection charm.

“Stick this in that awful jacket and don't lose it. Or wash it. Had some moron do that once.”

“I know what to do with a mojo bag, Georgia.”

“Standard disclaimer.”

He slipped the bag into the same pocket the vial came out of. I could see the hint of his sharp hip in the way that the thin cotton of the shirt strained against it. My eyes flicked to my glass to keep from crawling all over his body the way the rest of me wanted to.

“So, know who else could have been trying to put the hurt on me?”

“No clue. You know I've never been much of a socialite.”

“Break out your dancing shoes. I've got a lead and I need a date.”

“Now you ask me on a date.” I reached for my whiskey to try to get rid of the sour taste in my mouth.

“Ten years late, I know. But it'll be one you won't forget.”

“What's the lead?” I couldn't help the scathing tone to my words as the left my mouth. I quietly blamed the burn of the whiskey.

“An old friend. I don't know how much you read the papers, but I've made a name for myself.”

“Something catchy, I hope.”

“Of course.” He smiled across the table at me, sending my heart fluttering. I bit down hard on my tongue, on those old feelings that I had no use for.

“John.”

He sighed and reached for his glass. He drained it. I poured another pair of drinks.

“Whitehouse.” He responded, his tone nearly bitter.

I snorted. He took a calm sip of his whiskey.

“You're kidding. That's not you.” I said. I'd known him for years, and even though we'd lost touch, there was no way in hell that he was the Whitehouse that the papers went on and on about.

“As I live and breathe.” His smirk was mocking, haughty, and proud. Something darker lurked beneath the expression, something like resentment.

“God... of course it's you... I have seen an article or two, praising you for the reclamation of some artifact or another. You're the new Indiana Jones.”

He beamed with pride. I took a long sip of my whiskey.

“So, that's how you got your connections. I know you've never been one to make many friends.” I sat back, reassessing him. We'd both aged, it was true, but I still couldn't quite believe that he became one of the big shots without my noticing.

“And I need a pretty date to charm my lead into cooperating.” He smiled seductively, and I was back in college, naïve and virginal and excited that someone was interested in me for the first time all over again. I didn't like the feeling, so I decided to return a little of the fire.

“You've always been such a charmer.” I snarled, reaching casually for my drink.

“You love it.”

"Well, lucky you, I've got nothing to do tomorrow and I'll take any excuse to get out of this place for a night."

"Perfect." His eyes glittered.

“So, are you picking me up or do I get to drive like we're back in college?” I asked, the smallest bit of smugness creeping into my voice.

“Be ready at 8. You're still living across from that old liquor store, aren't you?”

“Pick me up here. You don't need to go by my house.”

“It's an apartment, but have it your way.”

He stood, finished his drink, and snuffed out the cigarette in the ashtray.

“Until tomorrow.” He grabbed his coat and hat and strode out of my office.