under a deep gray sky.
“No passports?”
“One passport. The rest just want cards, because they’re fucking cheapskates. Anton, seriously, I think you should carry a gun.”
“ What? I’m out of the business anyway. You know this is my last week.”
“For your own protection.”
“Do you carry one?”
“Not on a regular basis,” she said.
“You own a gun. Are you kidding me?”
“We’re gangsters, sweetheart.”
“We’re a gang of two, Aria. You watch too much television.”
“We’re not a gang of two. You know other people work with us on the passport side. Anyway, all I’m saying is, we’re selling an illegal product to illegal people, and things get a little sketchy sometimes. It might not be a bad idea.”
“Illegal people. Illegal people? Did you actually just say that?”
Aria ignored him. She had pulled up behind the warehouse; he got out of the car and followed her around through the side entrance into the shadowy interior, where his father was polishing a bronze sculpture of an angel in a 1920s flapper dress. Aria disappeared into his parents’ apartment in the back.
“Surprised to see you during the day,” his father said. “Doing well?”
“I’m great. Some crazy Bolivian just threatened to shoot me.”
His father whistled softly. “Rough business.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m getting out.”
His father grunted, but didn’t respond to this.
“Dad, have you ever owned a gun?”
Aria was emerging from the back with a ziplock bag.
“There she is,” his father said.
“Dad? Have you ever owned a gun?”
“Here you go. Five cards,” Aria said, “and one card-passport combo. They’re all scheduled for this week.”
Anton gave up on the gun question. “What times? You know I’m nine to five at the company.”
“Yes, I know you’re nine to five at the company, you poor corporate drone. Here’s your schedule.”
He glanced at it quickly and folded it into his pocket. “So much for my weekend,” he said.
Aria gave him a smoky-eyed glare—every hipster girl in the neighborhood was wearing eye shadow the color of gunpowder that season—and turned away from him. She was furious, and had been for some weeks now. It was in the lines of her shoulders, the angle of her head, the way she leaned with exaggerated calm against the counter to look over the store’s order books, the efficient flick of her pen over a completed delivery.
“You sure have left her hanging,” his father said, without looking up from the bronze. He was buffing a tarnished wrist. The sculpture was half-dark and half-shining from his efforts, like a woman stepping out of shadow. “Walking out on your business partner like that.”
“I don’t want to live like this anymore. I’m sick of doing illegal things.”
“What we do for a living bothers you that much?”
“It has nothing to do with you. It has nothing to do with my family , Christ, haven’t we been over this enough? It’s just me. It’s just me. And another thing,” Anton said, on his way out the door. “I will never carry a fucking gun. Both of you, you hear me? I’m not stooping that low.”
His father didn’t respond to this. Aria was pointedly not looking in his direction. Anton walked out and headed for the subway station. It was the middle of the day and the platform was mostly empty. Alone near a pillar, he glanced at the schedule again and then thumbed quickly through the cards. He opened the passport. It was perfect, as always, and he wondered for the thousandth time how Aria acquired her passport blanks and how the passports came out so perfectly, who else worked on the passport side of the business and whether or not they could be trusted. There were parts of the business that were closed to him and always had been. The girl in the picture stared solemnly back at him. She was pretty, with short blond-brown hair and gray eyes. Elena Caradin James. Place of birth: Canada. Citizenship: United States of
“No passports?”
“One passport. The rest just want cards, because they’re fucking cheapskates. Anton, seriously, I think you should carry a gun.”
“ What? I’m out of the business anyway. You know this is my last week.”
“For your own protection.”
“Do you carry one?”
“Not on a regular basis,” she said.
“You own a gun. Are you kidding me?”
“We’re gangsters, sweetheart.”
“We’re a gang of two, Aria. You watch too much television.”
“We’re not a gang of two. You know other people work with us on the passport side. Anyway, all I’m saying is, we’re selling an illegal product to illegal people, and things get a little sketchy sometimes. It might not be a bad idea.”
“Illegal people. Illegal people? Did you actually just say that?”
Aria ignored him. She had pulled up behind the warehouse; he got out of the car and followed her around through the side entrance into the shadowy interior, where his father was polishing a bronze sculpture of an angel in a 1920s flapper dress. Aria disappeared into his parents’ apartment in the back.
“Surprised to see you during the day,” his father said. “Doing well?”
“I’m great. Some crazy Bolivian just threatened to shoot me.”
His father whistled softly. “Rough business.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m getting out.”
His father grunted, but didn’t respond to this.
“Dad, have you ever owned a gun?”
Aria was emerging from the back with a ziplock bag.
“There she is,” his father said.
“Dad? Have you ever owned a gun?”
“Here you go. Five cards,” Aria said, “and one card-passport combo. They’re all scheduled for this week.”
Anton gave up on the gun question. “What times? You know I’m nine to five at the company.”
“Yes, I know you’re nine to five at the company, you poor corporate drone. Here’s your schedule.”
He glanced at it quickly and folded it into his pocket. “So much for my weekend,” he said.
Aria gave him a smoky-eyed glare—every hipster girl in the neighborhood was wearing eye shadow the color of gunpowder that season—and turned away from him. She was furious, and had been for some weeks now. It was in the lines of her shoulders, the angle of her head, the way she leaned with exaggerated calm against the counter to look over the store’s order books, the efficient flick of her pen over a completed delivery.
“You sure have left her hanging,” his father said, without looking up from the bronze. He was buffing a tarnished wrist. The sculpture was half-dark and half-shining from his efforts, like a woman stepping out of shadow. “Walking out on your business partner like that.”
“I don’t want to live like this anymore. I’m sick of doing illegal things.”
“What we do for a living bothers you that much?”
“It has nothing to do with you. It has nothing to do with my family , Christ, haven’t we been over this enough? It’s just me. It’s just me. And another thing,” Anton said, on his way out the door. “I will never carry a fucking gun. Both of you, you hear me? I’m not stooping that low.”
His father didn’t respond to this. Aria was pointedly not looking in his direction. Anton walked out and headed for the subway station. It was the middle of the day and the platform was mostly empty. Alone near a pillar, he glanced at the schedule again and then thumbed quickly through the cards. He opened the passport. It was perfect, as always, and he wondered for the thousandth time how Aria acquired her passport blanks and how the passports came out so perfectly, who else worked on the passport side of the business and whether or not they could be trusted. There were parts of the business that were closed to him and always had been. The girl in the picture stared solemnly back at him. She was pretty, with short blond-brown hair and gray eyes. Elena Caradin James. Place of birth: Canada. Citizenship: United States of
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