Mr. Thompson pulled his collar tight to his face in a futile effort to break the charge of the stabbing wind, which had fixed bayonets. His feet crackled against the pavement as cars slowly waltzed through a varnished one lane street. Their cigar-brake lights glowed warm and then cooled off with the exhale of their departure, blowing exhaust smoke rings.
Mr. Thompson began to crave a cigarette. It would be his own personal camp fire, watch fire, smoke signal and light house, but most of all he just craved one bad. Worst of all, he dare not leave his post, as he was under strict oath, by order of Mr. Boston himself, not to, under any circumstances move from his assigned position.
A convenience store winked its light over at him voluptuously. He just wanted to be inside it so damn bad. Feel its warmth and buy him self some satisfaction.
He snuck a glance over his collar at the tiny hands of his very fake name brand watch. Just fifteen more minuets, now, fourteen minuets and fifty five seconds, now, fourteen minuets and, – he lowered his wrist. A watched watch never boils.

***

”How do you like it?”
”two sugars and a trickle of rum, if you’ve got it.”
”true Irish-man, eh?”
”watch who you’re calling Irish there pal, my mother was a gypsy an’ didn’t come from anywhere.”
”Well I’m just going by what I heard.”

Mr. Cooper with a “don’t take me so seriously” kind of a grin, the kind he’d been working on since he could speak in full sentences, set Mr. Harrison’s tea on a woven grass coaster and took to the refuge of his own brown wicker chair. He stared at his straw slippers. He looked at his watched. He looked at the stern war-marked and inscrutable face of Mr. Harrison.
He didn’t look like a cruel man, more just wise, but he was definitely the muscle of the little outfit that he and Mr. Boston had put together. He seriously doubted they would be in need of brute force, but he knew this man would have no qualms about introducing some chump to a blissful meeting of face and calloused knuckles. Rising and dipping like some European mountain range. Mr. Cooper shivered. Best stay on the good side of this man, keep those mountains flagged and at sea level.

“So… what part of the coun-“
“Twenty minuets and they’ll be here, think you can keep a lid on it till then kid?”
“ye-yes Mr. Harrison” He answered the man like a school boy.
“Good. Fill me up-” Mr. Harrison grunted, shoving his mug at Mr. Cooper’s nose. “I’m empty”

***

“God damnit! Where is he?”
Mr. Boston sat languidly in his monster of a Cadillac, as it idled, growling and snorting at passers by. He saw the lamppost, he saw the narrowly yawning alley way behind it. He did not see Mr. Thompson.

“Boston! Halloo there Boston! I’m very sorry. Ashamed is what I am sir, I – I was craving one” He ran, across the street, narrowly avoiding a cab that buzzed past issuing multiple trailing curses and upon reaching the driver’s window he held out a lack luster cigarette as evidence to a reason. “And the store was so close by.”

Mr. Boston eyed his delinquent accomplice with a mockery of scornful distaste.

”It was just standing in a spot, man. I hope you’re the kind of guy who does better with more complicated assignments.”

“Two plus two is five sir, but give me a stethoscope and a safe and it’ll soon be five grand.”

“Get in. And give me one of those.”

Silently cursing himself and his weaknesses, Mr. Thompson quickly sprinted around the fire breathing back end of the Cadillac, reached for the chrome handle of a door reflecting a dirty alley way, and was swallowed by the stirring mass of Mr. Boston’s enormous car.
Mr. Thompson noted his own haggard reflection in the polished oak surface of the dash board. Illuminated by heavenly street lamps and two thinly burning stop-light cigarettes his stress lined face didn’t paint the prettiest picture. High cheekbones and a prominent chin gave him an instant ticket to being handsome, in most cases, but the lines, carved by a corrosive work ethic, and the shadows, cast by the ghosts of a past existence, turned him into something a little bit older than he truly was. Though this often squeezed an ounce more respect from his perspective “friends”.
He turned to his employer and noted a similar face, the only difference being the lines. They were absent. Mr. Boston was either much younger, or much more at ease with the life he followed. Mr. Thompson shivered. They were similar entities doing things only a little differently. The feeling had him. Had him by the throat, choking him worse that the cheap menthol cigarette was choking his lungs. It could be him staging this heist. And it could be Boston, death soaked and angry with questions, writing and investigating the criminal mind.
But it wasn’t. He decided that through out this operation he would set about finding differences between them. He was already certain that there were many.
The red leather interior squeaked and protested as the two jolted around inside the car. The engine pulled the massive slick as tar black body down the streets, through crowded or peaceful intersections, past the screaming, hungry, laughing and drunken sounds of the homeless and rich alike.
The car roared as the city spread its wings in the colorful flight of midnight revelry. The thump and throttle of every gear box, bar door, police baton, and the sprinkled joy of a handful of dropped quarters in a life line phone booth. Sounds thrown together by some, high on substances unknown composer. People sang about god, talked about justice, and in the same breath mugged an old man. Mr. Thompson felt a viral affection for it all, and so did Mr. Boston. Forgetting his past promise to be cast differently from his employer in spirit and mind, Mr. Thompson threw Mr. Boston a wide grin as Mr. Boston shot one right back. He might have been willing to admit, at that moment, that he enjoyed this sort of thing, but for the ghosts clawing scratch marks into the back door of his conscience.

***