CHEERS
Cash
It’s nearly dark when I pull into the parking lot of the Smoke’Inn. Red neon buzzes above a yellow surfboard bolted to the entrance. The bulbs either gave up or flicker with the struggle of a life refusing to die.
The name says it all, the stench too. Every soul in this ramshackle place floats a few inches off the ground, and I’ll be drifting there myself if I stay too long.
The crowd isn’t big, and I find him almost immediately. He’s the one guy who refuses any sort of electronic device that leaves a trail, with the exception of the internet. Because, of course, he’s the only one who knows how to use it “correctly.”
Benny’s been holding down this corner booth since the days when saying his name still came with respect.
Back in the day, he was a mid-level hitman.
The kind you called for straightforward jobs that didn’t require a ghost and hits that didn’t make the news.
He did clean work at a reasonable price. Then he started getting weird.
Now he lives half off the grid and the other half online, talking about how toothpaste scrambles your thoughts and how the Pentagon is staffed with clones.
He’s convinced birds aren’t real. Well, except for owls.
He respects owls. No one really takes him seriously anymore, but I’ve learned crazy doesn’t mean useless.
You just have to separate the static from the signal.
“Would you believe it? Royalty’s gracing us with their presence,” he says as I slide into the booth, setting down a beer for him and one for me.
“Paying sixteen bucks for something called a mushroom latte wasn’t on my agenda,” I shoot back.
He cackles, slapping the table, greasy strands of hair falling into his face. “City people. No taste. No soul.”
We knock back shots, trade barbs, let the beer mellow the mood.
I liked that part of training. Interrogation.
Getting people to talk without laying a hand on them.
Same thing out here. Make them feel important, and they’ll tell you what you need.
I listen while he spins wild stories. Some may be real, some definitely not.
“You know they replaced three state governors with AI robots last year?” he mutters.
“Sure,” I say. “I always thought the Idaho guy looked too symmetrical.”
He nods, dead serious. “Too smooth around the jaw. That’s how you can tell.”
I let him ramble for another few minutes before I cut in. “What about potential mayors?”
His gaze sharpens, then dulls equally fast. “Why are you asking?”
I lean back, casual. “Curiosity. Politics is dirty. Always good to know where the mud is deepest.”
“Curiosity gets you killed, kid.” He swirls his drink, watching the liquid climb the glass. “And mud? This is quicksand.”
I let the silence breathe. Don’t push too hard. Just wait.
Finally, he sighs through his nose. “Which one?”
“Whitmore,” I say.
Benny’s smirk falters but doesn’t disappear. He takes in our surroundings, calculating who might be within earshot.
“Richard Whitmore,” I add. “His wife died in a car crash a few years ago. Mariana.”
He stirs his drink with one finger, eyes following the movement. “Wisconsin, eh?” He rubs the finger over his lips. It makes my skin crawl. A long pause follows. I signal the bartender to get him another drink.
“That was an accident,” he says finally, his voice lower now.
I keep my face blank. “Was it?”
“I didn’t do it,” he snaps, quick to defend himself. “It was no one familiar. They have their own people.” He starts squeezing his fingertips one by one. “I heard it was a warning. Message hit. Real clean. Real discreet.”
“Not about her?” I press.
He shakes his head slowly. “She got caught in the blast radius.”
“Blast from what?”
Benny leans in now, voice barely audible. “Power. Some people didn’t want Whitmore in the race. Told him to back out. He didn’t listen. So...” He spreads his hands, miming a magician revealing a disappearing act. “Poof.”
“Next thing you know, he’s dropping out,” I say. “And now he’s back in.”
“Which means,” Benny says, eyes sparkling, “he became their puppet.” His fingers twitch in small, precise motions, controlling an invisible object. “If out of fear or greed? Who knows.” The movements don’t stop. His fingers keep working the phantom marionette, creeping me out.
I let the noise of the bar fill the space.
“And if he cuts the threads?”
Benny slams his hand on the table, his eyes wild through the curtain of hair. “Bang.”
The sound earns us more attention than either of us wants. I raise my glass, grinning as if we’ve both lost all sense of restraint.
“Who controls the puppet?” I ask, getting to the actual point.
That triggers a reaction, a twitch in his eye. “The Board, that’s the—”
He cuts himself off and shakes his head, eyes darting across the bar. One by one, he toasts the room, calling out names as if every person in here were a lifelong friend. He’s probably never talked to half of them.
That’s it. That’s all I’m getting.
I throw some bills on the table as I get up. “It’s been a pleasure. You take care, all right?”
“Still think I’m crazy?” he says, his wide grin showing missing teeth.
“I always thought you were crazy,” I answer, finishing my beer. “Doesn’t mean you’re wrong.”
The Board.
There’s truth under the madness. Enough to matter.