Smooth Operator (3/4) By Edward C. Lynskey

(1/4), (2/4), (3/4), (4/4).

"Hey guys, I need a small favour," Kenny said. Alarm bells went off. I didn't like the sneaky, sly tone he'd assumed. Or was that his natural voice now? "Consider it done." Andy stumbled off the picnic table, arms stretched overhead. He played the Lone Ranger galloping in the troposphere. The air about us swilled with that sick sweet fragrance marijuana exudes. The second-hand smoke stirred my paranoia. "We got to go directly," I said.

"Listen up," said Kenny. "I need you to dig me up something." I seized a memory of stolen stereo equipment Andy and I had tried to excavate at a construction site one scary night. Kenny had ditched it there because the cops were staking out his walk-up. Possession of hot property would land him in prison. Next day he had to fence the stereo. He owed some tough guys money and - well, I didn't bother to get the whole story. So, Andy and I wasted hours digging for Kenny's buried treasure. At dawn, we fled the cratered moonscape empty-handed.

"We're not doing your spade work," I said. Josh's laugh was a little nervous. "Gosh darn it," he said. "It's not as if Kenny is begging us to dig up a dead body." "Yeah, so chill." Andy nodded at Kenny before taking another hit of fresh air. "Name your favour, buddy." Kenny's red-rimmed eyes sparkled. Oh yeah. He was feeling it, a joyous buzz smack dab behind his nose. Nothing else too much mattered. Except this favour, he was now nicking us for.

He said, "Well, my man Josh is on the right track." "Check it out." Beaming, Josh slapped skin with Kenny. "I'm on the right track." "What exactly are you saying, Kenny?" From inside the orange jumpsuit, Kenny extracted a Tupperware container. One of those pie-wedged shapes. He set it on the tabletop between Andy and me. Sunbeams illuminated it. We stared, curious about what Kenny would lug around inside a prison.

"Go ahead, open it," he encouraged Andy. Andy's dirty fingernails curled around the tight lid to break the seal and pry it off. Stuffed inside were paper towels. Josh said: "That creepy guard is at the window again." "Damn," I said.

Andy drew out the crumpled paper towels. Our eyes narrowed on a blunt, wizened, black object. It reminded me of a smallish plantain bought in the produce section. But the stench is what grossed us out. A rotten egg odor, only ten times viler. Kenny was smiling at us, his narcotic blue eyes aglitter. He was, after all, a smooth operator, ripping off swag from the world's ditch-digging chumps. "What is it?" I managed to ask. A retching sensation squeezed my midsection. Bile flushed into my throat, through my teeth. "A dead man's pinkie," Kenny replied.

"Come again?" "Huh?" "You heard it right. A dead fellow's finger." Andy gripped the edge of his seat. "Jesus."

Continued... Next Page (4/4)

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