Rose Petals & Gun Powder

Baker was in the trunk sifting through worn luggage bags with muscular throws and heavy grunts, a final sigh of relief after exhuming his `lucky' cigar humidor and inserting a small brass key into the lock. The hand painted blue lid, the same color as the car incidentally, lifted with ease and released a floral bouquet of Spanish cedar and a top and bottom row of his favorite cigar brand, two fingers under forty in all. After a few moments of pursed lips and decision-making hums, a nice oily Torpedo-shaped stick was withdrawn and stripped of its cellophane cover. Baker smiled, pretending in his mind that he was wiggling down the skirt of his favorite neighborhood brunette, running the stick beneath his nose and smelling an oh so familiar aroma of a woman's perfume. It was not, of course, but a man had to take what he could get in a life such as his. He slammed the trunk closed and strolled up to his associate who was recovering from the dislodging of his carefully arranged tools.

Baker snipped a bit off the cap with a time worn chromed scissor and slipped it effortlessly back into his pocket, left side over his heart. He put a strike anywhere wooden match between his index and thumb, snapped it to life and quickly raised it to the foot of the cigar while taking a series of heavy draws. It was but a few moments before thick, oily white clouds hung heavy in the suffocatingly hot and humid southern October air. The clouds seemed to hang around his head, nary a wind to take it elsewhere.

After the production was complete, Baker withdrew the cigar from his mouth and stood high over his partner on the passenger side of the engine compartment, a shadow cast over his work.

“So what's the damage.”

“The usual, sir. Punctured fuel line, a ricochet off cylinder number two, and this nasty hole in the oil line.”

Another drag and heavy exhale of oily white smoke, this one directed towards the pale coroner-type working his medicinal magic on the engine. Thomas exerted no outward emotions over the display.

Baker's voice was deep, full of iron from years of cigar enjoyment.

“Thought you patched that in Arizona.”

“It was a patch, sir.”

Two heavy draws while twisting the cigar in his mouth, Baker exuded a long smoke filled sigh.

“Some scumbag shot your luggage again. Went clean through the trunk.”

Finally a sign of concern, Thomas raised his head towards his partner.

“Sir, if you would kindly stand to one side. The light, you see…”

Baker blinked at first, taking a moment to register, then quietly acknowledged the man and moved toward the windshield. An absurdly large palm moved to rest onto the baking hot B-pillar which pushed against the car's worn springs, the other working the cigar in and out of his mouth like a crane maneuvering an I-beam onto a skyscraper.

“So is it terminal or not.”

Edison, freshly poised back into position over the manifold, sighed to himself and stood straight again to address Baker.

“Sir, with all parts and such the way they are, I believe we may consider ourselves lucky if it makes it another sixty miles, maybe seventy if I baby her.”

Baker turned and looked in all directions. The sun was beginning to set on the western horizon, deep orange clouds masking its true position.

“Looks like it'll rain soon. Better get it moving up there if you want to stay dry.”

Edison stared at his partner momentarily, then stepped away and walked around the outside of the car. After returning to his back-breaking lean into the engine bay, he began to compile the facts.

“Sir, if you would kindly fetch my coat from my bag, I fear I may be needing it.”

Angrily, Baker leapt off the car.

“Hey, I thought you said you could get it going again! I ain't walking no

sixty miles for a tow truck. No… friggin'… way.”

Edison worked from beneath the hood, abruptly stopping to rise again, his voice slightly distorted to exude a certain emotion Baker couldn't quite describe.

“Fear not sir, she will live to carry us through the night. But please, if you would gather my coat as I may need it tonight.”