Bogarting the Cigarettes

(a scene from the escapades of Henry Z., secret agent at large)

♓

Henry glared nervously at the man walking back and forth in front of him. He flexed his arms against the ropes that bound him to the chair.

“We can do this all night,” said the man with a light unidentifiable European accent. He had stopped pacing and was now looking sideways, eyeballing Henry. He wore a tuxedo, sans jacket, cravat hanging untied and loose. He exhaled a puff of smoke from a nearly spent cigarette.

“I don’t have any plans. You got Netflix?” Henry replied affably. The man with the cravat turned fully to face him, jaw locked in annoyance. “You mind giving me one of those?” Henry asked, nodding his head towards the man, indicating the cigarette. “They are mine, after all. They’re Russian. They cost eleven bucks a pack on E-bay. Don’t be a dick.”

“Where is it?” the man demanded emphatically.

“What were we talking about again-” Henry was cut off as the man quickly stepped over and punched him in the jaw. He looked at the man, brows furrowed. “That’s it? I mean, I’m not trying to piss you off, really, scouts honor and all, it’s just that… man… my Grandma hits harder than that. Seriously. She’s old, but… mean as a snake.”

The man looked at him for a moment with a furious expression, and then turned, walking to the table at the other side of the small room. He put out the spent cigarette and retrieved another from the pack.

“Second to last one,” the man said with a chuckle, striking a match to light the cigarette. “These are good,” he said with a agreeable nod, exhaling a plume of smoke.

“Smoke my expensive cigarettes. Be my guest. Me? Nah, I didn’t want one,” Henry muttered.

The man walked over and struck Henry again with his fist.

“You’re gonna hurt your hand doin that,” Henry said with mock concern, eyeballing the cigarette between the fingers of the man’s left hand. His expression relaxed. “Look, you’re new at this, nothing to be ashamed of. We all start somewhere. This is why you bring a big stupid meathead with you. A minion.” The man punched him again. “You do have minions, right?” Henry continued, unfazed.

“Fine,” the man said, breathing heavily, perspiration beginning to bead on his brow, “we can do it your way, double oh seven.” He finished with a sneer.

“Wrong country,” Henry quipped.

“What?” the man replied, confused.

“Wrong country, jackass. Double oh seven was British. Hello… American?” Henry finished, a few slight bobs of his head for emphasis.

“Fine, then. Double Oh Eight. Ha ha!” the man said with a sharp mirthless laugh, followed by a long languorous pull on the cigarette.

“No. No no no. Look, the whole number thing is British. SIS, man. It’s probably fictional anyway... Besides, I’d be double oh six. I’d kick James Bond’s limey ass.”

“You drove here in an Aston Martin DB5,” the man said with a sardonic lifting of one eyebrow. He flicked the cigarette to dislodge the built up ashes.

“Yeah, so what?”

The man flicked the cigarette again, in irritation. This time the coal broke free and skittered across the floor. The man tossed the remainder of the cigarette in disgust.

“Oh, come on, now you’re just wasting them!”

The man turned away from Henry, who began to wriggle his hands in their bonds as furiously as caution would permit. He pulled the last cigarette from the pack and placed it in his mouth. He turned back to face Henry, a pistol in his hand. Henry immediately stopped the wriggling.

“A Walther PPK,” the man said with a sly grin, hefting the gun. He suddenly started patting his pockets with his free hand, stopping and retrieving the box of matches from his pants pocket. The unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth, the paper at the end stained with a smudge of green. He struck the match and began to light the cigarette.

“Fine,” Henry blurted through clenched teeth, face reddening. “You got me, blah blah blah James Bond blah blah blah. You’re smart. I’m dumb. My MI6 manifest is in the left chest pocket of my jacket. I’d hand it to you myself, but I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

“Ah ha!” the man chortled with evil-sounding glee, tossing the lit match to the floor and putting the box back in his pocket. “You see cooperation is your only option! Oh, and the tied up thing… that was funny,” he said, nodding his head and wagging a finger at Henry, “credit where credit is due.” He walked back to the table and set the gun and cigarette down.

“Oh, spare me. You win. Come get this so we can get on with it before you start thinking we’re gonna watch cat videos together on the internet.”

“Right,” the man said, all pleasantry gone from his face. He stepped in front of Henry and reached into the interior jacket pocket. The man’s eyes suddenly rolled back in his head as his body began to shudder violently. After a count of five, he collapsed on the floor in front of Henry.

“Ha!” Henry laughed explosively, eyes near to bulging. “Pocket snap trap, Mark five, BITCH! Diamonds are Forever, new and improved!” he bellowed at the fallen man, straining forward against his bonds, finishing with a gleeful cackle. “Whew!” he exclaimed, calming down, reddened face split by an ear to ear grin. “The film you were looking for was in the cigarette you almost smoked, dumbass!”

Henry struggled against his bonds, straining left, right, forwards and backwards with no effect on the ropes. He looked around the room, smile gone from his face.

“Ah, shit.”