Free The Smoke Room by Earl Emerson

home. Swear to God. It’s my sister’s. I gotta give it back to her this morning or she’ll be hot.” Tronstad held out his hand. They stared at each other for half a minute, and for at least part of that time I thought Sears was going to return it.
    “We’ve got a four-off. If your explanation holds up in four days, I’ll apologize. Otherwise . . . you’re in a heap of trouble, buster. All of you.”
    “At least keep it confidential,” said Tronstad.
    “Why should I?”
    “Because charges are supposed to be confidential. I ain’t saying we done anything, but if you’re thinking of writing charges . . .”
    “Confidential it is.”
    “Thank you,” I said.
    Sears had been on his way out the door, but when I spoke he stopped and looked at me. He had heart. I had to give him that. He was hoping I wasn’t part of this. I could see it in his eyes. He liked me more than the others, probably because I was young, moldable, listened to his lessons, and tried to learn from him. “You’re going to hang, too. You know that, don’t you? If you’re part of it.”
    “I’m not part of anything,” I said.
    “I said, you know that, don’t you?”
    “I know.”
    After he left, Tronstad turned to Johnson. “If we can get it out of his locker on this four-off, he’ll never know the difference.”
    “He’ll know the difference,” Johnson said.
    “Maybe, but he won’t be able to do anything about it.”
    “What makes you think he’s going to leave it in his locker?” I said.
    “How are you going to get in?” Johnson asked. “It’s got a padlock the size of an alarm clock.”
    “I can get into anything.” It was true. Tronstad routinely picked locks around the station for fun.
    We wiped down the chief’s buggy and Engine 29 without talking, and then one by one the members of the oncoming shift showed up and relieved us.
    Minutes later, when I went outside to the small parking area on the west side of the station, Tronstad and Johnson were waiting for me. The three black plastic bags sat at their feet. I clicked the remote key to unlock the doors on my WRX, then opened the rear hatch. I threw my gear bag inside next to my skates. “What?” I said.
    “This isn’t going to work,” Tronstad said.
    “It’s going to work unless you want to start throwing punches,” said Johnson, angrily. “You think one bond is bad, try to explain three sacks of them when Sears and Abbott come out to stop our fight.”
    Tronstad jumped as if on a pogo stick: small, comical movements, clenching his fists at his sides like a cartoon boxer. I had the feeling that in a fistfight he would be both hilarious and deadly, and I didn’t want to be around to see it. He was over six feet and wiry, while Johnson was five-ten and over two hundred pounds. They could probably make a fight last for a good long time. I closed the hatch on my Subaru and stepped between them.
    “What’s going on?” I said.
    “He wants to take them home,” said Johnson.
    “Three sacks of worthless paper, for God’s sake,” said Tronstad.
    “Oh, that’s funny,” Johnson said. “A few minutes ago they were worth twelve million, but now it’s three sacks of worthless paper. If it’s so worthless, let me have it.”
    “Not on your life.”
    “Why not?”
    “For one thing, it’s mine.”
    “We’re in trouble, too. Me and Gum. And you’re not sandbagging me. Let Gum take it. I trust Gum.
You
trust Gum.
Gum
trusts Gum. Hell, he was going to turn himself in at Arch Place. Look at him. He’s a choirboy. He holds it, or we fight right here. I swear.”
    “Bullshit!”
    Johnson put his fists up and started advancing on Tronstad. I’d never seen him so angry or resolute.
    Tronstad looked me in the eye. “Okay, okay. You keep this for us?”
    “Why don’t we take it back to Ghanet’s right now?”
    “No way,” they said in unison.
    “Then I don’t want it.”
    “Then we’re fightin’,” said Johnson.
    “I’ll take it, but only