Where There's Smoke by Mel McKinney

sweet little chambermaid
who didn’t know any better. Two days before the first break-in, she showed him the room that a week ago was full of cigars and now doesn’t have a one. And I’ve got a sighting of some goons speeding out of town after the second break-in.
    â€œNow that’s a hell of a lot of criminal activity going on in my backyard. Your sayin’ it didn’t happen doesn’t change the fact that it did.”
    Hiram began patting his pockets in search of a Muniemaker.
    â€œI respect the Family’s need for privacy during this time; but, son, there’s a crime been committed up here. Hell, two or three crimes, maybe more. Who knows what it means? Sooner or later the big boys, the feds and all, are going to come snooping around wonderin’—like I’m doin’—how it all ties in with Dallas. I’m not about to tell ‘em nothin’ happened when it’s plain as Mary Jane that somethin’ did. Know what I mean?”
    Hiram heard a sigh.
    â€œConstable, I don’t quite know how to put this, but try and follow. All right?
    â€œI am positive, repeat, positive, that there will be no, ah, higher official inquiry into the, ah, alleged intrusion at the family estate. Frankly, the Family is not particularly sure of the circumstances surrounding how and when Mr. Kennedy came by some of his cigars. As far as the government and the Family are concerned, this is a—a dead issue. I implore you to treat it in the same fashion.”
    Hiram had never been “implored” before. Whatever it was, he didn’t think he liked it.
    â€œSon, there was nothing ‘alleged’ about those torn-up
doors. And someone just implored the shit out of that big brass lock with a hacksaw. I call that burglary and theft. ‘Cording to sweet young Felicia, she helped you and some movie star carry thirty or forty boxes of cigars into that wine room back in July. Not a sign of ’em there now. You tellin’ me your ex-boss smoked ’em all? Don’t think so. Nope, I just don’t think so.”
    Hiram located a Muniemaker and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, anticipating an end to the conversation and the beginning of the smoke he was going to enjoy driving out to the Gem o’ the Sea.
    â€œI suppose,” he continued, “that you’re cleanin’ out your desk to make room for whoever LBJ plans to put there. So tomorrow—if not already—you’re history. But me, I’m going to be right here doin’ my job, and I plan to keep doin’ it till the voters of this county find someone who can do it better, which isn’t very likely.”
    Hiram shot a look at Luther in the outer office, his face buried in a model airplane magazine.
    â€œI’ve got an investigation to finish, and that’s just what I intend to do. Be seein’ you. Maybe.” Hiram hung up and slipped on his jacket.
    Â 
    â€œNow, Nestor,” Hiram began slowly. “You called me , remember? I could stand here and tell you things that have been going on in the village, which ain’t been much, or you could just get to the point. Maybe then, we could have a smoke and play a few hands of gin rummy. I’ll make the time this morning. What do you say?”
    Hiram extracted a package of Swisher Sweets from his jacket pocket and laid them on the counter. Time to get
down and dirty , he thought, relying on Nestor Pinwood’s two greatest passions as persuasion.
    He left two hours later, his breath heavy with the syrup of the Swishers and his pocket $1.90 lighter. But Nestor had shown him the inside of the third cottage. Now he had a plan.
    As he pulled onto the roadway, Hiram Thorpe considered whether he would put the $1.90 on his expense report.

NINETEEN
    AT SIXTY-ONE, PAULO Enriquez had settled into a resigned depression that his days would end in Miami and he would never see Cuba again. The combined corruption of