[Cigar Mike]

Tommy, the delivery guy, walked in and dropped a box from the cigar shop up the street. He spat a dirty toothpick on the floor and rasped out a grunt of a hello in a voice as greasy as that signature wife-beater he wore every day.

"Dey sey to tells ya this is the last box on credit. You gotta come clean on you bill or they aint gunna let you have no more."

Yeah, times are tough, and customers are as rare right now as that custom Kimber .45 that I let get away. She was a 'beaut, the lass that took her from me, but nothing was as gorgeous as that match-grade piece of lethal artwork that'd saved my bacon more times than I can ever admit. The night that skirt stole my piece was the darkest night of my life, at least, it was, until I found out she ran off with my dog, too.

Yeah, I admit that dog was no good for business...not much use in this trade for a bloodhound that gets lost chasing his own tail, but that gun was important, just about as much as the contents of that box sitting on the desk. This is serious work I do here, lives and fortunes rely on the brainpower of this private dick, and that takes a serious stick - cigar, that is - to get the job done.

Yeah, it's gotta be something I can smoke every day, but less jobs rolling in these days means I'm hanging on to money tighter than that dirty shirt's squeezing Tommy's healthy beer gut. This is something my trade relys on, whether it's to help me think my way out of hole I've dug myself into, or the smoke's just there to cover up the gallon of cheap purfume that rich old bat splashed on before she tried to hire me to find her missing cat again. Plus, the dames seem to dig a guy with a cigar, and my dear old dad always had some suggestions I won't repeat here about what to do with a girl that likes a good cigar from time to time. It's vital to keep that beat-up old humidor stocked all the time in this business.

"Here, Tommy, have a seat." I reach out to the box and pull out a Romeo y Julietta Reserve Maduro and hand it to him. These are cheap enough for me to keep around and hand out to anyone that needs to have a sit-down in my shop, but no so cheap I don't loose any dignity every time I light one up. There's a bottle of the finest rot-gut the corner store stocks in a plastic bottle and I fill up a mostly clean coffee cup and hand that to Tommy, too.

By the time Tommy and his trademark mustard stain are ready to leave he's been appeased by the cigar gods and I know he's not going to give me too much trouble next time I need another box. I chase him out of the office finally to get some serious work done on that bottle and light up my cigar. Just when I thought I was getting the winning hand on that particular situation, she walks in....