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Authors: Amy Patricia Meade
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she quickly plastered on a gracious smile. âThank you, Lieutenant. See what I mean? Absentminded.â
Riordan folded his arms across his chest and grinned as Rosie Keefe swung through the wooden ladiesâ-room door. âUh-huh.â
Chapter Six
After a few minutes had elapsed, Riordan watched as Rose Doyle Keefe exited the ladiesâ room and, with an icy âGood-bye,â made her leave of Pushey Shipyard and stepped onto the cobblestone path beyond. The heavy metal doors creaked slowly shut behind her, blocking out the brilliant spring sunshine and leaving the stark, artificial light of the holding area to create a surreal and foreboding chiaroscuro landscape.
Riordan extracted a pack of Lucky Strikes and a book of matches from his inside jacket pocket. Placing one of the cigarettes between his lips, he fumbled with, and subsequently extinguished, two different matches before managing to get the tip of the slender white cylinder to glow red.
Flicking the third extinguished match onto the concrete floor of the holding area, Riordan took a long drag and wondered if he shouldnât give up smoking altogether. There was a time, just a few short months ago, when he had found the habit most enjoyable. There was, of course, still pleasure to be derived from the tobacco itself: the aroma, the flavor, the slight burn of that initial swirl of smoke as it reached the back of his throat. However, the ritual that led to that memorable puffâopening a stainless steel case to reveal an array of artfully arranged cigarettes, selecting one, and then igniting it with a shiny naphtha lighterâhad been abandoned. One of the first casualties of the war.
Urged by the United States government to conserve and salvage strategic materials for use by the military, Riordan had surrendered both his cigarette case (a gift from his former fiancée) and lighter (a gift for fifteen years of police service) at a scrap metal drive in early March. Like other dutiful Americans, Riordan did not begrudge the sacrifice; indeed, he was sorry that, at age forty-three, he was considered too old to fight. Still, doing what he could for the cause didnât mean that part of him didnât mourn the loss of what was such a simple, daily pleasure.
And so, just a few days after the scrap drive, he set about devising a new ritual. Inspired by a George Raft film, the newly lighter-free Riordan tried his hand at striking a match against the heel of his shoe and then using it to ignite his cigarette. After several failed attempts, he discovered that the trick didnât work with the pocket-friendly safety matches found in diners and restaurants, but instead required old-fashioned wooden friction matches. Known as âLucifersâ by the local kids, friction matches earned their name from the fact that they exploded violently and often unexpectedly, which made them particularly dangerous when carried in oneâs coat pocket, and even more hazardous when carried in the pocket of someone also toting a firearm.
However, even if Riordan was willing to risk both hands and digits, the match-and-shoe trick was impractical for city living. Whereas George Raft had as much camera time as needed to stop, reach down, and light his cigarette, Riordan often found himself being hurried along a busy city street. Stopping to balance himself on one foot, if even for a second, would impede the flow of foot traffic and would result in him being knocked over by the passing crowd.
And so, having relinquished the idea of establishing a new smoking ritual, the lieutenant reluctantly accepted that the world around him was rapidly transforming from one with little money and lots of time, to one where every minute and every dime was spent on making war. It was a world where practicality came before tradition and style, a world of matches, not lighters. A world where a gentleman presented a lady, not with an open cigarette case, but an open pack of Lucky
Riordan folded his arms across his chest and grinned as Rosie Keefe swung through the wooden ladiesâ-room door. âUh-huh.â
Chapter Six
After a few minutes had elapsed, Riordan watched as Rose Doyle Keefe exited the ladiesâ room and, with an icy âGood-bye,â made her leave of Pushey Shipyard and stepped onto the cobblestone path beyond. The heavy metal doors creaked slowly shut behind her, blocking out the brilliant spring sunshine and leaving the stark, artificial light of the holding area to create a surreal and foreboding chiaroscuro landscape.
Riordan extracted a pack of Lucky Strikes and a book of matches from his inside jacket pocket. Placing one of the cigarettes between his lips, he fumbled with, and subsequently extinguished, two different matches before managing to get the tip of the slender white cylinder to glow red.
Flicking the third extinguished match onto the concrete floor of the holding area, Riordan took a long drag and wondered if he shouldnât give up smoking altogether. There was a time, just a few short months ago, when he had found the habit most enjoyable. There was, of course, still pleasure to be derived from the tobacco itself: the aroma, the flavor, the slight burn of that initial swirl of smoke as it reached the back of his throat. However, the ritual that led to that memorable puffâopening a stainless steel case to reveal an array of artfully arranged cigarettes, selecting one, and then igniting it with a shiny naphtha lighterâhad been abandoned. One of the first casualties of the war.
Urged by the United States government to conserve and salvage strategic materials for use by the military, Riordan had surrendered both his cigarette case (a gift from his former fiancée) and lighter (a gift for fifteen years of police service) at a scrap metal drive in early March. Like other dutiful Americans, Riordan did not begrudge the sacrifice; indeed, he was sorry that, at age forty-three, he was considered too old to fight. Still, doing what he could for the cause didnât mean that part of him didnât mourn the loss of what was such a simple, daily pleasure.
And so, just a few days after the scrap drive, he set about devising a new ritual. Inspired by a George Raft film, the newly lighter-free Riordan tried his hand at striking a match against the heel of his shoe and then using it to ignite his cigarette. After several failed attempts, he discovered that the trick didnât work with the pocket-friendly safety matches found in diners and restaurants, but instead required old-fashioned wooden friction matches. Known as âLucifersâ by the local kids, friction matches earned their name from the fact that they exploded violently and often unexpectedly, which made them particularly dangerous when carried in oneâs coat pocket, and even more hazardous when carried in the pocket of someone also toting a firearm.
However, even if Riordan was willing to risk both hands and digits, the match-and-shoe trick was impractical for city living. Whereas George Raft had as much camera time as needed to stop, reach down, and light his cigarette, Riordan often found himself being hurried along a busy city street. Stopping to balance himself on one foot, if even for a second, would impede the flow of foot traffic and would result in him being knocked over by the passing crowd.
And so, having relinquished the idea of establishing a new smoking ritual, the lieutenant reluctantly accepted that the world around him was rapidly transforming from one with little money and lots of time, to one where every minute and every dime was spent on making war. It was a world where practicality came before tradition and style, a world of matches, not lighters. A world where a gentleman presented a lady, not with an open cigarette case, but an open pack of Lucky
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