Page 26 of Beehive

Thomas snorted. “You’d better know a lot, considering you’re about to give us more.”

“It’s May. These are clearlynotChristmas presents.” Arty reached inside his mystery box and handed a small package to Thomas. Whatever was inside had been neatly wrapped in brown packing paper and tied with a leather strap.

“For anot-Christmas present, this sure is wrapped up all nice and pretty,” Thomas said.

If Arty rolled his eyes any harder, they would’ve popped out of their sockets.

I glanced up to find Manakin grinning and Loon glaring, making me wonder if the woman even knew how to smile.

“Go on. Open it,” Arty nudged.

Will fiddled with the leather before ripping into the paper like a boy tearing into the paper securing his first bike. His enthusiasm had me smiling as he tossed the wadded paper aside and peered at a plastic-wrapped cigarette box. He held the box to his ear and shook it, then tossed it on the table and turned to Arty.

“We don’t smoke, but thanks . . . I think.”

Arty rolled his eyes again. “Are you always so obtuse?”

“If he knew what obtuse meant, he might be able to answer that. He’s more obtuse than an isosceles triangle after it got rung for dinner,” I said.

Arty cocked his head. “That wouldn’t necessarily make an isosceles triangle ob—”

“It was a joke, Arty.” Thomas leaned toward Arty’s ear and muttered as though sharing some national secret. “Just nod and laugh or he’ll tell more, and they’ll get worse. Trust me.”

Arty’s brows scrunched, then smoothed.

I was fairly certain he still didn’t get it.

Thomas picked up the cigarette box and examined it more closely. “All right, I’ll bite. What is this? A non-obtuse person would assume this isn’t a simple box of smokes.”

Arty hesitated, probably still hung up on the joke he’d missed, then focused on Thomas. “That non-obtuse man would be correct. What you hold in your hand is the smallest camera ever made by the US government.”

I leaned across, suddenly intrigued. “Is it the box? Or is itinthe box? What does it look like?”

“If you hold on for a minute, I’ll show you.” Arty shoved me back into my seat with one arm while his hand disappeared into his box again. He held up a duplicate of the cigarette box Thomas held, only his didn’t have any plastic wrapping. Heflipped the lid open and pointed the inside toward me. Eight butts of eight cigarettes stared back.

“That’s anticlimactic,” I said.

Curls played at the corners of Arty’s mouth. He reached into the box and raised one cigarette.

“Have a light?” he asked as he held it out toward me.

Before I could respond, a faintclicksounded, and Arty shoved the cigarette back into the container.

“Was that—?” I could barely find words.

“One picture captured on film. Yes.” Arty nodded once, punctuating the point. “There are eight cigarettes. Two are actual tobacco, while the other six are one-shot cameras. That doesn’t give you much film to work with, but it could be handy in a tight space. To snap the picture, you just squeeze the filter.”

Arty pulled a ciggy-cam he’d just used out and handed it to me, filter end first. “Feel the filter. Find the mechanism.”

I did, then handed it across Arty to Thomas. He played with it long enough for me to lose interest, so I turned back toward Arty. “That’s a big box. What else did you bring me, Santa?”

“Again, still Jewish. Santa is a fantasy of your—”

“Materialistic Christian culture. Got it, Mister I-live-in-a-house-owned-by-rich-people-for-generations-and-spin-a-gold-plated-dreidel.”

“My dreidel isn’t gold plated!” he protested.

Thomas set the ciggy-cam down and shoved Arty with his shoulder. “It may as well be. Have you seen your parents’ house? Hell, it’s not a house. It’s an estate.”