Storm Donovan was from an old family that had first come to America to live in the Rensselaerswyck. He could count Abraham Van Salee as one of his ancestors and his whole family tree was essentially a who's who of the elite of North America.

Albert was nothing of the sort. He had come from a farming town in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada. His mother had been a hippie who had tried to bring her commune into the town. When the commune had to face the reality of the U.S. society and broke up, his mother had not lost her liking for free love and found it the perfect way to supplement her income. Albert had never known which of the hundred or so men in the town had been his father. They moved around the country like gypsies and had “settled” in New York State when Albert was 6, 11 and 15.

Albert did not speak until he finished his meal, so Donovan entertained himself by casually flirting with the olive beauty in the swing dress. She really was a rare sight. He smiled as he recalled something from a British comedy about a nudity buffer. How it took time to figure out how a woman looked naked, especially trying to figure out her nipple type. It was something that kept him entertained though. Certainly more entertaining than watching Albert belch over his steak.

It took Albert a quarter of an hour to make the steak disappear and by that time, Donovan had drawn out his cigar case and his lighter. He only just finished his own food, but he knew already that he wanted a cigar. “You want one too?” he asked Albert the moment he sat back and rubbed his hands over his belly.

“Nah, I'm laying off them.”

“Why?”

“Wife and me are trying to get pregnant. Seems they are bad for sperm production.”

“Fuck that.” Donovan picked up the cigars and his lighter and got up. “By the way, your wife is trying to get pregnant, or you're trying to get her pregnant. Though looking at that gut of yours, she might have knocked you up already.”

“Fuck you.”

Donovan grinned and walked out onto the small balcony which was the only place they were now allowed to smoke.

The balcony was empty, but at least there were some comfortable seats. He cursed the smoking ban in New York. People had seemed to stop smoking altogether now. Maybe some smoked good cigars at home, but in public there was nothing of the sort any more.

He mused on it as he pulled out one of his Cohibas and smelled it. They were the proper Cohibas, from the plantations and factories founded by Fidel Castro, not the US/Dominican fakes. Not that those were bad cigars, but they simply were not the same thing.

With a sigh, he cut the cigar and flicked open his lighter. The large flame burned bright blue and he put it to the cigar's end. He sucked on it and rolled it around once or twice, making sure it was lit properly and then, clicking his lighter closed again, he sank back into the chair, puffing out a large cloud of smoke.

There was a noise behind him coming from the stairs and he looked up. He half expected to see Albert appear there, having changed his mind about his offer of a cigar, but instead it was the olive-toned woman. She brandished a slim cigarillo and smiled at him. “Got a light for me?”

Donovan frowned. There were not many women in NYC these days who smoked, let alone women who smoked high quality tobacco. “Sure,” he said and flicked open his lighter again. “It's a rare thing.”

The woman lit the cigarillo and puffed out a large cloud of smoke, then sat down on the edge of the seat next to Donovan. She crossed her legs and leaned her elbow on her knee, holding her smoke aloft. Donovan smelled the smoke and thought for a moment. “Sweet Java tobacco?”

The woman nodded, a smile on her face. “Dutch stuff, Mehari Sweet Orient. There are a few stores around here who sell them, but I mainly rely on friends to bring them over from Europe.”

Donovan smiled brightly and leaned forward, taking care not to breathe the smoke straight into the woman's face. That would be rude. But she smelled the smoke and her face lit up even more. “Cohiba?” she placed her hand on his knee and looked seriously at him. “You do know Cuban cigars are illegal, right?”

Donovan nodded, equally serious. “Quite illegal, but I won't tell the cops about your smuggled Dutch cigarillos if you don't tell them about my Cubans.” He broke out in a smile again then. The woman also laughed and she extended her hand to Donovan. “Naomh Walsh,” she introduced herself.

“Storm Donovan.” Donovan took her hand, turned it and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles, much to Ms. Walsh's delight. “Pleased to meet you.” He wanted to withdraw his hand, but she held on to it and looked into his eyes. Her eyes were twinkling. Her fingers stroked the palm of his hand.

She sucked another cloud of smoke out of the thin cigarillo and then lay it down in the ashtray. She uncrossed her legs, careful not to have a Sharon Stone moment, and stood up. Donovan was momentarily at a loss of what to do or say. His face was inches from her crotch and his hand was still in hers, very close to her hip. He saw her toned legs, the shapely thighs and the calves that were accentuated by her high heels, but he dared not look down or up too obviously. Then she stepped away.

Naomh Walsh walked to the stairs again and then looked back at him, offering him a flirty wink and a wave of her hand. Sure Donovan was looking as she went down the stairs; she gave a tiny wiggle of her pert behind as well.

Donovan was reeling. He was used to his expensive gifts to women being wasted, and he had resigned himself to the fact that this woman was spoken for, but obviously she had decided she was not spoken for after all. He looked at the ashtray and smiled even brighter. She had not stubbed the cigarillo out. Many cigar lovers, including Donovan himself, considered that a grave sin. A sin she had not committed. He also noticed now there was no filter. So she was less concerned about the health effects than about the taste.

He sank back in the chair, cigar in hand, as he thought about that. He could completely fall for a woman like that, he mused. Then he saw a bit of white poking from beneath the ashtray and he sat up again to grab it. It was a business card. “Naomh Walsh, O'Hourihane & Walsh PR” it said on the front, together with a logo. On the back there were two phone numbers and an address. “Call me,” she had written next to one of the numbers in a loopy handwriting, using a thin pencil.

Half an hour later, there was only a few fingers of his cigar left and the smoke that he drew into his mouth was becoming hot. He laid down the cigar and walked back down to the table where he had left Albert. As he sat down he looked over at the table where Naomh Walsh and her friends were seated. The bottles of wine were empty and as he watched them the waiter brought another bottle.

“They're well-oiled by now,” Albert said.

“Eh?”

“Getting quite drunk; probably the right time for some bastard to put on a move.”

“Probably.”

“So?” Albert frowned at him. “Either entertain me by making a move on one of them or pay the bill and let me get home.”

“But you'll have a look for those files for me right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Wouldn't want the elite streets of DUMBO to be running with your blue blood, now would I?”

Chapter Two

The taxi dropped Donovan at the gate of his loft apartment in the DUMBO. He paid the driver using his Smartphone and suddenly wondered if he should start paying people in cash again. Who knows who could access his phone? If someone was out to get him, they could be trying to get onto his phone. He shook his head and decided he was just being paranoid.

He unlocked the gate with his phone as well. He pulled up the key program that would generate a random QR code that could be read by the scanner at his gate. An old college friend had developed the system, and Donovan was glad for it. The same program was used for the apartment itself, but it meant that nobody could ever open the gate or his doors unless he had sent them the app to open them.