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53 Kensitas, Army Club and Tony Soprano

His suitcase yielded only the names Keane or Kean.

In his pockets: Kensitas cigarettes in an Army Club pack.

Under his chin: a partly smoked cigarette.


How does it play?

The agent was taken soon after arriving, a suitcase removed from his possession, rifled with great sincerity then placed with the luggage office.

Later, in a more secure place, his pockets were emptied and everything in them pulled apart, unglued, seperated, slit and examined.

Codes, microdots, film. The secret messages, the secret industry.

Later, in The Death Of Night, the agent was removed from his dying place and carried to his resting place. He was a smoker, so one was placed under his chin.


They took his matches and cigarettes; the packs that carried them and they distilled everything into their component parts. Stripped them, unpicked them, unglued edges and separated labels, slit and emptied every container. Shook them out.

He was a smoker, and the means and ends of his habit lay in disarray on a table like litter under a beachside bench.

Enter Tony Soprano.

‘The guy’s a smoker, right? Look at his fingers.’

They looked. They nodded.

‘So what’s he smoking?’ says big Tony, looking at the table, ‘no way this mess is going back into his pockets.’

Tony looks at his number two.

‘What are you smoking?’


Tony looks at his number three.


A shake of his head.

‘Well, fuck, that leaves me.’

Soprano took an Army Club pack out of his pocket, emptied it of cigarettes and handed it to his number two.

‘Stick a few of yours in there.’

‘Why not yours?’

‘Because I’m the Boss. Ok?’

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