21st Century Bogatyr: The Coffee Didn't Help

“What on earth could be more luxurious than a sofa, a book, and a cup of coffee?” Anthony Trollope

The first cup is for the guest, the second for enjoyment, the third for the sword.” Arabic Saying

[This is a fictional work in progress. Links to the rest of this tale are at the bottom of the page.]

by Zvi Baranoff

The first thing I did was retrieve the pistol from Spider. I didn't like the way he was looking at it and handling it. Now, to be perfectly clear, I trusted Spider on every possible level explicitly and have no reservations when I say as much.

The thing is, that as much as I trusted him, I also knew his nature. When he has time on his hands, his inclination is to dismantle and re-engineer stuff.

For now, there was nothing for him particularly to do but hang about. I really didn't want him taking my gun apart when I might need it fully assembled and in ready operational condition without much of a warning. If he was going to fiddle with shit he could dismantle the No Tell Motel air conditioner or the plumbing or go mess with the vending machines or something…

Meanwhile, Frank was scurrying about, calculating and plotting, taking notes and measuring things. He was prying crates open with a small crow bar and sizing up the merchandise. He was muttering to himself, mostly in Italian, with an occasional expletive in some half-dozen other tongues. I was very glad that I had called him in on this job and I was very pleased to see him already at work.

I rubbed my eyes some more and I conjured up some coffee. The aroma of the coffee woke Bob. Frank gave the merchandise a rest and took a coffee break as well.

I was nearing the end of that stash that I had gotten from Maria so I wasn't really excited about sharing it, knowing that shortly I would be drinking that same shit as most everyone else once again. I attempted to suppress any outward signs of resentment I had over the dwindling supply. Spider had wandered off to find something to dismantle or re-engineer and he sure as hell didn't need any coffee.

As we sat there drinking Java, Frank gave me his analysis of the situation.

"We will need to move this load to a safer location and then break it up. It is way too much for your Alter Kockers to handle and even with Haj's help it is more than Philly can absorb."

I smiled at Frank's use of Yiddish and nodded in agreement.

"We can turn some of this in New York and maybe up in the Boston area but...maybe San Francisco would be more profitable. I think I have a stash place nearby that we can use," he continued. "I will know soon. We should wait till dark to make our move."

As we were finishing our coffee, the cottage door opened and in walked the evident head of Frank's security crew. There was no uniform or obvious sign of rank but there was the assertiveness in the walk, the absolute certainty of purpose and the directness in presence.

The boots were black and shiny, tightly laced. Camouflage pants were tucked into the boots. A colorful cotton shirt of a traditional African pattern was neatly tucked into the pants, mostly covered by a flak jacket.

"All tight, Boss. All secure." she said, speaking to Frank.

My initial guess, which turned out to be accurate, was an accent from somewhere in Central Africa. The way her hair was braided and the patterns of tattoos and intentional decorative scars also spoke of Central Africa. On her left cheek, in a pattern of scarring and the placements of small precious stones and perhaps diamonds within the scars, there was a clear image of a rifle, very similar to the Kalashnikova rifle that was casually slung over her right shoulder.

Frank nodded. He then turned to me and said "This is Zuhrah, head of security."

Zuhrah spoke with the same directness and sense of power and purpose as the way she walked. There was a bit of a lilt and a touch of a French influence to the almost staccato African Pidgin that she predominantly spoke.

Our Security Commander referred to Frank as "Boss" or "Captain" and occasionally as "My Captaine," with the accent on the second syllable. Once she recognized my role in the scheme of things, she called me "Big Boss'' and "Comandante," interchangeably.

She was all business. At that moment, her only intention was to report in and to find out what other responsibilities might be handed to her so she was pivoting to leave when her eye caught sight of my essentially empty coffee cup.

She stopped and picked it up. She moved it first clockwise and then counterclockwise before looking intensely at the grounds at the bottom. Her demeanor changed. She squinted and then shook her head.

She looked me in the eye and said, "Comandante, you got big trouble. Much vex. Dings very bad. No worry. I dere for you. My crew, dey kill or die for you. We do what we can and maybe no so bad. Maybe. I no no." She shook her head again.

Frank exhaled audibly, inhaled deeply and exhaled again. At last he said, "Maybe you should go meet the troops. In case the shit hits the fan, it might be good for them to know who the Boss is. They will certainly be less likely to shoot you by mistake that way."

That was all far from reassuring but it certainly rang true. Zuhrah nodded in affirmation. I nodded as well, and then shook my head at the world as I stood up there in that shithole No Tell Motel bungalow.