21st Century Bogatyr: The Book Trade Hasn't Killed Me Yet

"So often, a visit to a bookshop has cheered me, and reminded me that there are good things in the world."

Vincent van Gogh

by Zvi Baranoff

Bo's crew of Pineys were sheltering us. They were taking on a growing functional role in distribution of our contraband. They were also earning a growing percentage from our score. It was a mixed blessing, so to speak.

The whole book trade is tied up with gangsters and outlaws. For a bunch of criminals, these guys were treating us okay. I guess, as far as criminals go, I am not such a bad guy either.

That said, I really do miss the old days. I have a hard time even imagining what type of future there is for this sort of thing. Somehow, though, I keep at it and it hasn't killed me yet. Knock wood.

The Pineys continued to brew, pour and guzzle that corn whiskey. All along, there was a near continuous industrial pace of packing and organizing going on with the rhythm and efficiency of any professional warehouse. No one was bleary-eyed or stumbling about. No one besides myself, that is. I was blotto.

I couldn't keep up drinking that stuff without reaching a breaking point. Truthfully, I was already beyond the breaking point. I had become detached from linear time.

I felt as if I was drowning in a waterfall of cascading memories and not all of the memories even being my own. That sort of thing cannot go on for long.

So, I downed my last swallow of White Lighting and promised myself that I was done with drinking for now. After a day, my head throbbed something awful and my hands shook. The sight, smell or thought of food made me nauseous.

I sent Bob and Spider home in a car with a trunk loaded with books. I took my weakened and sickly self to bed. I slept in a state of discomfort for days, floating in and out of consciousness, sweating and sickly.

I had never been kicked in the head like this before. It was very good that I could trust Frank. He was in total control of the overall operation while I was checked out. He had my back. Others in that position might have taken a monumental level of advantage.

By the time that my head had stopped spinning, my stomach had stopped churning, my eyesight had mostly cleared and I was somewhat caught up on my sleep, most of what we needed to accomplish in that Jersey hideout had been done.

An amazing array of smuggling vehicles - boats, trucks, donkey carts, etc. - were loaded and dispersed.

The books were piggybacking on the Piney tobacco trade. They have a sophisticated and professional network. The vast pile that we showed up with was nearly dissipated.

We tied up our loose ends and headed back to Philly.

I drove that car out of the woods and back to the paved highway and then I let the car take care of itself. I was greatly relieved to set the thing on autopilot and let the computer do the driving. Frank sat in the passenger seat and politely pretended to ignore the condition I was in. I was still weakened and feeling unwell, unloved and out of sorts.

My personal pick of books culled from the haul were stashed in a hidden compartment, out of sight and hopefully beyond the capacity of any snooping security probes.

In almost no time, the car parked itself in an underground lot near the Great Mosque in West Philly. We proceeded on foot to rendezvous with Haj at his place. I wanted to collect my money so I could begin to wind my way home.

Thick clouds hung over us. There was light mist, like the angels peeing, when we left the garage. As we worked our way through the streets the rain became more persistent. The rain had turned steady by the time we knocked on the door.

The door was opened for us and we were allowed in just as a bolt of lightning lit up the street and a nearly simultaneous boom made the emphatic point that we had arrived, as if by plan, in perfect timing.

Haj's sweet daughter greeted us with a broad bright smile and gracefully guided us to her father's studio. She seemed to have grown since we had been there last. At that age, I suppose, children grow in spurts. She skipped down the hallway. Her shoeless brown feet barely touched the floor. We followed along behind her.

When we reached Haj's book-filled study, the elfin-like child performed one of her classic pirouettes and skedaddled back down the hallway.

Just as we were about finished with the formality of hand-shaking and greetings, the impish one returned with a samovar and sweet pastries. Haj smiled broadly with unabashed pride in his offspring.

The little girl stuffed a a piece of baklava into her mouth and winked at me as she started out of the room. Her father gently tugged on her ear and then whispered to her. The young one nodded in affirmation and once again started towards the hallway. "Wear a raincoat!" Haj said to her while she was in the doorway. Then, he added, a little louder, "And, wear boots!"

"Okay, Papa!" came her reply from somewhere down the hall.

When the little girl returned fifteen minutes later, she was "wearing" a bright yellow rain slicker as a cape, with the jacket's arms tied around her neck. She was "wearing" a pair of bright red puddle-jumper boots - one on each hand.

Water was dripping from every curly hair of her cute little head. Her small brown feet were caked in mud. With each step she took, she left a footprint on the floor.

After shaking herself off, she meticulously hung the raincoat on a peg by the door and neatly placed the red rubber boots on the floor under the slicker. Then, she proudly handed her father the neatly wrapped package containing a half kilo of Black Afghani Hash that she had fetched from the corner store before climbing into his lap and snuggling under his arm.

Haj gave his daughter a loving squeeze. "This one," he said, "is special. She will eventually be running my business for me and I will be able to retire. She is as bright as a star and as sharp as a tack. One day, inshallah, this operation will all be hers."

"Kinehora!" I said.

The moppet turned her head up to look at Haj. "Papa," she said with complete sincerity, "I am going to be a ballerina."

Haj smiled as he filled his hookah.