XXV. Dave’s Mom Shops for Assistance
In a previous episode, Erszébet suggested that the Lithuanian mob could scare away the gun runners who are taking advantage of Dave “the Dude” Devoran, free‑market ambassador. What follows is Episode XXV.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
The brightly‑lit little store on a Budapest side street sells Russian hair dryers and Romanian soap. That’s all. One wall is covered with hanging racks holding one style of big, clunky blow driers, available in black or white. Another wall consists of shelves of gray soap in individual bars, ridiculous cellophane gift packages and economy boxes. When Erszébet and I walk in, the bell above the door rouses the Lithuanian clerk napping on a tall stool.
I have been to other places that were fronts for illegal activities and were far less obvious than this one.
Erszébet whispers a name and we are led through a curtain, past bored women playing cards in the hall and into a luxuriously panelled office with black velvet paintings of jungle scenes. A thin, middle‑aged Lithuanian with greased black hair and a pencil mustache sits behind a heavy wooden desk.
We’re here because we want his mob to steal the gun‑runners’ cache in David Devoran’s apartment. David is my son, with whom I’ve just been re‑united after 20 years. He is an idiot. He is being harassed by weapon smugglers and we hope the Lithuanian mob will scare them away. Then I might have a chance to set David straight before disappearing for at least another 20 years.
When the man stands to greet us, I see his gray‑and‑purple striped suit with ridiculously wide lapels. I fight the urge to gag. Erszébet knows the man, but she is just a girl. I’ll have to handle negotiations.
“We can put many good weapons in your hands, and we ask only discretion and $5,000,” I tell him in English, our mutual language. “Are you capable of dressing — I mean — acting discreetly?”
As the man nods once, Erszébet turns toward me with a drooping mouth. I realize I never mentioned asking for money — but why work for free?
“And one more thing,” I say sternly. “I hate this war in former Yugoslavia. You must promise that none of the weapons end up there.”
He clears his throat and speaks calmly: “Madam, we are a moral organization. We seldom deal in weapons, and when we do, we only sell to nationalist Lithuanian paramilitary groups.”
“They sound deserving.”
“Yes we are moral,” he repeats as a smile bends his thin, snake‑like lips. “In fact, we would rather be legitimate. We would rather run a chain of hair dryer and soap stores, but the idea hasn’t taken off like we’d hoped. I can’t understand why we never have customers for these obviously necessary items.”
We give him details and he hands over half the cash up‑front. He also gives me two gift‑packs of soap and suggests I show them to friends.
“I thank you for your honesty and I know we will both benefit from our cooperation,” I say. Then I look down at the hideous packages, which I will throw away, and add: “Don’t quit your night job.”