XXVII. Little Brother's Easy Job
Dave “the Dude” Devoran, free‑market ambassador, is having a hard time finding the end of the rainbow along the banks of the Duna. In a previous episode, the Hungarian Mom Dave never knew he had asked mobsters to steal weapons from his Budapest apartment to foil a pushy group of gun runners. What follows is Episode XXVII.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
Keep your hand on your wallet when you speak with me, because I’m a master thief: I can take a kilo of tomatoes from the fruit‑and‑vegetable woman when she weighs an apple; I can remove the tire from a taxi while the driver naps inside; I can lift a policeman’s gun as he is checking my passport. I have been stealing since I was a child. It’s an art my father taught me, before he was shot to death by a greedy partner — I was 10 at the time, and I had to feed my family by stealing. Now I’m a man; I’m 17 years old. And I’m the best thief in Budapest.
They call me Öcsi — little brother. Everyone who matters in this town knows my name and reputation, which is why the Lithuanian mob has asked me, a Hungarian, to help them with this important job.
We park the truck in a quiet spot and Juozas, the boss of the Lithuanian crew, leads us to a private apartment. As I’m reaching for my lock‑picking tool, the crazy Lithuanian knocks on the door. A woman who looks like someone’s well‑dressed grandmother invites us in.
“Ah good. You’re here for the guns,” she says. “Don’t worry there’s no one else home. Would you like some brandy?”
Guns? Is this an armed robbery? That type of work is for violent amateurs. That’s what got my father killed. What have these crazy Lithuanians got me into? I pull Juozas aside and whisper: “What’s the job tonight? What exactly are we taking and how are we taking it?”
“You’re taking the guns,” grandma interrupts. She waves her hand toward several stacks of wooden crates in the kitchen. “But here, have some brandy first.”
I sit down on a box of rifles, tilt my head back and let out a laugh that I’m sure intimidates the others. “Is grandma in your gang?” I ask. “Why do you call me for this shit? We’re just carrying boxes. I’m a thief, not a porter.”
“You must be Öcsi,” says grandma, handing me a glass of brandy. “I’ve heard of you. You did that jewelery store on Váci utca a couple of months ago, didn’t you? That was very clever.”
How did she hear about that?
“How did you hear about that?” I ask, grabbing her arm.
“Oh, everyone who matters in this town knows your name and reputation. Relax, you’re among friends,” she says. She pulls her arm from my grip and puts a finger under my chin. “I like you Öcsi. You have a bright future. There’s a nice girl I want you to meet. But first, business. I believe you gentlemen have money for me?”