The Half Guinea and Hunched Cornish are seated in the basement section of Beef Burgers and Beer, in a corner furthest from the stairs.
“That guy’s got his penis pointed at me,” says The Guinea.
The Cornish holds his menu close and upright. He’d like a firm round patty of charcoal-fired beef dripping from a supple, toasted bun.
“And his bitch is pleading for a smack in the face… just asking for a stiff mitt across that smarmy smile.”
And red onions for sure, not fried but fresh, even cold. No lettuce, much less tomatoes… Perhaps a pickle or two would be nice.
“That pasty-faced pig farmer in a mangy Christmas sweater and shapeless jeans, hah! Look at that hat hair… I want to cut off his head.”
Then some dessert, dark, chocolate and preferably warm if not hot, but no ice cream, can’t stand the stuff. Milk makes men impotent, thinks The Cornish, who is almost smiling, if you could see over his menu.
The Guinea rises from his seat, his face lit an angry orange, his eyes – coal-pit shadows across the wrinkled Earth’s features dimly drawn in the half-dark. His hands so large, the fingers look like little people, mean little people looking for a fight, to poke themselves into eyes, clutch a pale throat or just bend together like a team of bullies into a massive, impassive fist.
The Guinea ambles pigeon-toed over to the group of festive Ukrainians, their small black tables squared into a whole, extending each toast, delaying the passage of food.
He smiles stupidly before them, or so it seems from behind. And only slowly does the group acknowledge the middle-aged Mediterranean.
His hand reaches into the back pocket of his green corduroy trousers and pulls out a Spanish red handkerchief with the sound of a wind-blown tent.
The Ukrainians swoon and smile. Their faces gleam beneath the basement lights. The Guinea is smiling too, or so it seems from behind.
The scarlet red tapestry now whirls and twists like a flaming dragon, slowing to the crawl of a glittering snake, before drooping, breathless and flat from The Guinea’s forefinger and thumb.
Their faces melt then suspire.
The Guinea lowers his head, raises the Spanish red cloth to reveal a large Moorish sword, wide and square at one end like a meat cleaver.
Every face is abeam, each mouth agape. The maestro turns mother, the matador to monk, The Guinea alights his forgiving palm on the young man’s crown, stroking the head ever more firmly, soundlessly forcing it to the table and into a sloppy plate of mashed potatoes and meat, extending the sword wildly overhead to the highest point that an arm allows, then a brief grimace of religious fervor before the blade swishes into its victim’s neck, halting in a plaintive thump from the table.
Women scream, men crash back to the floor from the table. The Hunched Cornish lowers his menu, furling his brow into a mound of forehead flesh.
…
The next day, Kyiv-based detective John Smith sits straight-backed in shirtsleeves at the breakfast table skimming through the morning papers. Fay has left him to stay with her mother. American English teacher Steve Kowalski keeps Smith company, although he’s really more concerned with establishing the day’s most accurate online horoscope prediction.
“Doll House Café wrecked in savage brawl. Elderly American ‘good-for-nothing’ sought for questioning,” Smith barks into the wilted folds of A3-sized pages, then licks his forefinger before following the lead into the paper’s City Section.
“Ferret flees crime scene. Cage offers no clues,” he continues. “Welsh Losser, PR executive… intimate companion to the F … last known whereabouts, Fairview, New Jersey … witnesses report dust-up with giant clown.”
Smith scowls indignantly, then promptly finds his way to the paper’s so-called Business Section.
“Jim Book takes helm at the Poster: CEO Cocoa seeks fortune across the pond.”
He extracts his Fedora-clad head from the tent of thin pages and print that has formed on its own for his personal reading pleasure, shoots a serious glance at the ceiling, then starts rifling through a pile of old Kyiv Posters that the wife had been saving for the painting of the pantry.
“Kate Mustard wins Miss Liberty contest in Tulsa … Gothic Girl accepted for internship at Chattanooga Times … Boner touts paper’s success amid record losses…”
“There it is: Book turns new page in Kyiv: Jim Book (pictured below in half-unbuttoned and casually wrinkled shirt) has accepted the position of CEO at Kyiv’s window to the world. Book, a career newsman, has been to Russia, China, South Africa and Greenland, where he covered groundbreaking stories in real time from the thick of the action…”
Kowalski lays into the keyboard of his laptop like a professional typist and then swings the thing around so that the screen is facing Smith.
Dozens of snapshots instantly fill the screen, including several of Book with at least two different-colored heads of hair. There’s even one of Cocoa in an evening dress beside Moe Zaire dressed like James Bond with not a hint of a wrinkle on his plaster-perfect pumpkin head.
Boner alone, featured in the same shot, looks his years and then some.
‘He’s gone from zero to sixty since his “Hollywood good looks” days under Boss Lard,’ thinks Smith.
‘It’s like some kind of conspiracy!’ Smith’s eyes seem to say, growing wide as he gropes for the now tepid cup of coffee on the table below.
“Mercury is retrograde for the entire month, so don’t trust any electronics,” quips Kowalski, again buried behind the screen of his laptop. “Mars transits your sixth house of somebody else’s secret, opening new insights into old problems.”
“Sweaty’s Place to remain closed for foreseeable future,” responds Smith from beneath a freshly erected tent of thin print.
“Spanish Night at Burgers and Beer … Matador meatloaf special ‘til midnight.”
Filed by 42M filling in for 39S, who says he’s sick, January 21, 2016