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Chapter
One (cont.)
"Pretty
cozy," Bazok said, with no apparent sarcasm,
peering about with interest. Suddenly, he thrust
out his hand. "Hey, the name is Boz."
He pronounced it "Bozh." "Back
in the states, they call me `Badger.' But over
here, it's Bozi Bazok."
"Badger?" Franko said. "Is that
what that animal is?" He gestured toward
the ferocious, snarling beast on the patch that
decorated Bazok's baseball cap.
"Yah," Bazok said, proudly. "But
I got the name from this." He lifted his
cap to reveal thick black hair that was cut in
a stiff brush. In the center of the brush was
a tuft of white hair. "I had that since I
was a kid," he said, "so in Georgia,
they called me Badger. Mark of the beast, my old
lady used to say. It fits." He grinned, displaying
a lot of white teeth.
He pointed at the loft to which a ladder led.
"What's up there?"
"Storage," Franko said. He leaned against
the counter. "Go ahead, look."
Bazok climbed the ladder until his head was above
the level of the loft floor. There were boxes,
a suitcase, an old televi-sion set. "What's
in the boxes?" he called over his shoulder.
"Junk, it was here before."
Bazok climbed down. "How long you been holed
up here?" "Six months, maybe more."
"You don't watch the tube?"
"They don't carry the ballgames," Franko
said, sourly. "I'm not interested in propaganda."
Lately, the Serbian televi-sion stations had been
spewing anti-Muslim "news" broadcasts
and special programs extolling the regime.
"Nice radio," Bazok said, nodding at
the fancy Telefunken broadband radio sitting on
the kitchen table. Franko didn't respond. "So,
where do you keep the shit?"
"What shit would that be?"
"The dope."
"I don't have any dope," Franko said.
He was sure that Dedorica would not have suggested
to the young cop that narcotics were readily available
here. But maybe the cop was just asking a cop
question. "When were you in Butte?"
"A couple years ago," Bazok said. "Just
kickin' around the country. Ah'm from Atlanta,
originally." He aped a southern accent.
"Really? You speak pretty good Serb,"
Franko observed.
"Actually, I was born in Yugoslavia,"
Bazok said. "I think. I got adopted by an
American lady. Grew up in Atlanta. But I got tired
of it and hit the road when I got old enough.
You grow up in Montana? That's nice country. I
liked it. It's a little like this, the mountains
and all."
"I wouldn't exactly say that," Franko
said. "This is more like West Virginia, Appalachia,
don't you think?"
Bazok nodded. "Yeah, I can see it. Well,
listen, we gotta talk."
"What about? I'm happy to meet a fellow Yank,
even one from Atlanta, but I've got to be cool.
These folks don't exactly dig Serb cops, you know."
"Hey, I'm cool, dude. I'm not gonna blow
your cover, Frankie. The deal is, I know the bros,
in Belgrade. Ziv and them. They said to look you
up."
"Zivkovic?" Franko was suprised. "How
do you know these people?" He thought it
was interesting that they hadn't told Bazok that
he was an American. It suggested that they hadn't
been totally open with Bazok, for whatever reason,
but he didn't bring that up.
"I met 'em in the States," Bazok said.
"That's how I got to this fuckin' shithole
country. I'm part of their posse. Then I got into
this vigilante gig." He gestured at his outfit.
"It was Vjel-ko's idea. It's a good scam."
He laughed. "I'm kind of diggin' it. But
it's a long story."
"I'd like to hear all about it," Franko
said. He was sin-cere. "But not here, not
right now. Maybe I could meet you in town, in
Tsamet. At a beer garden, maybe. Or, I know, I
could come by the station. We could talk."
"Yeah, that's okay," Bazok said. "But
the news is there's some heavy shit going down.
You wanta get your show ready for the road. In
a couple of days you don't wanta be here."
Franko was stunned. "What kind of operation?
When?"
"I'm not sure, but it'll be heavy, is the
word," Bazok said. "The Army will be
along pretty quick, in a day or two, maybe sooner.
I got the feeling, though, that they'll have me
and some other outfits like mine do the dirty,
at first anyway. Ziv found out about it, he called
me." He tapped his breast pocket, evidently
where he kept his cell phone. "You got one
of these? What's your number? All right, I'll
give you a buzz."
"I've got to know how soon," Franko
said. He looked out the kitchen window toward
the barn, the lane, the orchard. No one seemed
to be about, but he felt uneasy in the house with
the thug. The big question was how much Zivkovic
had told this guy. "I've got shipments, things
scheduled. I can't just pick up and run."
"It's gonna get jungly," Bazok said.
He sounded excited. He came over to where Franko
was and stood too close -- his breath was foul.
"They'll be putting up road blocks pretty
soon. Your shipments won't be coming in or going
out. You gotta think like you might have to just
walk, leave everything. I'll try to get up here
first, make sure there's nothin' too suspicious
layin' around. Prob'ly have to torch the house.
See what I mean?"
This was serious. Franko thought of Fedima. He'd
have to get her out. That wouldn't be easy. He
had to think. Maybe he could get Daliljaj to go,
too. That would probably be best. Get up into
the hills, to the KLA, maybe. Daliljaj would have
contacts, they could get over into Montenegro,
maybe, or down to the coast. Maybe get out through
Armenia.
"I can't just walk away," Franko said.
"There are people due in here, valuable goods
to consider."
"I gotcha," Bazok said. "But like
I say, I doubt that your people will be gettin'
through. When the shit starts it'll come down
like a storm out a the hills. You don't want to
be thinkin' about your business. C'mon, let's
get out a here."
Outside, the cop took a deep breath of the mountain
air. He looked around. "That your car?"
He nodded at a beat-up Subaru Outback. "I
thought you'd have something with some jump to
it, you're makin' a ton here. A Cherokee, maybe
even a fuckin' Humvee."
"It runs," Franko said. "That's
what passes for a good vehicle in these parts."
"Ah," Bazok said, nodding, enlightened.
"You don't want to make too big a scene out
here in the sticks. But you got to be thinkin'
about haulin' your shit down to the barracks,
tonight."
"Tonight!" Franko didn't like the sound
of that. Deliver close to a couple hundred thousand
dollars worth of raw opiates to this doofus in
his barracks? Not likely.
"It's happenin'," Bazok said. His face
was big and grinning like a jack-o-lantern. He
was not an ugly guy, if he could think to keep
that menacing grin off his face -- the teeth mirrored
the badger image on his patch.
"What about my people?" Franko said.
"What people? I told you ... oh, you mean
these balijas? What the fuck do you care? Whoa,
I get it. You're shaggin' the ginch. I seen her,
not a bad little piece of ass. What's her name,
Fatima, or something?"
Furious, Franko stepped toward the grinning oaf,
fists clinched. Sudden-ly the cop's boot shot
out and caught Franko-'s right leg on the side
of his knee, causing it to buckle. The cop caught
him by the hair, burying his powerful fingers
in it, while his other hand wrenched Franko's
right arm around behind his back.
"You fuckin' dog," Bazok growled loudly
in Serb. "I ought to kick your fuckin' ass
and haul you down to the station." He bore
Franko to the ground, face down with his knee
on his back. He knelt to rasp in his ear, "How
can you fuck something like that? I'll bet she's
as hairy as a coon." He stood up but held
Franko down, pinned with a heavy boot. "You
get your ass down to the station this p.m., shithead.
Don't make me come back up here lookin' for your
sorry ass. And you," he snarled at Daliljaj,
who had come around the side of the barn, "did
you move that fuckin' tractor? All right."
He kicked Franko playfully in the butt, then strode
off, taking a lazy swipe at Daliljaj, who ducked.
He laughed and walked out to the road and got
into his police jeep and drove off.
Daliljaj rushed to help Franko up. "Are you
all right?" he asked anxiously.
"I'm okay," Franko said, standing up
and brushing himself off. "Filthy bastard.
He didn't hurt me."
"What did he want?"
"Just throwing his weight around, I guess,"
Franko said. "But listen, my friend, I must
go down to Tsamet. It'll be all right. Dedorica
won't allow any thing serious. But I'm con-cerned
about you, and your family. This man's behavior
concerns me -- something unpleasant must be happening."
"You don't worry about us," Daliljaj
said. "You mustn't say anything to Dedorica."
He looked fierce. "We can take care of ourselves.
We have friends." He looked toward the forested
mountains about them. "These pigs, they will
pay."
The old man was not really very old, late middle-age.
He was short but stocky, a powerful man. He knew
that Franko was dealing contraband, but he wasn't
sure what it was. It didn't pay to inquire too
closely. He also suspected that Fedima was attracted
to the man, but he didn't believe that it had
gone very far. He could not allow that, although
he liked the Ameri-can. Franko was not a Believer.
It would not do. But the patri-arch understood
women: they had no control over their passions.
A man had to govern them. The American was a good
man, as foreigners go, but had no morals, of course,
that was certain. It was up to Daliljaj to see
that nothing foolish went on. A little flirta-tion,
that was nothing.
Sometimes, though, he had thought, maybe Fedima
should marry this Ameri-can, go to his country.
Things were getting bad here. He and his people
would survive, they would rise up, take Kosovo.
He was a Believer, but he was a practical man,
after all. If the American wanted the girl and
took her with him when he went -- and he was sure
that Franko would go, he had always known that
-- then perhaps that would be all right, even
though the man was not a Believer. At least he
wasn't a Serb -- he might have the name of a Serb,
but he was not a Serb. She would be safer with
the American when things got really bad. A woman
in Kosovo, a Muslim woman, was always in danger
from the Chetniks. But the American could not
have her here. That would not be right. It would
make Daliljaj look bad, although the American
was well liked.
"I have a bad feeling," Franko said.
"This Serb, he is too bold. If he can behave
like this, it means that something evil is coming."
"Oh yes, the evil is coming," Daliljaj
said. "But you need not fear for us, my friend.
We will be all right. Besides, the bashi-basok
is not a Serb. Couldn't you tell? He's a Frank,
or maybe a German, I think." He was being
polite, distinguishing the policeman from his
tenant.
"Bashi-basok? You mean like a Turk? A terrorist?"
"No, no," the old man laughed. "That's
what they call him and his men, but it is a bad
joke, I think. The Chetniks will use him and his
friends like dogs, to hunt the Kosovars. But they
will be the first to die."
Franko was depressed by this bravura rhetoric.
The farmers were fierce men, bold men, but they
were farmers. He had seen what kind of weapons
they had, old rifles from World War II, a crazy
confidence in knives. Against AK-47s, rocket launchers,
heavy machine guns, they had no chance.
He spent the afternoon relocating his goods, especially
the cash. There were some secure places to stash
things back beyond the home pasture, in the woods,
among the caves in the rocks. He got togeth-er
a practical kit of passport, money and a handgun.
It was a plausible kit, one that the foolish cop
would approve. Then he drove into town.
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