Working Title: “Slow Boat, Bitter End”

A Rony Boston Mystery

(This is a work of fiction, which means the author makes up stuff and tries to make it sound like it might actually have happened. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is incidental. And, is it protesting too much to remind my readers that I use Perplexity, Wikipedia, and Google to research stuff but not to ask for artificially intelligent assistance in writing? I mess that up on my own.)

ALL RIGHT. HERE’S MY STORY. I was a reporter on the cop beat in New York. I once followed the cops to a murder in the Bronx. A woman was decapitated in a bar. I got all the details then called in to rewrite.

I told the editor I had a grisly murder, a decapitation in a Bronx bar. Great! the editor said. What kind of bar? Please tell me it was a topless! It was, I said. He seemed so excited. The next day the headline over my story was HEADLESS BODY FOUND IN TOPLESS BAR. All right, Vasil; your turn. What’s true and what isn’t? Remember, at least two of the three statements must be true.

The grim Bulgarian stared straight ahead unsmiling. He said without meeting my eye,

It’s all rubbish.

But two things must be true.

All rubbish, he insisted. Reporters are all rubbish.

Now hold on, sir, said Geoffrey. This is a simple game. There’s no place for a personal slur like that. Let’s all have another drink of ouzo and hear our friend out. Vasil grinned and drank his ouzo.

Fair enough, I said. I was a reporter for a respectable New York newspaper, not a tabloid. I covered a murder. It was not a decapitation. It was a series of hits between rival gangs. We went on to uncover the truth about the gangs. The leader was sent to prison. We won a Pulitzer Prize. And I had nothing to do with that headline, but it was a real headline in a New York tabloid. It’s your turn, Vasil.

No one knew what to expect of him. He was a curiosity to me, and I’m sure his presence unnerved others at times. Still, he had been somehow reassuring the day before when Gungor seemed to take a menacing turn, albeit briefly. There was the encounter at the capstan, but it didn’t seem significant. In any event, I had dismissed him as a taciturn man, perhaps unsure of his English, or perhaps simply possessing an Eastern European demeanor, avoiding small talk, and eschewing smiles and charisma. But why the antagonism toward newspapers and reporters? And why make it personal? He didn’t know me at all. Maybe his attack could be attributed to cultural differences. America, after all, was founded on the idea of a free press and freedom to speak against the government without fear of retaliation. Was Vasil tied to the government of Bulgaria?

I was expecting something short and sweet, rivaling Griselda’s surprising vignette. I hadn’t accounted for the effect the ouzo might be having, but neither would I have expected Vasil, this rugged, gruff-looking fellow, to succumb easily to it. The Merry Maidens, Judith and Abra, were getting quite lighthearted, giggling and elbowing each other, making aside remarks and enjoying the game.

Come on, Vasil. Let’s have a good story, Judith said.

Go for it, Vasil, added Abra.

They laughed and sipped the ouzo.

Can’t wait for another ouzo, Neil said.

Now you see why I didn’t get very far in my mission work, said Ruthie with a hearty laugh.

Geoffrey said, Take your time. I still don’t know what I’m going to say.

Vasil was about to start when the young man, the one they nicknamed Ataturk, showed up with another bottle of ouzo and a wonderful selection of appetizers called Meze. The white cheese was delicious, and I welcomed it because I was beginning to feel the ouzo. Dolma again, which I savored, and calamari, and some kind of hot pepper dish. The Turks know how to eat, the Greeks how to drink, and this American, for one, adapts as needed. I threw back my head and regarded the gray evening sky, which seemed fitting for the day. I smiled at Griselda, and she smiled back, and I began to think I might have a chance.

Vasil began.

I will tell you a story. The year was 1873, the year my great-grandfather died. I am proud to tell you that I am named after him. Vasil Ivanov Kunchev, also called the Lion. He is considered one of the greatest men ever in the history of Bulgaria. This is a fact, and you should not question this fact. My great-grandfather did not like the conditions in his country. Ottoman rule was not respectful of our rich Bulgarian background. Here is a second fact you should not question: I am part Neanderthal. My DNA is traceable to that prehistoric race. My great-grandfather was tough and determined, maybe because of this heritage. He organized committees of rebels to resist the Turks in my country and across the Danube to the south of Romania. He had very modern ideas of inclusiveness and equal rights – way ahead of his time and more like the French than the Turks. It was his mission in life to liberate his people from Ottoman rule. He even founded a newspaper. Are you surprised Mister Newspaperman? Well, the Turks hunted him down. When they finally found him, they put him in front of the firing squad and killed him dead.

All right now. That is my story. I will call on my friend from Wyoming because I’m sure he will think none of this is true, and he likes this ouzo. Americans know nothing of Bulgaria. Are you ready Mr. Neil? Tell me what you think is true and what is not.