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, organizations, businesses, 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, as I’ve mentioned before, I don’t use any of the large-language platforms to do the writing or editing. I mess that up on my own. At the same time, Perplexity, Google and Wikipedia are very valuable research resources, and I use them often.)

NEIL WAS STROKING his smooth face, and I wondered if he would ever speak. After all, it was quite the performance that Vasil put on, and I wondered if the show would pause for air, or another sip of the nectar of the Greek gods. I wouldn’t say Vasil was personable in telling his story, but he had come alive and had spoken with expression. He seemed much at ease, and didn’t seem intent on intimidating us for once. I pointed playfully at Vasil to my right as I looked to my left to give Griselda a knowing nod and a thumbs up. She had an angelic look on her face, as if she’d just been with the gods and perhaps sipping ouzo with them at the Acropolis. Maybe it was the ouzo that brought a warm glow to her face, or maybe it was the twilight, or maybe it was my own longing draped in drink. She seemed to radiate beauty. I noticed again the fullness of her lips, especially the upper one as it lounged above her white and perfect teeth. I was adrift in her allure when Neil cleared his throat, sipped a wee drop of ouzo, and then looked at Barbara as if she would take his hand and whisper a bright idea in his ear. He began:

Well, sir; I kinda hope I don’t get this right because that licorice drink is going down good! Especially with the treats the young man has brought to us. And you know, I’m a cowboy from the Wyoming prairie and not very worldly. But I do like these other cultures. I didn’t know the Bulgarians and the Turks had any bad history, but you speak of a long-ago time, so it’s probably all been ironed out by now. I hope so at least, so we can move ahead with our journey. But to your story. That Neanderthal part is a bit suspicious, but on the other hand, I read somewhere that most of the people in the world have a trace of Neanderthal in their DNA, so I suppose that’s true.

It is, said Vasil.

Now something that you said we should not question probably is what they call a red herring. You set us up with that remark, so I don’t think you are telling us the truth when you say you are a descendant of one of Bulgaria’s most important historical leaders. You know, we have a lot of people in America named George or Thomas, after two of our famous founders. So, you might be a Vasil, but I do not think you are a direct descendant of this famous man.

Ah, my friend. You are about to enjoy another shot of ouzo, for I tell you the truth. He in fact was my great-grandfather, and I told you not to question it. You were fairly warned. Drink up!

Neil grinned from ear to ear as Ataturk poured his glass full of ouzo. He drank it down, exhaled a hearty aaah! and smiled broadly.

And what else, Mr. Neil?

You know, if this Vasil Ivanov the Lion was a rebel as you say, he probably did start a newspaper of some variety, but on the other hand, you don’t seem too fond of newspapermen. I think you made that up, too.

Wrong again, my friend. My great-grandfather founded a newspaper that extolled the values of the rebellion he led. It is not newspapers in general that I disrespect, but the newspapers that write about tommyrot -- murders in bars for example. There are important things to write about.

He looked squarely at me.

But, but …

I started to say, because I thought I should defend the prize we won for exposing the terror of gangs that ruled the Bronx. Griselda thought otherwise; she touched my arm and nodded toward Neil.

Bring me the ouzo, Neil said. But my friend, what in your story was a lie?

Yes, you are correct; there was one lie and it is this. My great-grandfather was not executed by firing squad. He was hanged.

I’m not sure about drinking to that, Neil said. Out in Wyoming, that practice ended long ago, unless a Democrat comes to town. That can be different.

And Neil laughed in a manner I presumed to be ouzo inspired and had another swig. He said saloon-a! as did Vasil, who evidently just wanted to be a good sport as Griselda had been, and the party resumed.

(To Be Continued…)

Posted January 21, 2025