Akhmed and the Atomic Matzo Balls. Gary Buslik
for memorization, reclaimed the scraps, counted all three to make sure none were missing, basted them with a smidge of sofrito sauce, and then, for obvious reasons, swallowed them.
“Business?” Akhmed reminded them, squeezing his crumpled napkin like a tension ball. “Lovey? Thurston?”
“The Yanquis misuse their pigs,” Lovey declared, swishing Havana Club rum around his cheeks, gargling, and, not sure what to do next, turning to Thurston.
“Swallow,” said the Venezuelan.
The Cuban complied. He wiped a trickle from his beard with the back of his hand. “They feed them massive amounts of grain that could feed the starving children of the world. Look at us: our pigs are thin and hungry—good socialist pigs.”
Thurston belched percussively.
“Our plan?” said Akhmed—Little Buddy—squeezing his napkin harder.
“Fine, thank you,” answered the Cuban.
“The Americans are cruel to their animals,” Thurston pointed out. “They fry their chickens without making them fight and kill each other first.” He raised his finger. “Undignified.”
“Our chickens we choke,” Lovey added proudly.
The waitress came with another tray of food.
Akhmed asked if it was safe to talk with her nearby.
“Cecilia is one of us,” the Cuban president declared. He reached over to pinch her buttock, but she scooted out of range, so he pinched his own buttock instead. “A loyal socialist. Her mother is head of her local CDR, and the parador is fully licensed.Yes so, Cecilia?”
“Yes, Maximum Leader, all paperwork up to date. We accept only Yanqui dollars and give change only in Cuban pesos.”
“You see,” he told his guests, “she is completely trustworthy. Her own grandfather was among the forces defending our nation against the imperialists at the Bay of Pigs, for which I awarded him a…” He searched his memory.
“Medal?” Akhmed suggested.
“No, a goat. That’s it, I awarded him a goat. For a moment I couldn’t recall which farm animals we were working with in those days, until I remembered that we have never given out anything other than goats and chickens, and in those glorious days we actually still had goats, so by deduction, I realized there was a better than fifty-fifty chance we awarded his bravery with a goat. Quite maximum of me, no?”
“A goat is worth far more than a medal,” the Venezuelan president said, picking his teeth with a fingernail. “Only the Americans give useless medals.”
“You can’t eat a medal!” Akhmed agreed.
“More drinks, Cecilia,” Lovey called through the doorway.
“She’s a looker,” said the Venezuelan, sucking his teeth. “I wonder if she screams out manifesto in the throes of passion.”
“I might have been married to her mother,” the Cuban leader replied. “I don’t quite recall, but I’m sure it’s written down somewhere. I’ll ask my brother.”
Growing impatient with the nonsensical ramblings of these Hispanic nincompoops, Akhmed sought once again to get the conversation on track. “So, our plan is almost one hundred percent operational, is it not?” he asked his co-conspirators.
“They have just now poured the foundation,” Lovey answered, nodding over the roof’s railing at a construction site next door. He waved his cigar to the security guard, who was sitting in front of the fresh cement to make sure no children came to deface it with seditious slogans like RESCUE US FROM THIS MARXIST HELL. “The concrete is still wet, if you would like to engrave your initials. Especially you”—he momentarily forgot the Venezuelan’s code name—“since it is your donation with which we are building this magnificent new Museum of the Revolution.”
“I’m not talking about those plans,” Akhmed sniped. “I’m talking about the reason I came. You know…killing the Great Satan, bringing the imperialist dogs to their knees, destroying capitalism and Western-style democracy. Draining that Zionist swamp.”
“Israel must be destroyed,” the South American dictator agreed.
“No, you imbeciles. Not Israel!” Akhmed shouted, stomping his foot. “Miami Beach! Doesn’t anyone listen to me? Is it because I’m short? Good things come in small packages. My own mother told me that before I had her beaten to death! Look at Napoleon! Hitler was no circus giant, I assure you. I know on good authority that he wore lifts in his boots and a contraption in his cap that gave his head an extra couple of inches. What’s wrong with you people? We can’t destroy Israel. We need Israel!” He turned to Thurston with a torching glare. “Who do you think caters our stonings?! It’s Miami we don’t need! Miami Beach! Remember our plan? My plan!”
“Mellow out, my tiny friend,” the Venezuelan suggested.
“I don’t want to mellow out! I want to destroy America! I’m not tiny! In my country, I’m average, maybe even a little taller than average! What do you want from me?! How come you nicknamed me ‘Little Buddy’ unless you think I’m short?”
“Would you rather be ‘Ginger’?” suggested El Max. “That would be all right with me.”
“Me too,” agreed the Venezuelan. “Ginger it is.”
“No!” Akhmed blared. “Not Ginger! What’s wrong with you people?! Do I look even vaguely like Ginger?”
“How about ‘Minnow,’ then?”
Akhmed cut the Cuban a withering stare.
“Minnow would be good,” agreed the Venezuelan.
“Okay, okay, I’ll be Little Buddy.”
“Whichever you prefer.”
“Either or.”
Cecilia brought a fresh round.
“Too much caffeine in his soda, perhaps,” the Cuban suggested to his fellow Latin American tyrant. Not recalling what the ashtray in front of him was for, he extinguished his cigar on his knee, sipped his new rum and, with a sigh, said, “All right, my dear…Little Buddy?…let’s talk about the plan.”
“My plan!”
“All right, your plan.”
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” Akhmed said. “Look, you’re the one who wants to obliterate those expatriate Cubans before you die.”
“My legacy,” Lovey agreed. “Personally, I have nothing against Jews, though. I like them, if you want to know.”
“Well, I don’t want to know, all right? I want to kill them without adversely affecting our catering needs, and you want to kill Miami Cubans, and Thurston wants to shut down the oil refinery operations off the Florida coast. Win-win-win. Do we have a plan, or don’t we?”
“Eat more beans,” the Cuban president said. “Don’t you like our beans?”
“I like your beans fine! Where are we with our plan?!”
Thurston farted—a long bass note. “You try it,” he told the Iranian leader.
“I don’t want to fart. I want to destroy the Great Satan.”
“Don’t be ashamed,” Lovey said. “It’s a compliment to our beans.”
The Venezuelan president leaned over to his Cuban comrade and, ruffling his own shirt, whispered, “Does this make me look fat?”
Akhmed sighed. “All right, all right. Tell me where we are with our plan, and I promise to fart.”
The Latinos’ glances locked. They weren’t sure they could trust the little cockroach. “You go first,”