Badger Games Read Free Page A

English, he said, “What’s the big deal?”
    Bazok broke into a genuine grin. “All right,” he said, in good American. He grabbed Franko’s right hand with his own and clapped him on the shoulder. “They didn’t tell me you were from the States. Where you from, dude?”
    Franko managed a faint smile but wrenched his hand free and stepped back from Bazok’s near embrace. Without glancing around he gauged whether there were any Kosovars anywhere near. He didn’t think so; none of Daliljaj’s sons or cousins would be in the compound at this time, and he was pretty sure that Fedima had gone to the house. Still, it wouldn’t do to appear too chummy with this clown.
    â€œI’m from out West,” Franko said. “Butte.”
    â€œNo shit,” Bazok said. “I been there. I rode a freight through Butte once. Burlington Northern, eh? Friendly people in Butte, they don’t hassle you. So what’re ya doin’ here, hangin’ out with these hankyheads? You don’t look like no Taliban—you ain’t a fuckin’ terrorist, are you?” He laughed and prodded Franko’s stomach playfully.
    Franko frowned. “You must have heard about me, from Captain Dedorica,” he said.
    â€œOh, sure,” Bazok nodded. “You’re the friendly neighborhood dope peddler. That’s why I stopped by.”
    Franko suppressed a sigh of depression. So that was it. This oaf wanted to be cut in on Dedorica’s “business tax.” He considered it. He supposed he had no choice. If Dedorica had seen fit to inform this guy, then it probably meant amending the agreement. The question was how much, and whether this meant that Dedorica now got correspondingly less for not keeping his mouth shut. But…. He had a second thought: who was this guy, really? Why an American? Something was amiss.
    He nodded at the door, a slight motion. “If you insist,” he said in Serb. As he’d hoped, the cop caught on. He pushed Franko forward, his huge hand on his back. Even if no one seemed to be around, there were always eyes. Franko was more comfortable with an appearance of being coerced. He could not afford any suspicion from the Kosovars.
    Like any such house of its type and vintage, Franko’s croft was not well lit. There were few windows, and the electrical wiring was a single exposed conduit. It ran an old battered refrigerator, and there was an outlet from which extension cords served a radio, a reading light by the so-called easy chair, and another reading lamp clamped to the bed frame. A single light bulb dangled from the center of the ceiling.
    The interior was essentially one room, perhaps four paces wide and twice as many long. The kitchen area took up one end, with a sink and a counter for preparing food. A narrow window looked out onto the path that led around the granary toward the main house. There was no running water, no drain system, and certainly no toilet. A bucket stood on the rough wooden floor near the sink. Another bucket under the sink caught the waste. Around an old, scarred wooden table covered with an oilcloth stood some mismatched wooden chairs.
    At the other end of the room stood the metal frame bed with a single mattress, some rumpled blankets. In between was a ratty old overstuffed chair with a table next to it, on which were stacked a few books—a Serbian dictionary, a mystery novel with a black cover and a French title. A reading lamp stood nearby. It had a battered paper shade. Clothes were scattered on the floor, more hung from a rod affixed in a corner.
    â€œPretty 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.”
    â€œBadger?” Franko said. “Is that what