Every Man a Menace by Patrick Hoffman

connection was finally coming. In two days, they’d meet him at a restaurant in a small industrial city to the east: Chachoengsao.
    “Burmese,” Moisey said. “These motherfuckers don’t play.”
    They took a taxi all the way and paid the driver to wait. The restaurant was a dirty open-air place, with chickens roasting on a spit and flies buzzing. It seemed impossible that anything of value could be found there, and for a moment Semion was sure they’d been set up. He was cursing Moisey in his head when a waitress pointed them toward a handsome man sitting alone at a table.
    The first thing Semion noticed was that his hair was cut perfectly. He was in his forties, Semion guessed, and wore a light sweater over a collared shirt. The man looked rich. He smiled, stood, and shook hands with each of them.
    “Nana,” he said, nodding. “My name is Mr. Eugene Nana.”
    Semion had half expected to be met by a group of men, to be searched, maybe even blindfolded, and brought to another location. It was nothing like that. They made small talk in English for a while, noted the weather, ordered food—Nana swore that despite the place’s atmosphere the restaurant had the best soup in the region—and generally enjoyed a quiet afternoon. When Isaak asked Nana if he was Burmese, the man winced, shook his head, and told them, “We are in Thailand. I am Thai. ” After tapping on the table as if he were transmitting a message in Morse code, he said, “No, sorry. You will never meet the Burmese.”
    Finally, he asked them what they were looking for. When Semion told him they were in the market for ecstasy, he looked disappointed.
    “Not crystal meth?” he asked.
    Semion shook his head. He noticed Nana glance at Moisey, noticed Moisey shrug. They’ve been talking, thought Semion. Maybe Moisey led him on.
    Nana sat silent and blinking for a long moment. Then he said, “The price today is eight thousand American dollars for a kilo of crystalized MDMA. Good stuff—one hundred percent pure. Tell me,” he said, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at his nose, “how much would you gentlemen be hoping for?”
    Semion did the math in his head. They’d been paying nearly twice that price in Belgium. A kilo was more than two pounds, and they could sell a pound in the US for ten to fifteen thousand dollars. His face become warm.
    “We would be looking for …”
    He had to force himself not to stammer as he mentally doubled then tripled the amount he’d been planning on asking for.
    “We’d be looking for something around sixty pounds. Something like thirty kilos a month.”
    “Not more?” asked Nana.
    Semion glanced at Isaak. His partner nodded his head eagerly.
    “No,” Semion said. “That’s it. Perhaps, if it’s too small, you’re not the group for us.”
    “No, no, we can do it, no problem,” Nana said. “Don’t worry. You get settled, make a lot of money, then you can decide if you need more. More money, more paradise, more vacation, more beautiful women. Everything in life will be perfect.”
    “Sure,” said Semion, feeling proud of the way he’d handled the conversation.
    “Why not take time now?” Nana said. “Take a few days, think.”
    “We need to figure a new shipping route,” Semion said.
    Nana shook his head. Not my business. “When you are ready, have your friend contact me.” He pointed at Moisey. “He knows how to get in touch. We have a man in Miami, as well. He’s called Mr. Hong. Very safe man, trustworthy. The best kind of man.” He tapped his chest. “He willcommunicate with you there. He will accept all payment. He will tell you when order is ready. You pay him in cash. He will be the only one for you to talk to. As for us, gentlemen, we will never communicate again, unless you come back to Thailand, and we eat more soup.” He pointed at Moisey again. “Also, once everything is underway, I advise you to cease communications with him. You need complete—what is English word?