The Joker walked into the Cafe and spotted the night manager.  The guy told him that a Mr. BlueEye was mangaging things and keep everyone in check.  Joker looked at him and said one word.

Yeah? 

The manager said that Spicy has him managing things Big Moe gave the nod.  Joker smiled and handed the man his keys, and told him no need to be redunent.  Then the manager looked at him and asked what are you going to do.  Joker laughed and said what he was born to do.   The manger looked at the keys in his hand and put them in the lock box.  

JamesDiVasio and I had an appointment to hook up with Big Moe at the café.  Big Moe called me and asked if I could come a little early and meet with him first. I knew Big Moe was tired.  He had lost Spicy, Joker, Jimmy Silver, and now Diamonte.

It was fucking hot in Detroit. I couldn’t wait to get to Moe’s office and order a nice cold Cholados Colombiano.  I sat in his office and by the time he was ready to talk to me I was on my second one.

Moe started off by saying how much he liked and trusted James. No one had ever grown on him as fast as he did. Already he was hard-working and sincere. Moe knew Harper didn’t want to get into distribution but she knew the ropes in Colombia.  She had been there several times, knew the narrow roads to Moe’s plantation, how to handle the guerrillas, and the right people were smitten by this beautiful American woman in the coffee business.

Harper told him of course she could and that she believed Moe was making the right choice by trusting James.

I sat down with Big Moe and told him I wanted to be completely honest with him.  I know about the business and how it operates.  I have traveled to Colombia several times and have a rapport with the business partners.  The shipments from Colombia are well organized mainly because the women in the family have control, are trusted by the Colombian authorities, and keep the most important people on the payroll.  Not only are we importing the product but have a very lucrative coffee import business. I told him I would continue to handle that part of the operation but have no desire to deal with distribution here in the States. 

I told him something in my gut tells me JamesDiVasio is a good man.  We were all trained by SA and taught the same values. I feel he will be loyal and badass enough to handle the business.   Joker was also a good man but had several men in his crew that I didn’t trust.  The only person I trusted was Whispers and Doc.  Now that Joker is gone James needs to get his people in line. 

Big Moe has kept the business functioning and under the radar for almost 20 years and made millions. The FEDs had suspicions but never had enough evidence to request a search warrant.  Everything is still solid he needs someone to come in and keep it that way.

zDiamonDz had been wondering the streets of Detroit hoping to find something to pick her energy up as she had a very long night and seemed that it looked like it was going to be an even longer day. She soon came upon a nice looking establishment called "Cafe Colombian Detroit" so she made her way in and read through what was on offer. Once she settled on what she wanted she went up to the counter to order.

"Ohhhhh May I Please Get A Don Pablo Colombian Supremo

And I Will Also Get A Ham And Cheese Croissant And A Chicken Salad Sandwich" she asked politely and with a small smile.

handing over the cash she paid for the items and went to go find a seat to sit in and relax and take a breather.

Wally walked into the coffee shop needing a pickmeup.  working for Porkchop was fucking slavery.  Wally was exhausted.  

"I'll take one of everyhting.  I'm gassed."

The barista looked at the shaggy thug.

"Maybe you should consider taking it up to the second floor for what they have there.  It may pick you up a little more than what I can do for you down here."

After just running from a local Post Office after holding it up, Hirostev stumbles upon a wonderful aroma of coffee. He notices a sign that says "Fresh Columbian Coffee Brewed Here" and walks up to the cafe. The notes of various coffees dance around his nose with espresso machines whirring in the background. A cheerful cashier greets Hirostev.

"Hello and welcome in," the cashier says.

"I'd like a cup of just black coffee, no cream," Hirostev says.

The cashier brings up a cup of hot coffee and Hirostev drops down the cost plus extra.

"Thank you and have a great day," the cashier says as Hirostev walks off, sipping his coffee.

BeefStroganoffer had just done a deal. A BIG deal to his great boss, PorkChop. Beef had finally sold a load of 36 kilos of cocaine to some corrupt fed just outside of the 12th Street Bathrooms. What a shitty place, but it worked out in the end. Beef had been sitting on those kilos for a few hours only, but it felt like days, weeks even. He had arranged to do a pickup soon for some barbiturates with his good friend tomofgimpland. It was suppose to be a quick drop by some little fat kid at some coffee place in Cork.

As Beef looked around, he couldn't find the fat kid delivering the goods, or his associate, TomOfGimpland. It was unfortunate since time was money. Tom was probably off bullying Elkmik or perhaps moving pictures of men on a piece of paper to simulate himself managing a strange soccer team. Beef wasn't exactly sure of what was going on, or where anyone was, but he began to get a little paranoid that he kept seeing the same few people outside. Was this a setup? He wasn't going to find out. He quickly walked his way out and towards the 12th Street Toilets. As he gets there, who does he see? TomOfGimpland defecating outside of the bathrooms. Nothing surprised Beef anymore.

It had been a few weeks since Hirostev had come for the first time to Cafe Columbian Detroit and he recalled the coffee being one of the best he had ever tasted.

Hirostev made his way in, once again promptly greeted by the cashier. Immediately, the cashier recalled Hirostev and pulled up a cup of black coffee. Hirostev thanked the cashier and dropped some change plus extra as a tip.

Tom was dead. Beef had heard his most famous, and perhaps most egregious associate, TomOfGimpland, had retired this life of ours. He had gone clean, gave up the game and moved he and his family to Switzerland, or that's what Beef had heard. It was unfortunate, he had liked the man and wished him the best with his life in Europe, if it could be peaceful, that is.

Beef had gone back to the coffee shop that he had seen shitting in the bushes nearby and decided to sit down and relax while he thought of what to do next. His main associate was gone, his drug runners? Also gone. Nothing was going for Beef, other than the fact of that he left Porkchop, who was doomed to die, whether it be by his own hands or others. He was happy with his new family head, DeadlySin, a man known for his morals, strong gun and occasional roleplay of being a sloth. 

Beef decided to grab a cake with his coffee today and just looked around while he looked over some notes that he had written previously about the who and the what of how things went in this thing of ours. He finished his coffee and coffee cake and paid for his quick meal and accidentally bumped into a man nearby who was also leaving, while he was on his way out, he managed to snag his wallet as he helped the man back up. It was like taking candy from a baby.

DariusMaglione insured the car, so I was able to drive around town before being flown to Los Angeles.  I drove my new 1955 Chevrolet Biscayne to Cafe Colombian Detroit to show it off.  Big Moe, Roots, and Whispers all loved it.

It was nice to see Big Moe so calm and relaxed.  Semi-retiring, moving back to Colombia to his gorgeous Villa was the best thing for him.   

I ordered a Don Pablo Colombian Supremo, a Torta Negra Colombian, and we got down to business.

Since Big Moe was spending more time at the plantations in Colombia, more product could be produced and shipped out. to expand the business, we had to find new trusted clients who could purchase weight.

OK, guys, first we need to find out if there are any players here.  We don’t want to intrude on anyone; we just want to do business.  I have a good rapport with Godfather Giacomo_Parisi over in Corktown, I will get in touch with him.  If he knows someone who might have a problem, we will just let it go. 

Word on the streets is that Don Fredo_Trapani is a pretty cool dude.  He owns Trapani's Café. Whispers said.  He might be interested in some Colombian coffee and its benefits.

I took a bite of my cake and sipped some coffee.  I’ve never met him, but I believe DariusMaglione knows him. Let’s get the coast cleared first and Giacomo_Parisi's blessing to deal in his city.  I will get back to everyone once I’ve spoken with him.

It was very busy at Cafe Colombian Detroit when I arrived.  The new 4^th of July coffee canisters seemed to be becoming a huge hit.  Designs of the American flag, fireworks, stars, and stripes were beautiful and extremely patriotic.

I had received Godfather Giacomo_Parisi's blessings to expand the operation.

Hello, Rain,

It's always nice to hear from an old friend, and even more so when there is business to be done and money to be made. It seems you have a solid plan and good intentions with the expansion of your cafe. I think as long as drama is avoided and turf is respected, as you said, there should be no problems, so you have my blessing and best wishes. 

I appreciate you reaching out, and if I can be of help in some way, please ask. Good luck with your enterprise.

Warm regards,

Giacomo

DariusMaglione said we should still move slowly. We know there’s money to be made, but only with the right people, and I totally agreed.  We ordered extra weight for Detroit, which wasn’t a problem because if there was an overflow, we could always ship it to New York or Las Vegas. 

Because Fredo_Trapani owned a Café, containers of Colombian Coffee arriving wouldn’t look suspicious if he was in the market for the product.  Giacomo also told me he could be trusted and approachable, even if he were’t interested.  I needed to visit  Trapani's Café. 

Sembilan pushed open the door to Café Colombian Detroit.
The sharp scent of coffee hit her — warm and bitter, just like she expected.

Domenico had sent her. "Check the place. Don’t get involved. Just watch," the old man had told her the night before.

She stepped up to the bar. “Black coffee. No sugar.”

With her cup in hand, she took a seat in the back corner, near the window. A safe spot. Easy to see, hard to be seen.

From the open kitchen, she picked up a quiet conversation — two men, talking fast and low:

“...the coke prices here are good. Higher than in New York.”
“We can start small next week. This place is clean.”

She took a slow sip. Bitter. Honest. Just how she liked it.

Her eyes stayed forward, but her mind sharpened. So, this wasn't just a coffee shop.
“They’re not just brewing beans in here,” she thought.

Across the room, a man sat alone, hiding behind a newspaper that never turned a page.

Then—clink clink. He tapped his spoon against the glass. Twice.

The barista looked up, gave the smallest nod. A waiter approached the man, whispered something in his ear.

Without a word, he folded his paper and made his way upstairs.

Sembilan didn’t move. She just watched. Calm. Focused.

And now, she understood...

The place wasn’t clean because there were no stains — but because everything dirty was hidden upstairs.

TheDude shuffled through the morning haze of Detroit’s downtown like he was lookin’ for a lost thought. Maybe he was. His cardigan hung off his shoulder like it’d survived a windstorm and an unspoken argument. His slippers slapped softly against the sidewalk, one trailing a piece of napkin that refused to let go.

He stopped outside Café Colombian Detroit, eyeing the green awning like it might ask for ID.

“Colombian joint,” he muttered, pulling out a crumpled flyer from his pocket. He squinted at it. “Said the coffee here’s... spiritually bold.”

He stepped inside.

The scent hit him like a sermon; hot, dark, rich. He took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled like he’d just remembered what inner peace used to feel like.

The place was busy but quiet. Jazz trickled through unseen speakers, voices kept low, the kind of hush that meant either people were relaxin’… or doing math in their heads that didn’t belong on paper.

He approached the counter, nodding to the barista like they shared a dream once.

“Hey man, you got anything that tastes like... clarity?” he asked, eyes half-lidded.

The barista blinked. “You mean black?”

TheDude shrugged. “Sure, but throw in a splash of milk so I don’t cry halfway through.”

Cup delivered, he wandered the shop, eyeing the crowd like a beachcomber looking for treasure or trouble. He spotted the girl in the corner; sharp eyes, still posture. The kinda stillness that wasn’t born from caffeine or comfort.

He gave her a little nod as he passed. Respectful. Curious. Quiet.

Sliding into a seat near the kitchen, not close enough to interrupt, but close enough to catch, he sipped.

His eyes flicked to the ceiling when the man with the newspaper disappeared upstairs. Subtle. Efficient. Familiar.

He leaned back, mumbled to himself:
“Yep. There’s coffee… and then there’s coffee.”

Reaching into his cardigan, he pulled out a battered notepad and scribbled something with a pencil worn to the nub. A name. A number. A doodle of a bowling pin.

Then he looked to the barista again and asked with absolute sincerity:
“You guys serve white Russians? Or just black Colombians?”

A pause.

“Either way,” he added, “this place has good energy. Lotta... hidden depth.”

He raised his cup to no one in particular.

“Respect the roast.”

And then he sipped. Watching. Waiting. Abiding.