Slim strolled by the entrance to the run down establishment. from the outside, he could here a few people chit chatting, but he didnt care about that. they where paying customers, frequenting a fine Detroit business. Instead of walking in and shooting them in the head, he pulled a dead swan from his duffle bag and left it on the stoop. A little trinket to remind people that swanlover need be weary!

As I arrived at the cafe, SlimRagnarok ‘s shenanigan with the dead swan was the least of my worries. 

Luckily our surveillance cameras are top notched for run down establishment. It wasn’t long before that culprit was identified. I have no idea of his motives but the spiritual significance of a dead swan encourages us to navigate through life’s changes and challenges with grace and poise.

SilentAssassin was in the office sipping on a cup of coffee and we called Bones in to tell us exactly what happened.  

He was going over some of the surveillance camera footage when he saw a man outside talking to himself.  He could make out some of the words he was saying but called in a deaf friend of his who reads lips well  to come check the tapes out and analyze them for him.

She said he said

“Gotta hand it to you boys, though. You’ve taken the phrase ‘wake and bake’ to a whole new level.”

He was moving around smoking a cigarette so she couldn’t make out all the words. She then said he said some like

‘let’s move literal tons of coke under the smell of arabica.’ Classy.”

Then something about a

cartel gift shop and making  suits for your café staff

Then he clearly said
“Coffee’s good. But cocaine? That’s how you really keep folks wired.”

The cameras got an excellent look at him.  We put photos out to the right people and we positively identified him as TonyTheTailor, a Consigliere for the Scare Syndicate. Bones told us.

We need to find out who this guy is and how he knows so much about the operation. 

The last thing we need jeopardizing Big Moe’s operation after all these years is some asshole  guy going around talking to himself about the business.

He saw all the was occurring. Someone conducting business on the hallowed Detroit grounds. Something had to be done.

UglyInBredGeorge please bring three of your drool buckets and the truck full of dead swans from behind Simon’s office. 

The rain had just started to fade when Riccardo stepped into Café Colombian on 1930 Broadway Avenue, its warm glow spilling across the sidewalk. Inside, the air carried the inviting aroma of roasted beans, a soft jazz record crackling from the corner.

He scanned the menu, eyes tracing over the fine Colombian selections, before settling on his choice. When the waitress approached, Riccardo offered a polite smile.

“I’ll have the Koffee Kult – Huila Coffee,” he said. “Freshly brewed, if you please. I hear it carries a mild cherry taste, with just the right hint of caramel.”

The waitress nodded, jotting it down. “Excellent choice, sir. Anything else for you tonight?”

Riccardo leaned back in his chair, tapping the table lightly with one finger. “Yes. Bring me something bright to pair with it—a fruit cocktail, something refreshing. The city’s been heavy enough today. Let’s keep this evening light.”

She returned moments later with a tall glass, chilled and glistening with slices of citrus and berries. Not long after, a steaming cup of Huila coffee followed, its aroma rich yet gentle.

Riccardo took his first sip, letting the flavors linger before chasing them with a sip of the cocktail. A small smile curved on his lips. “Perfect,” he murmured.

For a man who lived in a world of shadows and whispered deals, nights like this—simple, indulgent, and far from the noise—were rare. And for Riccardo, that made them all the more valuable.

The warmth of the café wrapped around Riccardo as he savored another sip of the Koffee Kult – Huila Coffee. The cherry and caramel notes lingered, softened by the fruit cocktail at his side. He was halfway through a quiet thought when the door opened, letting in a gust of cold night air.

A tall man in a dark overcoat stepped inside. His presence shifted the room ever so slightly—people glanced, then quickly looked away. Riccardo knew the type. Federal. His hunch was confirmed when the waitress called him by name.

“Evening, Agent Melizzano.”

Riccardo’s lips curved faintly. So this is Joe Melizzano… Federal Bureau of Narcotics.

He waited until the agent had ordered a plain black coffee and taken a seat at a corner table before making his move. Riccardo carried his cup and slid smoothly into the chair opposite.

“Signore Melizzano,” Riccardo said, his tone courteous but direct. “Forgive the intrusion. My name is Riccardo. I’ve heard your reputation. A man who knows things worth knowing.”

Melizzano’s eyes narrowed, his hand curling around the steaming cup. “You’ve got the wrong man. I’m not in the business of sharing.”

Riccardo chuckled softly, leaning back. “Everyone’s in the business of sharing. The difference is only what price they ask for it.” He reached into his coat pocket, slipping out a neat envelope, tapping it lightly against the table.

The agent didn’t reach for it. He shook his head. “I don’t take bribes. You know what happens to men who try?”

Riccardo kept his voice low, calm, steady. “And you know what happens to men who walk away from opportunity. I don’t want your soul, Agent. Just whispers. The kind that never make it to paper, but find their way into certain circles. No names, no arrests. Only direction.”

Melizzano sipped his coffee, silent. Riccardo didn’t push further; he simply laid the envelope flat on the table, the number #464 scrawled neatly on the back. He nudged it across with two fingers.

“Consider it… appreciation. For your time.”

Minutes stretched. Then, with a quiet sigh, Melizzano leaned forward, his voice a hushed growl.

“Rumor has it that Chicago is looking like a profitable route for Heroin at this moment. Or… you may want to consider picking up some Barbiturates in Chicago. I’m not sure how long these prices will last though.”

He pushed back his chair, standing tall, his coat flaring slightly. “That’s all you’ll get from me. Enjoy your coffee.”

Riccardo gave a slight nod, sliding the envelope discreetly toward him. The agent’s hand covered it briefly before he tucked it inside his coat and walked out into the cold Detroit night.

Riccardo sat back, savoring one last sip of his Huila brew. A quiet smile traced his lips. For the price of #464, a door had just opened.

The driver stopped in the CBD area, Kael paid him and stepped out in the busy streets. The streets crowded with people going about their day and wy. You could see people from all kinds of life - hustlers, suits, police, govt officials, employees, businessmen, white collars and many more. 

Kael needed a spot to relax and he could smell the coffee bean smell coming from somewhere close by and as he turned his head around his eyes caught on Cafe Colombian. He calmly made his way towards it and could feel the heat increase as he got closer to the entrance and walked into the Cafe. The smell of the coffee and food got him enticed. 

Kael picked up th enewspaper on his way to the table and ordered a black coffee and took a seat at a corner table where his view was uninterrupted and no one could come from behind to him either. 

He could tell it wasnt a normal cafe given the ambience and way people were moving around and the flow of money moving in different forms and terms was evident. After a few mins, a main in grey overcoat sat across from Kael. Kael gave him a nod and they spoke a few words. It was low and quick and traded information like a card game. After the quiet murmurs, Kael dropped a few bills and left the Cafe. As he walked out, he pulled out his small notepad and ticked off something and disappeared into the crowd. 

Today had been a stressful day, meetings with uppers and running around after the unmade guys out collecting debt money, Ted hadn’t had time to rest his feet. He walked into the Colombian cafe, seating at a table as his eyes scanned the menu, reaching across the table and pulling in an ashtray and newspaper - Headlines of a local murder of a bar owner found down a back street just a block away from his bar.

”Unfortunate” stated Ted, as the waitress appear Ted looked up, cigar unlit in hand. “One Don Pablo Supreme and I’ll go for the roast beef sub” he stated, paying up front with a generous tip before turning his attention back to the newspaper as he lit up his cigar and began puffing away, every so often glancing out the nearby window, never could be to careful, and since the last war Ted had become slightly paranoid.

 He spent a good hour or so eating and drinking before departing the establishment, making his way back to the HQ where he was back to chasing the lower end of the chain.

I arrived at the Café late in the evening. Most of the crew had gone home. A few booths were taken, and one gentleman was at the counter. Rose was the only waitress taking orders.  I told her I didn’t need anything, I was going to step into the office for a minute.  

Inside Big Moe’s office, the lights were off, but I didn’t need them. I knew the layout in the dark. I poured myself a drink from his private stash, sat in his chair, and let the silence surround me like a familiar coat.

On the desk sat the tape of TonyTheTailor, the intel files from SilentAssassin, TheDude, and  @Stefan_Babic.  It’s not meant to understand what made him stand in front of the Café, reminiscing about the things TheBigJoker had told him, causing all the drama to begin. But it ended with a great deal of respect.  I piled everything up and placed it in the file cabinet. 

I finished the drink, set the glass down with quiet finality, and stood. My heels echoed softly as I crossed the office floor, feeling steady and calm. I paused at the door, glancing back once at the empty room. No guilt. No regret. Just resolve.

I had done my job. TonyTheTailor would live, and so would the secrets they guarded. 

A few hours after his prank at the police station Joey and Lee are still cruising around taking in the sights. The usual banter between both going back and forth. So far the time enjoyable, Joey taking every opportunity to break Lee's balls. Pulling up at a light he peers outside the window a sign of a establishment catching his eye, he began to wonder....

Lee pull up in front of that cafe just up ahead.. 

"What are you in the mood for a coffee? Id figure you would go for a celebratory drink or something after messing with those cops.." Lee remarks doing as he's told pulling in front of the cafe.  Joey remarking. 

These places are all over the place, and don't let the name fool ya the columbian coffee beans weren't the only thing they were slinging. Now times have changed but, eh since were here why not check it out... You wait here...bring you back a bagel or some shit...

Joey steps out of the vehicle, making his way to the entrance, being in a pleasant mood he opens the door for a few people. Subtilty taking a look inside as he does. Following the other patrons inside he glances around, he must have visited tons of these places back in the day, yet each with its own charm. He humbly waits until he is face to face with the barista.

Just looking for a cup of bold.. and a box of "sweets"

Joey watches as the baristas eyes widen for a moment and turns his head to the manager standing in the back. He could feel the managers eyes on him, sizing him up to which he could only stare back stoic and confident. A few seconds of silences passes before the manager gives the nod and heads back to fetch the "sweets". 

"should be a moment is that all sir?"

absolutely, should fix the itch just fine....

Joey removes an envelope from his pocket sliding it to the barista who tucks it under the counter immediately. Taking his coffee he waits at the end of the display case, money being counted and only then does he receive a pastry box in return with the sweets. To onlookers watching it was business as usual. For Joey it was business as usual, nodding fondly at the staff once more before returning to the vehicle outside. As they pull away he mutters.

Sorry Lee forgot about the damn bagel.... 

*Gethsemane was tired, supremely so. He had been bouncing around the six cities yesterday on harrowing flights on questionable airlines to opening new businesses. It was a stressful but successful day yesterday, and today, there was certainly some lingering fatigue that he couldn't quite shake this morning. He had been walking down a notorious side street in Detroit's Corktown area, where he had picked up the whiff of a magnificent aroma of a different Colombian product that he felt would provide the necessary lift to both his physical and mental spirits this chilly Saturday morning.*

*Gethsemane approached the entrance of Cafe Columbia and almost immediately felt better, the placebo effect likely at work. He approached the barista with longing in his eyes, rummaging in his pockets, he pulled out some coins, placing them haphazardly on the counter, he made eye contact and opened his mouth to say...*

Americano please, tall and strong.

*Gethsemane sat back expectantly looking forward to the imminent and powerful relief*