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| The Godfather of Coffee and Rum | Started by: Babs on Jun 10, '25 13:57 |
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Detroit, January 1953 GIULIA’S RESTAURANT – LATE AFTERNOON Babs sat slouched in a corner booth, one arm still half in his overcoat, his eyes fixed on a half-eaten plate of beef ragù. Outside, the wind carried flurries of snow down Jefferson Avenue in tight, hurried spirals. Across from him, Vito Brancato dabbed his fingers with a cloth napkin, eyes locked on Babs’s distant expression. “You got a message,” Vito said. “One of yours. From Cuba.” Babs didn’t look up. “If it’s Raul, tell him I still owe him a slap from ‘49.” Vito smirked. “Not Raul. Delgado. Javier Delgado. Said you once saved his life, and now he’s got a way to finally pay you back.” Babs blinked slowly, the name sinking in. “Delgado…” He paused. “He always knew how to find the good stuff. And how to disappear when the bad came knocking.” Vito leaned forward. “He says it’s not blood or bullets this time. Just coffee, rum, paperwork. All clean. Wants to meet tonight. Statler Hotel, Room 614.” Babs swirled the wine in his glass, gave his plate a glance, then looked up. “When a Cuban comes to Detroit in January… he’s either running from something — or bringing something worth freezing for.” ⸻ HOTEL STATLER, ROOM 614 – LATER THAT EVENING The room was warm, thick with the scent of wood, tobacco, and something sweet. Delgado was already there — tanned, sharp, smooth in both tone and posture. On the table sat a bottle of aged rum, a metal tin of coffee, and a distribution map of the Midwest. “Hermano!” Delgado grinned, standing to embrace him. “Too long, my friend.” Babs didn’t smile, but his handshake was firm, familiar. “You survived the world. That says something.” Delgado laughed softly. “And you, hermano — you survived the storm and learned to dance in the rain. Now I think we can build something… without guns.” He opened the tin and let the aroma of dark roasted beans fill the room. “This—this is my coffee. Pure. No blends. No shortcuts. And this,” he gestured to the rum, “aged seven years. Real stuff. I have the product. What I don’t have is a way into this country that doesn’t involve bribing someone with a mustache and a machine gun.” He looked at Babs, smile fading into business. “You have the trucks. The customs contacts. The quiet muscle. I supply — you distribute. Clean. Legal. Your name doesn’t even have to be on it.” Vito, leaning by the door, finally spoke. “Why not go to Miami? Easier entry, familiar hands.” Delgado met his eyes. “Because Babs knows when to stop. And he knows how to build something that doesn’t blow up after six months. Detroit has no flavor. Maybe we can give it one.” Babs stepped to the window, watching snow fall on a city full of silent deals and loud endings. A long pause followed. “One shipment,” he said. “Coffee and rum. Trial run. If Customs doesn’t scream and the trucks roll smooth — we’ll talk about making it real.” Delgado let out a breath that had been waiting ten years. “Deal, hermano. You’ll be proud.” ⸻ LATER THAT NIGHT – SAME ROOM, RUM HALF-GONE The three men sat in a haze of cigar smoke and warm liquor, relaxed for the first time that day. Delgado leaned back, chuckling to himself. “You remember Havana? That night we hid from the police… in the convent?” Vito raised an eyebrow. “This already sounds like something I shouldn’t hear.” Babs smirked. “We had two choices. Jump from a second-story window… or pretend to find religion.” He chuckled. “I chose faith. Delgado started singing in Latin. I kept my hand over a nun’s mouth so she wouldn’t scream.” Delgado burst out laughing. “And they still gave us wine after! Nobody suspects you when you smell like incense and carry a crucifix.” Babs lifted his glass. “If Customs doesn’t kill this… maybe the nuns will bless it.” Glasses clinked. |
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