A Quasi Cosa Nostra.

 That the region in which Volkmer found himself living boasted a large immigrant population of Bulgarians was worthy of note, but not particularly an oddity.

That the local Bulgarian population descended almost entirely from two villages in the lush, emerald green valleys of the Rhodope Mountains is also not particularly peculiar, as such clustering patterns are common in the settling habits of first-generation immigrants.

That the Rhodope region was historically inhabited by a statistically significant population of dwarves is a genetic peculiarity. The fact however that the dwarf population had largely emigrated in the last three decades is unsurprising given the quantity and quality of persecution it had endured after the fall of the Communist regime and the resignation of Todor Zhivkov, who had always seen that the population was to some degree protected, owing to his fondness for them and the fact that his maternal grandfather had been half-dwarf.

That insular immigrant communities form their own criminal architectures is so common as to be the standard. It was in exactly that way that the infrastructure of post-feudal Sicily’s Cosa Nostra arrived on the Eastern seaboard of 19th Century America. Similarly, the Bulgarians had brought a violent and secret underworld with them to the plains, as well as into The Great Plains Bar & Grill.

When the bartender had approached Volkmer to replace the empty first drink with a full second one, Volkmer slid a cocktail napkin toward the bartender. On the napkin Volkmer had written: Kato, please.

The bartender set down the drink, wadded up the napkin, and disappeared into a back office. When he returned he said to Volkmer, “Tomorrow. 4:30.”

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