Volkmer’s contact in the Bulgarian dwarf mafia was called Kato and they met the next day. They were on good terms. On a previous occasion Kato had succeeded in acquiring 3,500 pounds of Semtex 1A at Volkmer’s request and he had subsequently asked no questions when two weeks later a Federal building containing, among other things, the regional offices of both the IRS and FBI had been bombed.
Kato ran a used car dealership on the outskirts of town. When Volkmer stepped onto the lot a salesman gently took his forearm and led him to a brown conversion van at the back of the lot. The salesman slid open the van door and Volkmer stooped inside. Despite the richly upholstered interior of the van, it still felt cramped to Volker. Less so to Kato who sat on the back bench seat, which could be folded down into a full sized bed. Kato was eating a wedge of vending machine egg salad sandwich. He grunted a hello and with his short arm held out a similar wedge - still sealed - to Volkmer, who accepted it graciously.
“What do you need then?” Kato asked, his accent seemingly thicker than Volkmer remembered it. Kato, while both a dwarf and an integral member of the mafia hierarchy, was actually an Albanian. Volkmer also knew him to have a large tattoo of Alexander the Great across his small hairy chest. Neither of these slight incongruities had ever been explained to Volkner.
They agreed on a price for 50 AK-47s - used, but in perfect working order - and two bushels of hand grenades. Volkmer finished his sandwich and then drove to his safe deposit box the next town over.
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