Radwa the Rumba Player

When the Leader entered, the whole room was like iron filings and a magnet. There was a sound like the wind just before a cat pounces.

Radwa rested his bow on his harp delicately. He took deep breaths, waiting for his cue, letting the aromatics of the prelude begin to warm. The bass player set to plucking with his right hand, the one missing a pinkie.

The Leader took a seat at a circular table and his entourage of co-conspirators and thugs filled the other seats like bullets in a revolver.

Kafa began working on the drums, and the beat rippled the water in the pitchers set atop each table.

But no one had touched their glasses. They were waiting for the Leader.