by John Charles
I must have walked by this storefront a billion times over the last month, but this is the first time I ever noticed a flier promoting Russian women. From what I could tell, Elana’s Travels dabbled in what most people would think were mail-order brides. But this was nothing like that. There was nothing about ordering stuff by mail.
The tours took men to Russian cities to meet these beautiful women in person. Why send away for a Playboy when you can take a trip to the mansion instead? This sounded exciting—promising even. Plus, I hadn’t had much luck since I dated Leslie Choi. She was a spicy gal I met while doing business in Hong Kong. Sadly our businesses got in the way and it didn’t work out. That’s the story of my life.
Now that things were going well at my day job at Teleco, my focus was to get my personal life into tip-top shape. A few months ago, I had become a heavy-hitter at the company, taking up office space on the twelfth floor with the rest of the heavies. We were the sales guys that had the fat cash accounts and were treated like ATM gods. Money flowed through us and straight into the company’s coffers. Becoming a heavy-hitter was the entire reason why I came up with the idea to become a consultant. That, and I was on the verge of getting my ass fired.
Anyway, achieving heavy status was a big move in my career. It was all thanks to my Darbytastic side venture. Also, taking a cut from the gang and then a commission from the company made for a sweet paycheck. I was a double dipper, sticking my finger into the chip dip for a second taste—and it was paying off.
I was now keen on finding myself a girlfriend. It was time my bachelor life matched my professional life: en fuego. Gossip-worthy was my goal. With my payment scheme actually working, I had money to blow. Screw you, generic cheese. I’m buying the French stuff.
I got down on my knee for a better look at the flier. It touted nightly socials, opportunities for day dates with the women, translators available… This was basically speed dating done over the course of a week. Meet a bunch of women at a party and then have the opportunity to go on dates with them the next day. It all sounded too easy. I had to find out more, so I headed inside.
The lady behind the desk—I’m guessing she’s Elana—looked to be in her late forties. She wore a blue sweater and black slacks. She had shoulder-length blond hair and smoked her cigarette like it was 1971 and chain-smoking in an office was normal.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello. Sit, sit,” she replied, her Russian accent noticeable. “I am Elana Voronova. Where you want to go?”
I surveyed the office as I walked slowly towards her desk. Wood paneling summed up the look and feel. Everything felt or looked dated, even the Pan Am poster touting Morocco.
“I saw the flier outside. The one with the women on it.”
“Ahh, you like Russian women,” she said with an eyebrow raised and a pleasing smile. “Russian women are very beautiful.”
“Oh, you don’t have to sell me. I want to know more about these tours.”
“You must go on tour. You like it very much. Young handsome man like you has no problem attracting best women. Like in candy store you will be.” She winked.
Candy store? This is getting better. “How much is a tour?”
Again, she motioned for me to take a seat near her desk. There were cracks in the leather chair from years of butt-smothering customers and I was about to indirectly rub cheeks with all of them.
“Very affordable. I have tour leaving in four days to Minsk, Belarus.” She began digging under the mountains of travel crap on her desk. The third pile, four packets deep, is where she pulled out a binder and flipped to a page marked Minsk and pointed to the women. “Belarusian women, very beautiful. Very traditional. Love feeling sexy and they all looking for strong man like you.”
Well, I couldn’t disagree. I had taken to doing push-ups in the morning—up to fifteen so far. My goal was to make my pectorals twitch individually. I always thought it was cool when body builders did it. Right now, only my left one moves.
I took the binder from her. It was sticky, most likely from years of cigarette tar build-up. Gross? Yes, but not enough to stop me from leafing through the women’s profiles. With every flip of the page, the women seemed to become more and more beautiful. From reading their bios, it was apparent that they all loved to cook, keep a clean house, stay in shape, travel, go to the beach, and spend time in the outdoors. A lot of them loved the opera and listening to symphony orchestras. They were cultured and hot at the same time. Jackpot!
“Is this true? Are these real women?” I asked as Elana lit up another slender brown.
“Sure, they real. This is not scam. I know all girls personally.”
Elana was convincing, but I couldn’t help but wonder if these women eventually turned into husky-voiced, chain-smoking travel agents. “It’s tempting… But four days? I dunno if I can—”
Elana cut me off with a wave of her cigarette.
“No, no, no, you can go. Take a vacation. You Americans, all you do is work, work, work. No time for play. Elana knows best. This is good for you.”
I flicked my thumb at the window. “The flier says these women are looking for a loving man to make a family with. Very marriage oriented.”
“Yes, sure. You like marriage? Belarusian women very traditional. Love their role as submissive woman and keeper of house. Not spoiled like American woman who only want material things and shop at boutique store.”
“Why are these women so interested in marrying foreigners?”
“Not many good man left in Russia. So many die in wars and a lot drink. They alcoholic,” she said as she mimicked taking a shot. “Plus they cheat. So little to choose from. Women must put up with many bad behavior.”
“That’s harsh. Not much to look forward to.”
Elana shrugged and said, “Foreign man treat Russian woman better and she is very appreciative. Not so choosy.”
“Well I’m not so sure about the whole marriage thing…”
Elana’s cheeks sunk in as she took another long pull on her cigarette. “Then don’t ask to marry,” she said while exhaling a grayish-white plume at the same time. “Have good time—dance and drink.”
I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t attracted to these women and Elana had put forth a good argument. She basically had me at ‘candy store.’ I signed up on the spot.
5
Punctuality is Ivan Renko’s middle name. Knowing my little vacation planning caused me to fall behind schedule for our weekly luncheon, I found myself jog-walking like a senior citizen over to the Russian Tsar.
As soon as I entered the restaurant, I spotted an elderly man in a booth near the window munching on pickles. His face, a battlefield of scars noticeable from a distance, would make most turn away. I headed straight for him. He was my lunch date.
Ivan always had a man outside, but he liked to keep watch as well. He wore his typical outfit: a black or gray button-down shirt and black slacks. The long sleeves were necessary to cover his tattoos. He once whipped off his shirt and showed them to me: crude black drawings of crosses, roses, stars––even a large spiraled cathedral littered his chest and back. To the average person, they were nothing more than religious icons. But to a Russian gangster, they told the story of his life, his crimes, his morality, and where and how long he did time in the Russian Gulags.
Prison is where they all got their ink. Time spent in jail was worn as a badge of pride—and Ivan was a king in there. The star on each knee said he bowed to no one. Rumor is he killed many a man while imprisoned, one for being late to a meeting. I wasn’t sure if this was true or not. Who kills for something like that? A crazy bastard, that’s who. But for some reason, I didn’t fear Ivan. While he was still fit and quite muscular, he was older now. I could outrun him… possibly. Still, I was never late to a meeting. Until now.
I was no more than five feet away when Ivan started to speak.
“You’re late. What did I tell you about men who are late?”
“Late men are d
ead men,” I said as I slipped into the pleather-covered booth. “But I’m not late. I’m tardy. Big difference.”
Ivan waved off my excuse. “I order for us already.”
“I’m sorry. I was next door at the travel agency.”
“You taking trip?” he asked as he unfolded his napkin, placing it on his lap.
“I am now. Going to Minsk.”
Ivan looked up at me with an eyebrow raised in question. “Why do you go to Minsk?”
“Don’t get the wrong idea here, but the women there are hot and the travel agency next door has these tours. I’ve never been to Minsk, so why not kill two birds with one stone?”
“Yes, I know about Elana’s tours. These women you will meet are looking to marry successful men.”
“Well, who wouldn’t? I’d marry rich if I could, but enough about me.” I didn’t want to share my personal life with Ivan. This is a man who was pushing sixty, yet was still getting laid by young women of all races.
The truth? I really wanted a girl to call my own, someone I could really care about. I was tired of being single. A woman on my arm—and other parts—was what I was missing. Plus, I finally had cash to throw around.
Just then the waitress arrived at our table with our orders. One by one she placed the platters on the table, starting first with the shashlik, the Russian version of shish kebab, and then the beef stroganov. These were followed quickly by the pickled veggies, a couple of Russian salads, and a loaf of black bread. It all looked delicious.
My nostrils flared like a bull’s as I inhaled the aroma of the sautéed meat. I stabbed a chunk of beef with my fork and ran it under my nose. Mmmmm. Then I clamped down on the tender piece and slid it off with a silly grin. An explosion of flavors coated my tongue as I chewed and swallowed. It never got old.
Ivan and I both allowed ourselves the courtesy of shutting up so we could polish off a good portion of our meals. The food here is best when hot from the kitchen.
“How’s business?” I finally asked.
“We are doing better with the Air Charger.”
“The credit card charger you can use anywhere.” I convinced Ivan early on that beating someone into paying what he owes doesn’t work. Most people get used to the beatings, to a degree. So you have to beat them more. At that point you run the risk of killing them accidentally. Poof! There goes the cash cow. People may not have cash, but they have credit cards. One swipe through the charger and they get paid.
“Collections have increased 150 percent.”
Yes! I threw my hand up for the obligatory high-five. Ivan only stared back at me with empty eyes as he bit down on a piece of pork and pulled it off a skewer. What a frickin’ spoilsport. I didn’t care; I was happy to land him as a client and was willing to put up with his intimidation bull crap.
“Have you tried the mini-charger that attaches to your cell phone?” I asked, returning to my food. “It’s much easier than lugging the big charger around.”
“The men like that one, too, but I prefer the big one so I can hit my customers in the head with it. Is fun.”
Whatever gets you up in the morning. The possibilities to make money with the gang seemed bountiful. I executed my normal contract. The gang gets three months of consulting and free product––and I get a 15 percent cut of the weekly take during that time. The more I help them make money, the more I make. After three months, we dissolve our relationship and they become normal clients of Teleco, running everything through a business front I set up.
The Russians were pretty diversified. They dealt in money laundering, extortion, fraud, loan sharking, credit card scams, and protection rackets. Auto theft was their big racket and their biggest moneymaker, even more so since I created the Set-Up-and-Watch program. I realized they wasted a lot of time chasing after cars and then waiting for the right time to take them. I had the perfect solution: GPS. They identify the cars they want and then send the kids who work for them out to find the cars. When they do, they attach a GPS band somewhere under the vehicle. Then they can keep track of them and boost them in more efficient ways. Better to grab five cars that happen to be within a two-mile radius rather than just two. It was this sort of thinking that doubled the gang’s productivity. Wireless business solutions are a no-brainer. Ivan knows that. If he didn’t, I’d be dead by now.
6
Across the street from the Russian Tsar was a tiny deli that sold all sorts of smoked meats, cheeses, cakes, candies, Georgian wines, and Russian vodka—real authentic stuff from the motherland. Even the clerks wore typical Russian retail attire: blue smocks with white trimmings over their personal clothes. It was also a great place to sit and watch people eat at the Russian Tsar. And that’s exactly what Grigory Orlov was doing behind his newspaper and cup of tea.
Oh, and he was also seething.
Every Wednesday, Orlov would slip into the deli at a quarter to noon and purchase a cup of tea and the local newspaper, the Odesskiy Listok. He would then settle at the counter against the window and watch. Ever since Darby Stansfield gained the ear of his boss, Ivan Renko, this became routine.
Motherfucker, Orlov would repeatedly mumble under his breath while he watched the two. Who is this man? He’s not one of us.
Orlov was overseer of the gang’s support group—essentially middle management. He never did take a liking to Darby. He had met him about a month and a half ago and hated that he had waltzed right into Ivan’s good graces. It had taken Orlov five years to gain Ivan’s trust and, more importantly, his ear. Starting off as a hired hand and eventually working himself up to the position of overseer, even now he believed he didn’t get the respect he deserved. And suddenly this punk shows up and Ivan listens to everything he says? It was a slap in the face. To Orlov, it felt like a public ass-fucking.
Darby was not his equal. He hated the smug look on his face and the way he walked and talked and moved his fucking hands when he spoke. Orlov wanted him out of the gang and out of his life. It didn’t help that Darby embarrassed him in front of the others by demonstrating how quickly he could double the take on his operations, boosting cars, with his stupid Teleco gadgets. The Set-Up-and-Watch program was Orlov’s Achilles heel. He went nutso anytime someone mentioned it.
Orlov’s only goal was to make Darby disappear. The only difficulty in doing this is that Ivan made him an untouchable; Darby had a bulletproof halo around him. Ivan didn’t want anyone messing with the money machine.
The rest of the gang didn’t seem to mind the salesman hanging around. Why would they? He was showing them how to make more money. Guys who were scraping by before Darby came around now wore gold chains and diamond knuckle rings with their sportswear. They showered the wives and kids with presents and even took family holidays.
“Things are good with this guy. Let’s not mess with it,” Orlov would hear. Most of them knew how he felt toward Darby. Some even tried to reason with him, but nothing would calm him. Orlov was of the traditional mindset. As far as he was concerned, Darby was not one of them. He did not belong.
7
The next day I rolled into the office of Teleco Wireless fairly early, a little after eight, and the quietness of the twelfth floor threw me. By nine, most of the heavy-hitters were in and yacking it up on the phones. Not me, though. I was busy clearing my schedule in anticipation of my upcoming spring break.
“Hey, Tolstoy.”
I looked up to find Tav standing in the doorway of my office. He had a Slim Jim in one hand and a Mountain Dew in the other. “Get in here.” I motioned him in. “Hurry.”
Tav enjoyed dropping these little Russian-isms around the office, knowing only he and I knew what he was talking about, but I hated it. I kept thinking someone was listening and would piece things together.
“How many times do I have to tell you to quit with the Russian?”
“What? No one knows. Stop crying.”
Tav is my best friend and has been ever since we met at age seven. We both work at the same big wir
eless company on the West Coast. He’s a bean counter due to him being half Asian—at least that’s how he explains it to me. His other half is Jewish. Yeah, let that sink in for minute. He’s got a little height on me, but most of it is leg, not torso, if you know what I mean.
“So, how’s business? You reeling in normal clients to keep your heavy-hitter status?”
“Business is fine.”
I knew what Tav was getting at. He didn’t like my side venture, the result of my last great Darbytastic idea. He thinks a telecommunication consultant to the criminal world is stupid, not to mention unsafe.
I can’t argue with him there. I got him accidentally involved with a Triad gang while he was in Hong Kong with me. I wish I were kidding, but I’m not. How does one beg forgiveness for that? Let’s just say I have a lot of payback coming before he lets that one slide.
“Darb, did you forget what happened with the last gang? I mean, you’re back on track here at Teleco. You got promoted and have heavy-hitter status. Go legit, man.”
I rolled my eyes. Tav had just hit play on the same conversation we’ve had over and over. “Look Tav, I can’t. I need to keep this going to fully secure my place here,” I said, motioning to my office with my hand. “I can’t let it go at this moment. Things are still too shaky.” Tav shook his head and turned away, walking towards my window. I leaned back in my chair and exhaled loudly. “I learned a lot from the last deal, you know. I’m smarter this time around. I’ve been schooled in ‘gangonomics.’”
Tav stood on the other side of my office looking out of the window, quietly punishing me. There was no fog today, so the view extended all the way across the bay to Sausalito. The sun made the bay look like millions of sparkly pieces with sailboats zipping around. But I knew Tav; he could give a rat’s ass about the view.
