His chauffeur was standing by the side of an eighteen-foot-long black stretch limousine that was parked up in the middle of the aisle at a ninety degree angle to the black and white sports-utilities and muscle cars like Ford Mustangs parked up in their spots. The guy was a typical driver. Old and small and thin. He was wearing a sharp black suit with a white shirt and a pink tie. A black peaked cap sat atop his head. A few tufts of his silver hair stuck put underneath the cap's rim. He saw Polanski step through the door and nodded him a polite morning greeting, then stepped his way and opened the limousine's back door.
Polanski walked toward it. He could hear the morning's classical music playing inside. He paused a few paces from the car door, closed his eyes and jerked his head side to side and back and forth, allowing the high and low notes of the piano to stroke his soul. He inhaled a deep sniff of the dusty, cold parking lot air, and opened his eyes and smiled. Then, climbed into the back of the car, the old chauffeur closing the door behind him.
There was man waiting for Polanski in the back. He was sitting on the cream leather sofa inside, facing onto the back of the car, his back to the bulkhead. He was wearing a slim fitting navy blue suit with a light pink shirt and a hot pink tie. He had brown hair, swept back in a pompadour and held in place with natural hold spray. His face was thin, tanned and polished. And his teeth were sparkling. He had a smug smile across his face. His name was Calvin Trudeaux. He was Vladimir Polanski's business manager. He was a pretentious asshole.
"Mr Polanski," he said, speaking with an air of grace, in a voice that wouldn't have been out of place if it was heard in a Greenwich country club. He lifted a champagne bottle from a pink metallic ice bucket that was sitting on the black marble bar to his left and presented it for Polanski to see. "Dom Perignon White Gold. May I pour you a glass."
After climbing into the front, the chauffeur slipped the limousine into gear and gently eased it off from its position.
Polanski smiled. It wasn’t even nine o’clock, but he wasn’t about to turn down his second flute of the day, especially not if it was Dom Perignon White Gold. "Of course."
Trudeaux gently popped the cork from the bottle, wrapping his left hand around it and easing the cork from the bottle neck slowly, so it wouldn't cannon out and bounce off the window. The pop was dull, muffled. It sounded like he had popped a deflating balloon. He laid the cork down on the bar and poured two flutes of champagne, one fuller than the other. Finishing pouring, he put the bottle back on ice and handed the fuller flute to Polanski.
The limousine left the parking lot and eased out onto Riverfront Drive. The streets were cold and frosty, lined with snow, and people walked past up ahead wrapped up in winter coats and scarves and wearing woolen beanie hats.
Polanski took his flute and brought it to his nose. He courted the scent like a botanist admiring the scent of a fresh bloom of flowers, gently inhaling the champagne's light, fruity aroma. He smiled and took a sip and let out a long, satisfied sigh. It was divine.
Trudeaux took a sip of his, too.
"Tell me, Trudeaux," Polanski said. "How are things going?"
Trudeaux put his flute of champagne down on the bar. "Financially or generally?"
"Both," Polanski answered. "But start with the numbers. How much did we take last night?"
The limousine merged onto Jefferson Avenue, crossed the street and turned in a western direction and headed along the road past the US Postal Service depot on the right. It was a big, grey concrete building that looked more like a prison than a mail house.
"Eight thousand one hundred and ninety-four dollars," Trudeaux replied.
Polanski smiled. It was a good number. A healthy number. A big fat multi-thousand number. He took another delightful sip of the expensive champagne. "And what's the breakdown?"
Trudeaux lifted a black ledger that was sitting on the cushion beside him. He opened the ledger to the three hundred and twenty-sixth page, then turned it one-eighty degrees and handed it to Polanski.
It was a handwritten list of drinks, alcoholic and soft, on lined paper. Beer, wine, champagne, liquor, soda and fruit juice. There were numbers along the lines to the drinks’ right. Financial amounts. And a sum of the amounts at the bottom underneath the last one. It was the total. And it was just as Trudeaux had said: $8,194.
The limousine looped around the bend onto Rosa Parks Boulevard, heading north, past a derelict white row of lockups and garages.
Polanski looked down the list of amounts and, then, at the total, as he sipped some more champagne. He nodded his approval. "How much of this is legitimate?"
"About twenty-five percent," Trudeaux replied. "We did just over two thousand in alcohol sales. Mostly from hard liquor. Vodkas and rums. The other six thousand is your other earnings which I've passed through across all lines in equal amounts."
"Seventy-five, twenty-five?" Polanski asked.
Trudeaux nodded. "The seventy-five includes the last of the protection payments from last month and the first few hundred dollars of Adamczuk's drug sales."
They passed through the intersections with Fort Street and Lafayette Boulevard, before hitting traffic further along the street where Rosa Parks Boulevard intersects Porter Street outside a technology company’s flashy black offices. They slowed to a crawl, then, quickly stopped before the junction with Bagley Avenue. There was a smash in the middle of the intersection. Two black sedans. The front of one and the back of the other mangled. A Detroit Police cruiser was on the scene, red and blue lights flashing with an officer directing traffic around the crash.
Polanski's face changed. His eyebrows narrowed over his nose. He looked up from the ledger and directly at Trudeaux, not once acknowledging the smash outside. "The first few hundred?" he asked.
Trudeaux nodded and took a sip of his champagne, calm and composed, equally careless about what was happening outside of the limousine.
"Don't you mean thousand?" Polanski asked.
Trudeaux shook his head.
A tense moment of silence opened up. Polanski stared at him. Eventually, he said, "The first few hundred isn't enough. It's nowhere near enough. We have to pass more than that through. We should be pushing thousands through here."
Trudeaux hesitated. He took a sip of champagne and composed himself. "We can't.”
Polanski scowled and looked him the question.
“We can't just shove tens of thousands of dollars per night through two nightclubs. Not in Detroit. The earnings would be unrealistic. And that would raise eyebrows. The IRS would be all over your ass like a rash. And, then, so would the cops."
"Forget the cops. I own cops."
"Yes. Maybe. But you don't own federal government agencies. And there's no way your cops can prevent them reigning down all sorts of hell on us. No nightclub in Detroit turns over anything anywhere near tens of thousands a night. Trust me."
"Then, what about the yard? Can't we funnel it through there?"
Trudeaux shook his head. "Impossible. The yard's completely full already. Almost to the point where it's beyond belief. And, even then, we're still putting about ten percent more through. You're lucky nobody has noticed that, yet."
Polanski seethed. "Well, there must be something we can do." He took another sip of champagne and sat back in his seat.
As the driver negotiated the limousine’s way around the incident, traffic eased up and they moved off at a quicker speed.
"How much did Adamczuk take last night?"
"Twenty thousand, total. Sixteen, minus his cut."
"Same as always?"
Trudeaux nodded.
"And there's no signs of it letting up?"
Trudeaux shook his head. "Not anytime soon."
Polanski grimaced. "How much more can we realistically push through the clubs?"
"Nothing."
Polanski’s eyes narrowed to a glare.
"Well, not unless you want to implement an entry fee," Trudeaux said.
"Do it."
Trude
aux’s eyes widened. "But that could cannibalize the inside earnings, especially if footfall takes a downturn?"
Polanski took a sip of champagne and fell silent for a beat while he pondered it. "It won't. Not if we let people in for free."
"Free?” Trudeaux asked, confusion on his face. “I don't follow."
An open road ahead, the limousine driver pushed his foot through the floor and accelerated along the street.
"We'll keep it free before midnight to get enough people in for Adamczuk. Then, the minute the clock strikes twelve, it's twenty-five dollars entry per head. That would let us pass another, what, two and a half thousand through each club every night?"
Trudeaux nodded. "Yeah. If we reported a hundred entries after twelve, it would be about that."
"Then, it starts tonight."
Trudeaux's eyes about exploded from his head. "What? But that's only fifteen hours away."
"Then, you've got all day to make it happen."
"But, Boss, these things take time. We need to write a new entry policy. Put up signs. Change the website. Update the social media accounts," Trudeaux said.
"Then, you best make a start sooner rather than later."
Trudeaux bit down on his bottom lip and nodded, frustration in his eyes.
"Now, what about the four new clubs? Where are we with those?"
"They're on track to be open for the end of next month. We'll be fully up and running for New Year."
Polanski totted up the illicit earnings in his mind. Trudeaux was talking about another forty days. Which meant forty days worth of drug sales, plus another round of protection payments. Running the usual extra three thousand dollars through the clubs each night, plus the five thousand on top from the entry fees, by the end of December, he estimated the surplus to be worth around four hundred and ten thousand dollars. And that was on top of the $1.9 million that was already stockpiled since Adamczuk had come on board. He shook his head.
"That's too long to wait. The money is flowing in too easily. We can't have it all just piling up."
"Understood. But, all due respect, Boss, these things take time. Rome wasn't built in a day. And neither is a nightclub. If we're going to be reporting anywhere around an average of six thousand a night per club, assuming you want the same midnight entry fee on those, too, they have to look like they're capable of taking that."
Polanski said nothing. He wasn't happy, but he wasn't stupid, either. He understood what Trudeaux meant. He took another sip of the Dom Perignon. It tasted more bitter than before. "What can we do to bring the openings forward?"
Trudeaux shrugged. "I can speak to the contractors, see what they can do. Maybe, they can make efficiencies or lay on some more staff? Either way, they'll likely want a hike in their fee."
Polanski nodded. "Fine. Cover it. Because, once they're open, we should be fine to pass through everything that we're drawing in. But that doesn't solve the stockpile issue we have. The money's piling up."
Trudeaux nodded. "And Kanchelskis and Kuznetsov are on their way down there just now with the latest batch."
Polanski shook his head. "Well, then, we need more businesses."
"Like what?"
"Anything. Something cash based. Car washes, bars, parking lots. Businesses we can start or acquire quickly and pass that cash straight through them. We have to reduce the pile."
Trudeaux nodded his agreement. "Understood. But it won't happen overnight."
"Well, I want progress by the end of the day," Polanski said and drank the last of his champagne. He glanced at the bottle.
Trudeaux noticed. "I'll see what I can do," he said, stress levels rocketing in his mind, and lifted the bottle and refilled Polanski's flute.
They turned a hairpin bend onto Michigan Avenue past a car garage and headed east along the home straight. The concrete jungle of the city loomed tall ahead in the distance, the buildings looking as if they stretched to the clouds, the radio antennas atop them looking like they were scraping the white, snowy sky.
Polanski smiled and drank some more champagne. "What about the protection side? How are things looking there? How did we do in the latest round?"
"Good," Trudeaux replied and finished the rest of his champagne. But, thinking he had a lot of work to do, he didn't refill his flute. "Arshavin, Salenko and Zurawski completed this month’s run last night. They took forty-four thousand."
Polanski nodded his approval. "Same as last month?" He drank some more champagne.
Trudeaux nodded. "Yes. But it should've been more."
Polanski paused mid-drink, a quizzed look on his face, and looked him a question.
"Only one of them didn't pay."
Polanski lowered his flute. His face fell blank. He considered non-payment to be unacceptable, the utmost sign of disrespect. "Who?" he hissed, his face reddening, his eyes bulging from their sockets, venom in his voice.
Finally there, the driver steered the limousine off the road and into the nightclub parking lot. The nightclub was a relatively new-looking glass and steel building constructed over two levels, clad in reflective glass panels and with pink frosted glass doors at the front. They were illuminated by spotlights emitting a soft pink hue. A pink neon sign hung tall above the entrance, hanging from a neon pink metal portico that stuck out from the front of the building, about fifty feet from the ground. The sign had the club's name in bold, white capital letters: MAGENTA. It oozed a flamboyant grandeur.
Trudeaux shook his head. "I'm not close enough to the particulars of the protection schedule to know that, Boss. I just take to do with the money. But Arshavin, Salenko and Zurawski will know."
"Get them out here. Now. I want answers,” Polanski said, uncharacteristically not once glancing out the window to marvel at the building’s sassy allure, as the chauffeur eased the limousine across the white snowswept lot and pulled up by the building's front door.
"Already taken care of, Boss,” Trudeaux said. “They're waiting for you in your office."
The chauffeur climbed out of the limousine and opened the back door.
"Good," Polanski growled and killed the rest of his champagne. "Now, go implement the entry fee, follow up on the new clubs and take care of my integration project," he added, then climbed out the door.
The parking lot of the nightclub was white and frosty. It was covered with snow. It compacted and crunched under the outsoles of Polanski's expensive black shoes as he took the short walk to the nightclub's entrance and stepped in through the heavy set of pink frosted glass doors.
Inside, it was quiet. Eerily quiet, considering it was a nightclub. The walls were pink. A row of diamond-shaped warm white lights lined them about head height on either side. The ceiling was black with steel beams. Rose gold pendulum lights hung down from the them and emitted a soft, pink glow. The air smelled clean. It was scented with vanilla from the built-in air fresheners on either side of each of the pendulum lights. There was a guest check-in and coat drop-off counter on the right. The counter was black, marble, and in the shape of a U. There were empty seats behind it, the workers having gone home for the day.
Polanski walked across the thick pink carpet and carried on past the U-shaped black marble counter and stepped through an unmarked black wooden door off on the right hand side. Then, descended a black steel square stairwell to the underground level. The stairs clanked under his feet.
At the bottom of the stairs, there were two more black wooden doors. One on the left and one on the right. The door on the left was unmarked. The door on the right had a rose gold plaque in the middle, about head height. It said, 'Management,' in a thin black flamboyant font.
Polanski walked over to it, pushed it open and stepped into his office.
It was fairly small and windowless, maybe twenty feet deep by thirty feet wide. It had navy blue walls and a light pink carpet. There was a rose gold metallic tanker desk in the middle of the floor with a cream leather executive swivel chair tucked in behind it. There were lush green plants by th
e corners of the back wall, one on the left, one on the right. A fish tank wrapped all the way around the room, running from one side of the door along the left wall, around the corner and along the back wall, around the corner and back along the right wall, then around the corner, again, and along the wall to the other side of the door. It was filled with tropical fish. Shoals of them. All in a variety of different sizes, from big to small, and in a multitude of colors, from oranges to silvers and greys to pinks and blues. They all swam around inside, blowing bubbles and gliding past one and other, back and forth through the brightly-colored water that was back-lit by pink and purple underwater lights.
Arshavin, Salenko and Zurawski were there. Arshavin and Salenko were sitting on cream leather tub chairs at the front of the desk, looking at Zurawski, who was pacing back and forth on the other side of it, staring at the shoal of tropical fish.
Arshavin and Salenko stood to attention on Polanski's entry into the room. Zurawski slipped around the side of the desk and stood beside them.
"Boss," Arshavin said and nodded.
Polanski said absolutely nothing. Not one word. Instead, he walked past the desk and stopped by the back wall and stared deep into the fish tank.
The fish flinched under his leering gaze.
"Boss?
More silence.
Arshavin looked at Salenko, who looked at Zurawski, who looked at Arshavin. He shrugged.
"Trudeaux told me that somebody never paid up last night," Polanski said, eventually, still staring at the fish.
The men said nothing.
Another couple of tense seconds went by.
Polanski turned around. There was a bleak look in his eyes. "Tell me who. And tell me how."
Arshavin swallowed hard, then answered. "It was a woman," he said.
"A woman?" Polanski asked, a condescending tone to his voice.
"Yes. A hairdresser," Salenko added.
"A hairdresser?" Polanski asked him. He sounded even more unimpressed. "How?"
"She had a guy," Arshavin answered.
"A guy? What guy?”
Arshavin pulled a face and shook his head. "Don't know."
Easy Money Page 9
