Doing Lunch

by Doing Lunch Free(Lit)

  As the four men with blonde hair and paisley shirts walked onto the stage, the trio sitting in the audience began settling themselves in for more frustration. To the contrary, they began sitting up and taking notice when the notes flowed from their instruments and the vocals kicked in. They had a beach boy look and they where playing “Back In the U.S.S.R.," a song developed and recorded by the Beatles. Their sound was terrific as far as the three sitting in front of the rockers were concerned.

  “That’s it! That sound is what we need.” Mikhail rose to his feet. Before the group knew it, he was all over them.

  “When can you four start touring?”

  “Right away,” answered one.

  “Great!” Turning to Allison, his enthusiasm permeating his body and appearing to be just short of going into a cold sweat, his ideas began flowing. "We'll book them into every auditorium, coliseum, stadium and convention center in America."

  “Convention center! That’s what our new city could use, a convention center.”

  “Great idea, Allison. Make sure you keep that on the tip of your tongue so we don’t forget that,” advised Mikhail.

  “What do I look like, a juggling act?” responded Allison, with rapid-fire response time.

  Before Mikhail could return to his jubilation feeling the new Ted Mack amateur hour Allison had a voice recorder out and dictated her ideas about the convention center into it.

  “What else can you guys play?”

  The band broke into a rendition of “Needles and Pins” that had been recorded by the Searchers. Mikhail became lost in the music and all thoughts about his purpose for being there were lost, the reverie completely controlling him. Knowing the great stress that her boyfriend had been under, working himself into a frenzy with long hours and meals on the run, Allison knew this moment was as much therapeutic for him as it was business.

  “We have to get these guys some songs, get them known.”

  “Hey, what about Billy Dee Johnson?” Allison quickly committed to memory the name Billy Dee Johnson and promised herself that she would repeat it often when Mikhail kissed her passionately. It was something he had not done in weeks. The almost three months they were in Russia, their lovemaking had taken a turn for the worse. She understood the challenge that was driving him, but sharing him now with his homeland was beginning to take its toll.

  “Brilliant! I think he could write some great stuff for these guys.”

  “But do you think they are ready to tour?” asked the professor. Mikhail looked at the band, then exchanged a questioning glance with Allison to try to find out what she thought. They both knew that the professor was talking about stage demeanor, but to what degree? Could these guys throw their guitars into the audience? Could they tear up hotel rooms? Mikhail started thinking that maybe this was a foursome that had to pass themselves off as a new group version of Ravi Shankar.

  “We’ll find a way, professor. Just help fine tune their act and I think we’re on our way.”

  The next two and a half hours were a drain on the three judges. They figured that they came up with maybe another two lounge acts for their new hotels, nothing more. The scarcity of groups that they were able to uncover in this session made it all that much more important that the acts they did discover became successful.

  Listening to the group’s sound, they were convinced that they had a universal flavor. They knew they had some big decisions to make, such as where would the group concentrate its efforts? Would it spend more time in Europe or America? This was important because they would have to have a name that appealed to the culture. The name Rolling Stones was most appropriate for England, considering the country’s ties to Stonehenge. The name Cannibal and the Headhunters just would not go in proper England. Maybe in France, under Louis the XVI, but not in modern England.

  Calling it a night, Allison and Mikhail just wanted something to eat, anything. Looking at his watch, Mikhail realized that it was later than he thought and that fewer places were open than he hoped would be. The situation made McDonald's acceptable.

  Moving out of the music hall, the Moscow McDonald's was merely a few hundred yards down the street. The pleasant evening and the walk were something that the American lovebirds needed. Holding each other as they strolled, the small kisses seemed endless, the physical closeness of the situation as important as the kisses themselves. Well, it seemed endless until they heard Russo’s voice.

  “Mikhail.” Stopping and turning around in the direction from where they heard the voice, sure enough there was Tim Russo. “Listen, Mikhail, how did the auditions go today?”

  “How’d you find out about that?”

  “Listen, Mikhail, forget that. What time are you leaving tomorrow morning for the Sea of Azov?”

  “What the hell is going on here, Russo? What, are you working for the KGB or something? Where are you finding this stuff out?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Well, what time you leaving?”

  “Be at the hotel at seven.”

  “Great, I’m buying.”

  “Buying what?”

  “McDonald's, that’s where you’re heading, isn’t it? I mean there is nothing else down this way that’s open that you two would be interested in.” Mikhail knew that even though he planned to order a happy meal, the name was going to be a misnomer tonight.

  The lights were burning late into the evening at the government building where Sergotoff, Medansky and Yalantov sipped vodka. Their slouched positions in their chairs and their half open eyes would disclose to someone just entering that their drinking had started quite some time back.

  “He is off to a good start, a very good start,” was the slurred words from Medansky.

  “You have been saying that since eight o’clock, Medansky.”

  “But he is, Serge. They are almost halfway done with the hotels. They are almost a week ahead of schedule.”

  “Don’t worry. Maybe he will succeed a little here, a little there, but build an entire economy? “

  “Oh, my head hurts so bad,” moaned Yalantov, who took another sip of his vodka that was the cause of his headache.

  “Your head will hurt worse, Yalantov, if this Mikhail succeeds.”

  “He won’t succeed, Medansky. Stop making something out of nothing. He will not turn the whole economy around.”

  “But some of the people helping to put together this city are Russians. Some are learning masonry, some carpentry, and some are becoming electricians. He has people learning to do things.”

  “You worry too much. Drink up.”

  “Oooooo,” came another moan from Yalantov as he tried to do just that, drink up.

  The dirt road out in the middle of nowhere found the luxury Mercedes limousine out of place. As it motored toward its destination, the retreat of the Communist Party on the Sea of Azov, Mikhail took notice of all the empty land around them. The four passengers, B. Czar who owned the car, Tim Russo, Mikhail and Allison were all very comfortable in the back sipping drinks and watching “Reds” with Warren Beatty on B. Czar’s VCR.

  “So, Tim, just how did you find out about our trip?”

  “Come on, you know I have to protect my sources.”

  “This is Russia, Tim, not America, you can tell me,” he said, laughing at his friend’s esoteric logic.

  “Have to protect my sources, Mikhail, you know that. I have integrity.”

  “Was it Volitov?” asked Allison. The small smirk on Russo’s lips gave the answer away.

  “How much you pay him?’

  “Ten thousand.”

  “You got off cheap. What’s ten thousand rubles, seventy bucks?”

  “I paid him ten thousand dollars.”

  “What are you, nuts?” snapped Allison. “If I knew you were paying out that kind of money, I would have invited you for half that!”

  “Why did you pay that kind of money for information?” interjected B.Czar.

  “The N
ational Inquirer offered seventy-five hundred for the location of the rumor they heard. I offered him ten to keep tabs on you and not to tell the Inquirer.”

  Allison smiled while Mikhail merely shook his head with his whole world turning around.

  “We are almost there. I see it! I see it!” the excited B. Czar exclaimed with enthusiasm, as if he had seen the biggest bargain ever. Mikhail started to consider that if the place was worth the effort and Russia imposed eminent domain then it just might turn out to be one hell of a bargain. As they came within two hundred yards of Life, the word the communists used in reference to the retreat, Mikhail really could not see just how large the main building was because of the dense trees that surrounded the place. He knew it was a whopper because it had over seven hundred thousand square feet. He just was not sure if it was one building or several buildings. The architectural plans he viewed had been altered, probably by the KGB.

  The car began to slow down as it approached the electronic gate where a military guard kept sentry. B. Czar got out of the car and moved toward the gate where he said a few words to the sentry. The gate began to open and B. Czar returned to the car.

  “What did you say to him, it looked like it was only one word?”

  “Enchiladas.”

  “Enchiladas?” asked Russo as the car began to move through the gate toward the main building.

  “Yeah. Started a couple of years ago. I paid for a party here and I brought in Tex-Mex. Everyone loved it. He told me anytime I wanted onto the place all I had to do was get him some enchiladas.”

  “Where you going to get these Enchiladas?” inquired Allison.

  “I am going to make them. Have everything in the trunk. Enough to feed an army.”

  The limousine moved along the grounds, passing tennis courts and then a horse ring. Off in the distance the occupants of the car could see stables, lots of stables, leaving the mind to wonder out of curiosity just how many horses occupied those stables. The odor that filled the air let everyone in the car with the windows open know that the stables were occupied.

  “Holy cow, look at that place!” Mikhail’s words of surprise alarmed the others, who turned their attentions in the same direction that he was looking. The building, besides being enormous, had an appearance of impeccable elegance. There was a three-tiered marble staircase leading up from the driveway to the main entrance of the six-story building. The brass handrails shined in the afternoon’s sun and lead up to a long green awning that covered the entrance of the building.

  “This is like a hotel,” observed Russo.

  “And that’s exactly what we plan to make it,” snapped Mikhail. The limousine pulled up to the curb and the four stepped out from the luxury automobile with the chauffeur now serving as the doorman. Climbing the five steps of each tier, Mikhail gave the exterior the quick once over, making a mental note of everything. The first mental note he made was that the place had received a fresh paint job, probably within the last few months.

  Entering the lobby, the carpeting was as plush as any that Allison had ever seen. The red color was not appealing, though, and the yellow walls made her feel as if she were in a child’s nursery. Seeing the hammer and sickle, she realized that there was one more thing that had to go, and not just in the lobby. Without any warning an attractive blonde woman entered from one of the doors. Dressed in a red blazer and red skirt, the foursome immediately determined that she worked there.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, we want to see the rooms.” The words of B. Czar were difficult for anyone to hear even though they were no more than a foot or two away from his loud voice. The whirling of the rotor blades from a landing helicopter acted as a noise vacuum, something that every mother of a terrible two’s child would want.

  “Ah, that must be Alexi,” advised Tim Russo.

  “You get that info from Volitov too?” asked Mikhail.

  “You bet.”

  Allison began leading the group outside where they spotted the landing helicopter over near some vacant land near the stables. Quickly, they made haste. As they moved toward the helicopter, they noticed several more military people approaching the landing aircraft. Now that they knew they were present, Mikhail realized that the communists made certain that there was at least adequate security. Considering the remoteness of this retreat, Mikhail was certain that the number of men he noticed were more than enough. Alexi was the first to step out of the helicopter where Allison greeted him with a hug.

  “Alexi!”

  Alexi glanced around at the grounds as Orlina stepped from the helicopter with the two children. The large straw bag in her hand that she received two weeks ago from Castro on her visit to Cuba appeared filled to the max.

  “Orlina!” cried Allison, who had not seen her in two days. When these two bonded, it was some kind of bond.

  “Orlina, I would like to check out the retreat with Mikhail. You take the kids to the pool.” The four men made their way back to the hotel, again climbing the tiers of steps. Entering the lobby, they found the woman still waiting there to serve them.

  “I am Harlain. I would have prepared something for you, Mister Premier, but I only learned about an hour ago of your plans.”

  “You do not worry. We will eat what you eat.”

  “No we won’t. B. Czar here has all the stuff he needs to make enchiladas, right B. Czar?”

  “I have enough.”

  “What is this enchiladas?”

  “Don’t worry, Alexi, you will love it.” Leaving Mikhail’s words behind him, the premier began giving the lobby the once over.

  “Shall we start looking at the rooms?” inquired Alexi of Harlain.

  “Of course.” Leading them to the elevator, the four men were awe struck when the vehicle's doors opened. The elevator size itself was quite large, about twice the size of a normal elevator. It had to be because of the large crystal chandelier that hung from it’s ceiling. Mikhail found himself appalled by the way the communists had treated themselves while people went homeless and starved throughout Russia, and if he were not wholeheartedly committed to bringing Russia out of the doldrums before, he was now.

  “I hope they got the crystal from my man Hymie or these guys paid way too much,” commented B. Czar, who Mikhail had observed had some economical comment about everything he saw.

  “I thought you were here before?” asked Russo in such a tone that B. Czar believed the journalist was trying to catch him in a lie.

  “I have been but this stuff is new. The chandelier they had when I was here about six months ago was cheap glass. It was tough being a guest, they never cut you in on the action.” The elevator rose and stopped at the fourth floor, the floor selected by Harlain. She led them down the long corridor where the deep red walls placed a strain on the eyes. Opening a door, the decor of the room was nothing that one would anticipate from the color of the halls. The pure white oak furniture that had hand carvings in them looked expensive, no matter what they actually had cost. The hand-woven bedspread, magnificent with its rainbow colors, immediately caught one’s eye.

  “Must have paid a bundle for that bedspread,” commented B. Czar.

  “Could you have gotten them a deal for that too?” asked Russo.

  “No way. I checked it out the last time I was here. It’s hand-woven. Now if they wanted an imitation, something that they wove with a loom, that I could get.”

  “Harlain, why did you pick this room to show us, aren’t all the rooms the same?” inquired Russo, his journalistic instincts prevailing at the moment.

  “Yes, they are, but this was the only room that was made up. I will show you.”

  “Wait a minute, aren’t there any maids here?” asked Mikhail.

  “They come only on the first of the month unless the communists are here to party, then we bring the maids in to stay. It is cheaper this way than to have them stay here all of the time.”

  “Mikhail, we are going to have to start getting maids, janitors, people
trained in hotel management. We’re going to need these things if we want to make a big push for tourists,” said Alexi.

  “He’s right, Mikhail, people are not going to make their own beds on vacation,” advised Russo, as if telling Mikhail something that he hadn’t already figured out on his own. Mikhail threw his arms up in the air.

  “An industry is born! Ms. Harlain, how would you like to be the first president of a college for the hotel industry here in Russia?"

  “Well what about my running this place for the communist party?”

  “This place will be taken over under eminent domain. It will no longer belong to the communists,” advised Alexi.

  “Well, I would love to.”

  “Good, but we will only subsidize the college for two years, then you must be self sufficient. You will then be the sole owner by just paying back to the government what it laid out in expenses.”

  “It will be done.”

  “You’re English, are you not, Harlain?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “So what were you doing out here in the middle of nowhere in Russia running a hotel for the communist party?” asked Russo, wanting all the pieces to the puzzle, knowing that was the only way to get a complete picture.

  “They wanted someone who knew how to provide hospitality and they pay well.”

  “Did all the members of the communist party have rooms like this when they convened here?” came another rapid-fire question from the reporter.

  “Oh no. The big wigs like Serge Sergotoff had suites. Care to see one?”

  “Of course,” commented Alexi, echoing the words that everyone else was thinking.