Doing Lunch

by Doing Lunch Free(Lit)

  Harlain led the group back to the elevators where they rode one to the top floor. As the doors opened and the group stepped out, they noticed after looking in each direction down the corridor that there were only six doors. Immediately, everyone assessed this to mean that the rooms on the other side of the doors were enormous, maybe basketball courts, maybe football fields. Opening the door closest to the elevators, the suite was as luxurious as Mikhail’s Santa Monica condominium.

  Entering the suite, they quickly found themselves in the living room with its white French Provincial furniture and gold ornaments. The statues that adorned the room were white and Alexi suspected, but did not say, that he believed they were carved out of ivory.

  “Two hundred a night, right?" questioned B. Czar, wanting to know if his assessment was right of what the room could garner per night.

  “Have to see the whole place, B. Czar.” Harlain was glad to hear Mikhail say B. Czar because she did not want to think that she was the only one that found the man strange. She then led them into the master suite where there was a canopy bed with the finest of silk adorning the mattress. The furniture was antique and everyone was advised that it dated back to Catherine the Great.

  The next stop was in the bathroom, one that was comparable to any suite in any Las Vegas triple A rated hotel. The bathroom included a step up Jacuzzi whirlpool bath accented with black marble tiles. The sinks had brass plumbing, as did the shower stall. The room even had a television set and the signal was fed in by cable from Moscow.

  “Two fifty a night,” anted up B. Czar. Mikhail walked back into the bedroom and walked over to the doors that led out to the balcony. Alexi was the first to join him. Looking out, there was a vast expanse of empty land with small rolling hills that disappeared in the distance.

  “At least three hundred a night.”

  “You were figuring with a view overlooking the golf course?”

  “You always know what I’m thinking, don’t you, B. Czar?” Leading his new associate back to the bedroom and into the living room where the others were gathered, B. Czar got up into Mikhail’s face faster than a Chicago wind.

  “Am I right? Am I right? Three hundred a night, that’s gonna be it, right?”

  “At least three fifty, maybe four.” B. Czar’s eyes started to bulge. He had been aware that burgeoning economies usually had accelerated inflation rates, but this room just went from two hundred a night to at least three fifty. If this was going to be a hotel chain he was going to have to own a piece of the action.

  “How far to the Sea of Azov?” asked Mikhail.

  “Just up those hills and down the other side as you go toward the horizon. A person could probably walk it in maybe twenty minutes.” B. Czar, knowing the way Mikhail was oriented toward service, knew that Mikhail would never allow hotel clients to walk, was not surprised when he muttered the word “Trams.” He knew he was a believer in repeat business and that word of mouth of any inconvenience provided by a hotel to someone on vacation was a bad thing.

  The politburo had convened by special order of Alexi Debenov. The assembly was to be convened with just one subject on the agenda, eminent domain. The meeting itself was a mere formality since Alexi had already lined up the votes before calling the session. He merely needed to show some of the representatives' photos of the suites and what they were not getting.

  With the assembly being called to order, the representative of the People’s Democratic Party from Moscow stood and presented the issue. While there was a hidden agenda to this, the communists in the Politburo voted in favor of the referendum in the misguided belief that the taking of people’s property would help to further their recall to power.

  While the vote on eminent domain was succeeding overwhelmingly, Mikhail could not hesitate for one moment in developing the economy of Russia. He had flown to Paris to talk to some bankers who were considering giving him a ten-billion-dollar loan. It was also a good time to do some catching up in his relationship with Allison and she adored French cooking.

  Mikhail and Allison enjoyed their fine French cuisine with a few glasses of wine too many. They then continued to begin enjoying the City of Lights with a horse drawn carriage, never wondering where the driver was taking them, since they kept their eyes on each other. They knew that these would never go over in Moscow because the warm weather did not last long enough. Besides, who in their right mind ever thought of Moscow as being romantic when the first thoughts that came to mind were Napoleon and Hitler being stopped by the frigid weather.

  “You know, Mikhail, the great cities of the world all have something unique about them. Don’t you think that is what makes them great?”

  “What do you mean, unique?”

  "Well here in Paris there is the Eiffel Tower, the Arch De'Triomphe.”

  “Which all the invading troops pass under.”

  “Oh you know what I mean. Look at the lights, the people that sell flowers and look at London, the history. There’s Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London.”

  “Allison, what are you saying?”

  “Let’s make the city that we’re building near the Caspian Sea special. It’s perfect being near the water.”

  “Fort Lauderdale is near the water. That’s only special during Easter.”

  “Oh you know what I mean.”

  “Have any ideas?”

  Allison fought with her tongue to find the words, but they just were not there. Suddenly her mouth filled with words so fast that she almost became tongue-tied trying to begin the sentence.

  “Maybe make it a place to go to get away from it all.”

  “That should be the city near the Sea of Azov, Allison. You know what that place is going to look like when we’re done with it. We could make it a romantic little hideaway. Quaint little restaurants, little shops, maybe build a hotel or two overlooking the Black Sea.” Allison quickly threw herself into the arms of the man of her life.

  “It’ll be just like Solvang.”

  “Probably, but we can’t advertise it like that. Everyone in Europe will go, 'What’s a Solvang?'”

  As the two walked down the street looking into the small boutiques that lined the street, Allison had a near fatal cardiac arrest when for no explainable reason Mikhail let out with, “That’s what was wrong!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When you, me and Semanov were listening to those bands, we went about it all wrong. We advertised for rock bands and anybody that could play a musical instrument showed up.”

  “And most of them were bad, you have to admit that.”

  “Yes, they were bad, Allison, but there was a reason.”

  “I thought the reason was because they couldn’t play their instruments.”

  “No, no, no, they couldn’t play rock and roll with their instruments. They were trained in the classical instruments. Think about it, just think about it.” The way Mikhail was getting excited by what he was saying, Allison was expecting that he had just discovered a cure for the common cold. She began trying to remember the groups that performed. “There were drums, there’s always drums, lots of bass and wood...you’re right, those weren’t rock instruments, no bass guitars…there were no guitars!”

  “Exactly, they were like kids trying to get out of the ghetto, they were going to do anything to get out. These people should have been auditioning with some of the Motown stuff from the sixties or maybe Earth, Wind and Fire.”

  “This is too good to be true. Let’s go celebrate.”

  “With what?” Allison looked around and noticed that just up several shops was a bakery.

  “Let’s celebrate with a Napoleon.”

  “Okay, but we’ll have to eat it here. Napoleons don’t do well in Russia.” Hugging and carrying on as they made their way to the bakery, they moved to get some sweets with a jump in their steps. Once they got a little more sugar in their blood, that jump would carry them higher. Sweets would be just the right word to use to describe the
way they acted toward one another.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE HAPPENING

  The conference room that was located inside the office of the Foreign Ministers' headquarters was a very solemn sight. The gray walls of the room appeared to be nothing more than a mirrored image of the feelings that were held by the communist members that occupied it.

  Slugging down his small glass of vodka, Sergotoff threw the empty glass against the wall, his full head of white hair flying about covering his face. He accented his anger by pounding the fist of his right hand into the open palm of his left.

  “Damn him!”

  “Do not worry, Foreign Minister, he will not succeed with this free enterprise thing. Russia will overwhelm him like it always does,” suggested Medansky, who managed to keep his voice firm in the hopes of conveying that he believed in what he was saying.

  “But he is succeeding. We have already had the retreat at the Sea of Azov taken by him. My wife has scolded me for three days now. She is worried about what she is going to tell her friends. Now I will have to take her someplace and I have to pay for it.”

  “It is just a temporary setback,” added Yalantov, trying to soothe over the anger that Sergotoff was displaying, an anger that everyone in the room knew could turn nasty with rage at a moment’s notice.

  “Are you so sure?” snapped Sergotoff, aware that “yes” men surrounded him.

  “It is just temporary,” reassured Yalantov in a half-hearted manner. It was a case where he should have let Medansky speak for him.

  “We must find a way to stem the tide of capitalism before we lose everything, do you hear me, everything!” The glum faces did not respond to Sergotoff's husky voice, having gained immunity to it over the years. The lack of reaction had Sergotoff thinking that he was now losing his power, something he never imagined happening. He knew there was nothing he could do to try to regain the retreat except maybe take it to court. His logic told him that since it was owned by Russia that meant that the people owned it, all the people and not just the seven men in that conference room. Suddenly, he started thinking about legal expenses and if it was worth filing a legal action. He had heard so many bad things about lawyers when he visited America that he wasn’t really certain that he wanted to get involved with them, the same thought that kept Americans from seeking legal remedy.

  “Medansky, I want you to get me all the information on Mikhail and his girlfriend you can. We will use that against them.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What do you mean you can’t? You’re head of the KGB!”

  “I know, but since the English and American tabloids have arrived in Moscow information costs more than we can afford.”

  “Then maybe we can trade something with one of the tabloids.”

  “We have tried that. What we have offered, they already know.”

  “You will have to get something on someone that they do not have. We must now barter.”

  “Whom should I get information on?”

  “Anyone that you have to that the tabloids are looking for. It would do us no good to gather information that they do not want."

  “That is true, Foreign Minister. We already have enough information that we don’t even want.” Medansky’s reminder of the wasteful spending that the communists had indulged in while they maintained power made Sergotoff shudder at the thought. He now wished that he had those rubles back since he was in dire need of buying power.

  “I might have something for you,” was the timid entry into the conversation by Yalantov.

  “If it is important, might be important, you are not sure, tell us, and let us decide.”

  “Well it was just that there has been over the last two months much greater quantities of building supplies coming into Moscow.”

  “Why have you not said something sooner?” screamed the husky voice, with the intent of striking fear into a man that was already frozen from it.

  “I...at first I thought it was something special but before I knew it the wiring, the plumbing, the dry wall, it just kept coming and coming.”

  “Who is this stuff for?”

  “I think it’s a French company. It’s called T.G.I.F. I have the address back at my office.”

  “Medansky, look into this immediately. We must get something on these people.”

  The city was beginning to take shape rather quickly. Starting originally with five thousand people to construct the two hotels and a few shops, they had increased the work force to ten thousand. Mikhail was pleased with himself for having brought over several retired building inspectors from America that he had known. He wanted the buildings to meet rigid building codes and these inspectors he knew were honest. He did not want the movie “Towering Inferno” coming to life in any project that his name was associated.

  When he had sat down with Allison, Russo and B. Czar the previous evening, they had agreed that Russia would need to institute strict building codes, particularly with its harsh winters. Allison had brought a strong sense of ethics and knowledge of the law to the dinner, something B. Czar thought did not go hand in hand with his making a profit. Tim Russo's years as a journalist gave him a great deal of history to draw on as far as construction disasters were concerned. B. Czar, who survived life through black market economics, brought the knowledge to the table of the cheapest way for history not to repeat itself.

  The work force was busy and the two hotels, both seven stories high, already had their frames and exteriors completed. Russo, familiar with Russia, was in shock to see the energy being expended. While he was aware that the electricians, plumbers, masons and carpenters were from other countries, he knew they were teaching the assistants. He was also aware that the assistants were Russians, there to learn a trade and he was surprised at the way they were committing themselves to even the most menial of jobs.

  “You’ve got them doing it, Mikhail.”

  “They may feel they have no choice.”

  “But everyone I see is giving it everything they have. You must have gotten lucky in getting just the right people.”

  “Not at all,” interjected Allison with an answer at the ready. “Since we were taking people who had worked under a Communist system, we figured that it was just about the same as taking them from a socialist system. So we went after all the people that managers claimed to be poor workers. We sensed it was just like the post office back in America, the ones that were described as the worst workers were usually the best but they get bad mouthed because they were the ones that would rock the boat.”

  “You mean all of these people were listed as bad workers?”

  “You got it, Tim,” responded Mikhail, proud of the fact that his and Allison’s assessments of the situation were accurate. He was glad that he was now reaping the rewards of their judgment.

  “You mean there are people in Civil Service in America that aren’t getting their credit?”

  “You’re on the right track now, Tim.”

  “How did you find this out, Allison?”

  “A friend of ours who works for the post office.”

  “Come on, I want to take a closer look,” suggested Mikhail. Leading the group, they were approached by the job foreman who handed each a hard hat.

  “So how’s it going, Al?” asked Mikhail, the casual manner implying that they knew each other and that their relationship was laid back.

  “Al, are you American?”

  “Yeah, what’s it to you?” The New York accent said it all and Tim Russo shrugged in some fear at the answer to his question. It was not the answer that scared him, it was the tone and the eyes that were directed his way.

  “Nothing, nothing, not a thing.”

  “Come on, Mikey, let me show you how we are doin’." Leading them over to the first hotel, the lobby was in the process of having the tile laid. The tile workers were almost fighting to get out of each other’s way with the trainees running around with the pails of paste.

  “You look like you’re m
oving right along.”

  “Should be, Mikey, since you sent us those extra five thousand people. Man, I can’t believe how hard they work and how little you’re paying them. Man, in New York it was the other way around, the more you pay, the less they do.”

  “Yeah, well, Al, try being out of work for a couple of hundred years.”

  A cart was rolled in and on it were boxes of tiles. The two men lead it across the floor in front of the foursome.

  “Hey, wait a minute! Where are you getting these tiles from?” demanded B. Czar. Mikhail got the feeling from his business associate's reaction that maybe he felt he was getting short-changed in a possible deal.

  “We’re getting them from Czechoslovakia.”

  “No, Mikey, no! You’re paying more than twice as much as I could have gotten them for you.”

  “We’re paying that much more?”

  “Not we, you. I would never have bought that stuff from Czechoslovakia. You’re paying thirty-one, thirty-two a carton, right? Could have gotten it for you for...hhhmmmmm...eighteen max and that’s with my fee.”

  The fact that B. Czar knew what he was paying said plenty. If B. Czar was not so worldly wise about economics, how could he know what the price was for tiles from Czechoslovakia and how much cheaper he could get them someplace else? Mikhail also started thinking that B. Czar did not even have to look up the tile style, one look at it and he knew. If someone were going to start a country with the no frills plan, B. Czar was the guy to have with you. Mikhail lost his thought when a young man entered the future lobby of the hotel yelling, “The train is here! The train is here!” The excitement meant nothing to Mikhail or Allison until B. Czar grabbed Allison’s hand.

  “Come, let’s go!” The four rushed outside and began following the other workers toward the horizon. When they got out about a hundred or so yards, they looked eastward where they could barely make out in the distance people working.

  “They pulling a train?”

  “No, Mikhail, that’s my people from Asia who are laying the track.”