Doing Lunch

by Doing Lunch Free(Lit)

  “It’s only been two and a half months since they started. How much overtime are they working?”

  “None. I have twenty-five thousand people laying the track. What do you think this is, Amtrak?”

  “Oh my goodness B. Czar, the auction.”

  “What auction, Mikhail?” asked Allison, who was just as confused as Russo and B. Czar.

  “The Amtrak auction. They’re selling train wrecks to the highest bidder. We have tracks now but no trains.”

  “When is it?” inquired Russo.

  “Thursday.”

  “That doesn’t give us much time but we might make it if we fly out of Moscow the moment we get back,” advised the journalist.

  “Wait a minute! Wait a minute! Everyone here nuts? I’ll call Joey, he’ll fix things,” commented B. Czar as if everyone around him knew who this Joey was.

  “Joey?” questioned Mikhail.

  “My connection at the White House. I slept there about a year ago, worst bed and breakfast I’ve ever been to. They told me to just leave the money in the mattress. I didn’t realize that I was supposed to do that after I got up in the morning. What a terrible night’s sleep.”

  “You sure this Joey can help us?” asked Allison.

  “He owes me one. For a hundred thousand, he should owe me at least one.” B. Czar removed his cellular telephone and moved several feet away from the others, wanting to keep his conversation private.

  “Do you believe this guy, he knows people all over the place?” asked Mikhail of the magazine reporter.

  “You should be glad he does, Mikhail. Just look how quick he got the rail laid for the train connection into Asia.” B. Czar completed his call and returned to the others.

  “Done deal. Joey thought he might be able to get a couple of Union Pacific freight cars and a few flatbeds to boot. That’ll come in handy for the lumber.”

  “What lumber?” was the startled response of Mikhail.

  “The lumber we’re going to be cutting down in Siberia.”

  “We’re cutting down lumber?” came Mikhail’s next question in his attempt to find out what was happening.

  “Sure we’re cutting down lumber. Send it to some of these paper companies for some more up front money. We should be able to get a couple of billion if we can get a consortium of paper companies together.”

  “There are that many trees in Russia?”

  “Plenty. We have Louisville Sluggers galore.”

  “We don’t need Louisville Sluggers, we need some good paper currency. My rubles keep getting rejected in the soda machines.”

  “You think that rubles only get rejected in the soda machines?” asked Russo whose question brought a small smile to the faces of the others.

  “That paper was terrible.”

  “I will tell you what, Mikhail, I will contact a friend of mine who knows how to make good money.”

  “B. Czar, you know people in the treasury too?”

  “No, not the treasury. My friend is a counterfeiter.”

  “When can you get him started on this?”

  “As soon as he gets out. He is in a place called Leavenworth.”

  “Your friend, B. Czar, doesn’t know that much about money if he’s vacationing in Leavenworth,” commented Mikhail, knowing now that he was back at square one with Russia’s money problem.

  “But what about getting the lumber to market?” asked Russo, remembering one of his five journalistic W’s. The question struck a nerve and caused B. Czar to think twice.

  “Tim’s right, Czar, how are we going to get the lumber to market?” B. Czar certainly did not need to hear Mikhail echo Russo’s question. He understood it the first time he heard it. It always bothered him when he failed to plan things right the first time. It was worse for his ego when someone else discovered the flaw in his thinking. B. Czar’s solution became apparent to the others when he again returned his attention toward the horizon.

  “Should be no problem.”

  “But how are we going to get them to Siberia to start cutting the lumber?” Mikhail’s question presented a logistics problem to B. Czar. He knew how he intended to get everyone north, that they would go by rail. Sending twenty-five thousand people at one time was impossible on one train.

  “Don’t forget, Mikhail, we must replant what we cut.”

  “Promise, Allison.”

  “Want another hotel?” B. Czar’s question made in jest sparked an idea.

  “Maybe we could finish the two they are working on earlier, Mikhail?” asked his flame. Allison’s suggestion struck a gold mine with Mikhail because he saw instant gratification in it. He immediately realized that the sooner the city was operational, the sooner the buku bucks would be coming.

  “Yes, that’s a great idea. Let’s do it, Czar.”

  “I’ll take care of it when they get here, but we’re going to need the food supplies much sooner than we thought.” Mikhail extended an open palm and B. Czar placed the cellular phone in it. Dialing from memory, he made contact after only two rings. That was another thing about private enterprise, the need to provide good service. The thought of losing a sale often made people answer the phone quicker.

  “Peter?”

  “Mikhail, that you?"

  “Yeah. Start sending the goods right away.”

  “No problem. I could probably get the trucks rolling in by tomorrow morning, is that okay?”

  “Fine, but we’re going to need more. Instead of food for ten thousand, we need enough to feed thirty-five thousand.”

  “That’s enough to feed an army. What do you have going there, VE day?”

  “No Pete. This is going to be VCR day.”

  “VCR day?”

  “Yeah, Victory in Capitalist Russia Day.” The chuckle at the other end pleased Mikhail’s baby boomer self-gratification ego. He did not mind paying for the call if he had his ego massaged. The chuckle was the massage.

  “My credit is still good, right Pete?”

  “Sure. You are my biggest account.”

  “I will have the money to you by next week.”

  “Your word has always been good, Mikey.”

  Saying their good byes and promising to get together to play golf soon, Mikhail returned to his foursome. He wished that they had clubs in their hands since it was such a beautiful day.

  “Okay, the food should start rolling in by next week. Hopefully they have enough food to last them.”

  “Took care of that, too,” informed B. Czar. This new piece of information that had just been offered along with the other acts of industrial behavior made Mikhail come to terms with B. Czar’s initiative. He began to see much of himself mirrored in his new associate. He knew that this quality, used in a positive way, a way that was not meant to deceive people, was something that the new Russia was going to need to succeed.

  Mikhail began looking around. Glancing at the area where the small city was going up, he turned his attention toward the horizon where the smallest of human silhouettes could be seen working. With only one direction left where there was sufficient land, he pointed toward it.

  “We will put a golf course in over there.”

  “Wonderful! Wonderful! I will take up the game!” declared B. Czar, the excitement of his voice being accented by the movement of his body. Taking what he believed to be a golfer’s stance and faking a grip on an imaginary club, he swung. His next action was to look outward toward the land that Mikhail had designated as the future site of the golf course and he appeared to be following his imaginary ball.

  “That swing needs a lot of work,” advised Russo.

  “And the grip is all wrong,” added Allison.

  “That’s why your ball ended up in the water,” disclosed Mikhail.

  Czar immediately acted was if he was flinging the club and bringing the meanest expression to his face that he could muster as he stared Mikhail straight in the eyes. Leaving just a few inches between them, trying to make himself appear an imposing figure, he fa
iled to consider that he was several inches smaller than Mikhail.

  “When you are getting the course designed, tell the architect no water on the right.” The two just looked at one another for a moment before B. Czar continued, “And get rid of that trap on the left. Now let's go.” B. Czar moved away quickly and the others followed as he headed toward the city.

  The masonry work had a substantial part of it already completed. Allison appreciated being able to walk on concrete sidewalks and not the uneven ground with its potholes. The last time they had come to town, she had rolled an ankle and it still bothered her. It bothered her getting hurt, not because of the pain but because they had to cancel dinner. They had reservations at a wonderful Japanese restaurant where they were required to sit with your legs crossed on the floor. It would have been an impossible task. Russo stopped and began to admire the work, even getting down so that the sidewalks were at eye level.

  “What are you doing, Tim?”

  “I’m just checking out the workmanship, Allison.” The journalist studied it a little longer before rising to a stand, making certain of the craftsmanship.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Well, Mikhail, you said that you had people learning the trade from some craftsmen that you brought in. I was just checking it out. Looked good.”

  “Yeah, well it’ll probably turn out that the sidewalk you just looked at was laid out by the craftsmen. Somewhere around here there is probably a sidewalk that has wells and mounds in it galore.”

  “Oh Mikhail, stop being so pessimistic. Give them a chance to see what they can do,” said Allison, her sense of fair play and not wanting to prejudge people always at the forefront of her social consciousness.

  “Okay, I won’t be!”

  “Let’s check around, see if the masonry is good throughout the whole city.” The suggestion by Russo was acted upon immediately. Walking the entire part of the city that had already been laid with pavement, they found the workmanship impeccable. Seeing some wet cement, Russo could not resist the temptation of putting his palm prints in the pavement. Allison sensed that Russo was bit by that journalistic quality of always having to be first: first to get the story, first to file the byline, etc. He cleaned his hands off with a towel that B. Czar handed him, having found it laying on a ledge.

  “That’s what this city is going to need, a movie theater,” spouted Allison.

  “She’s right, Mikhail, especially if this is going to be a tourist town,” seconded Russo.

  “Westerns, plenty of westerns. I love westerns...bang, bang...giddyup...I love westerns.” B. Czar did not hide his preferences and little did he know that was exactly what he was going to get. If Mikhail wanted to bring capitalism to Russia, he knew that making people here understand that it was not easy in the beginning, showing westerns might help.

  “They did a good job, Mikhail. They’re hungry, they want to learn and work. You definitely picked the right people to use.”

  “But Tim, we have the U.S. Civil Service to draw our experience from. A friend of ours told us that the people that are bad mouthed the most by management are usually the good workers. They were the ones that did their work and didn’t suck ass. We just figured it was the same in Russia,” advised Allison.

  “Yeah, except over here all the jobs are civil service,” added Mikhail.

  “Well you two were on the money on this one. I’ll bet when you first heard your friend tell you that, you thought he was all wet behind the ears.”

  “Wet!” The sound of Allison’s arousal made it clear to everyone that she had another idea. Mikhail was just hoping that it was going to be a profitable one.

  “How about bringing in a yacht and placing it on the Caspian Sea? We could have formal dinners with a small music ensemble.”

  “She’s right, Mikey, I mean didn’t you say that this town was going to cater to the rich? That would seem like something they’d be into.” Mikhail did not bother getting wordy but instead kissed Allison with such passion that she knew she had his seal of approval on the idea.

  “I could get the ensemble,” volunteered B. Czar without any hesitation.

  “Cheap?” questioned Mikhail, wanting to keep the overhead low.

  “So what else is new?” The answer brought a smile to Mikhail, who was starting to feel that what happened to him today was as close as he was ever going to get to winning the lotto. He knew that if he smiled anymore he would have enough lines in his face to qualify for social security.

  “I just got another idea, what about renting out ski jets and small boats, maybe some row boats, some sailboats?”

  “Boy, talk about giving Russia a face lift.”

  The group spent the next hour or two trying to figure out where the tourist’s accessories would go. Both hotels already had been designed with video arcades and a few restaurants. Everyone in the group knew that they needed more. They came up with ideas for a few additional state-owned restaurants spread throughout the city that would ultimately be taken over by the employees. They also knew they needed to develop some clothing shops since every resort city always had some. The final point that was agreed on was that the city would need at least one souvenir shop. Everybody had to take home a tee shirt or two and with the rail line now running to Asia, importing them would be cheap. Tee shirts were something that could have a nice profit margin once the Russian people understood the word profit.

  The Moscow evening was warm but the inside of the Sergotoff bedroom was ice cold. While not having made love to his wife in over a month, he knew not to ask on this night. Having told Sophia that their vacation to the Sea of Azov was cancelled because it was declared eminent domain, he played it smart and wore his pajamas to bed.

  Sophia was well aware of her figure; she worked at keeping it that way. While she and Serge were always distant to one another, they did have sex occasionally. The next time she vowed to let him touch her was when Haley’s comet was being shaded by the Hale-Boop comet.

  Finishing up putting on the cologne that she had just received that afternoon from Paris, she wanted to make certain that it was in all the right places. She had to make her husband want her, to crave her, so that she could frustrate him with rejection. She knew that a hard headed man with something hard that he wanted to make soft would just about climb the walls. That was exactly what Sophia wanted Serge to do as long as he did not leave fingerprints on the walls or ceiling.

  Putting the final touches on her hair and double checking her lipstick, she readjusted her negligee so that Serge could look for love in all the right places and still come away empty handed. Closing the light to their magnificent brass accented bathroom, she moved toward the king size bed where the king size ego rested. Slipping out of her slippers and climbing up onto the bed, she drew her husband’s attention the way she hoped she would. Reaching over and turning the last lamp off, the room was dark except for a small crack of light that seeped in through the black out drapes.

  “I’m sorry, Sophia,” pled Serge in a voice that always grew weak when he had to deal from weakness. The words were barely audible since he was turned facing away from his desires.

  “Did you say something?”

  “Yes, Sophia, I said I am sorry.” While Serge repeated himself in a louder voice the second time, he was still facing away, his voice carrying in the opposite direction of Sophia’s ears.

  “I still can’t hear you.” Sophia’s words cut through Serge because he knew that had he not brought the video “The D.I.” into the house, those words would never have come to haunt him. Because of that one mistake, one little mistake, and now the ghost of Jack Webb was a resident of the Sergotoff household. It was only pulled from the closet whenever Sophia needed it and it only haunted him, nobody else.

  Turning to face Sophia, Serge discovered that his wife found the dresser on her side of the bed far more appealing to look at.

  “I’m sorry, Sophia.” Serge made certain that his voice was loud enough for his spo
use to hear but not too loud as to cause her hearing to cease for even a moment. If she could not hear him he knew that his pleas for sex that evening would fall on deaf ears.

  Having been married to Serge for thirty-two years, she knew him like a book. She had a better psychological profile on him than the KGB did. She knew that at this moment she had to ignore him, act like she did not know him. That would not be difficult because that was the way she acted toward her husband when they were at social functions.

  “Sophia, I need you.” Serge’s plea went unheeded as his wife made herself more comfortable, digging in for the night. Reaching up to touch her on the shoulder, she kicked him with a hind kick, the thrust of which was meant to send a message. Serge certainly made no attempt to hide his pain within as a moan replaced his plea of moments before.

  “I need you, Sophia, don’t do this to me.” Not being able to hold her anger in any longer, she rolled over so that she could look Serge in the eyes. She always said things with sincerity and she always wanted the person to know it.

  “Eminent domain! How could you just let them take the retreat?”

  “When we were in power, we just took whatever we wanted. I just didn’t realize what we dished out we were going to have to take.”

  “I was looking forward to that vacation, laying on the beach. I just spent my whole winter freezing my ass off and now this.” Sophia turned away from Serge and started thinking of how to become creative with the two prints on the wall that she was looking at.

  “Sophia, you don’t understand?”

  “I understand that I am stuck in the city for the summer where I have to have our servant run to the front of the lines to get our food.”

  “It is a different time now. We do not have the power we once had.”

  “I don’t care about your stories, Serge. Excuses are like belly buttons, everyone has one.” Serge quickly lifted his pajama tops to check: one belly button, one story.

  “But we could always go to the retreat in the Urals.”

  “I wanted to lay on the beach.” Serge knew that if Sophia wanted to lie on the beach, it was going to cost him. The communists no longer were in possession of Malibu east.