The dealer completed turning the cards over for the players and now it was his turn. With a four of diamonds turned face up sitting on top of his turned down card, he dealt himself another. The card he dealt to himself was a seven of clubs. Turning the bottom card over, the dealer revealed a ten, which gave him twenty-one.
“Damn!” Medansky pounded the table with his fist.
“Sir, I will have to ask you to restrain yourself. There are drinks and chips on the table,” advised the dealer, attempting to be diplomatic in his approach.
“There was a time I could have you sent to Siberia for what you just did.”
“You mean Siberia is loaded with card dealers who draw to a twenty-one?”
“I mean I am head of the KGB. I just do not have the power that I once had.”
“You mean you have to be politically correct in Russia too? Wow, what a trip.”
The dealer’s choice of words left Sergotoff bewildered while his friend, Medansky, was still peeved at losing the hand. In his mind a twenty was as good as it got. It was as if the dealer had to come up with a nineteen or less. It was the third straight hand that Medansky came out on the short end. He looked at his chips and performed an inventory.
“Hhhhhmmmmmmm...forty black chips.”
“Four thousand dollars, sir.”
“I started with ten.”
“That, sir, is why Las Vegas is the size it is today.” Medansky pouted and anted up another black chip, the compulsive gambler bug evident in his actions. The dealer looked at Sergotoff.
“Are you going to play, sir?”
“I’ll just watch for awhile.”
“That’s quite alright, sir, but I will have to ask you to give up the seat in case someone wants to play.” Sergotoff was surprised by the request but started getting a much better idea of the concept of profit margins, non-blackjack players bit into the margin. Medansky nudged him just slightly and when the Foreign Minister looked over, he saw the intelligence officer smiling. Sergotoff reached into his pocket and removed some money that he exchanged for chips of which he placed one in the area where a bet would go. The dealer placed the cards out and the Foreign Minister had twenty-one. Medansky looked over so that he could assist his friend, knowing that he did not yet have the knowledge of the game.
“He has twenty-one!” The dealer had an ace up.
“Okay, hold on, I might have one, too. He could ask for even money.” The Foreign Minister looked at Medansky quizzically, not knowing what to do. For some strange reason Sergotoff had it in his mind that Medansky was an expert at this while in reality he had only learned to play about an hour before. Medansky shook his head in the negative and Sergotoff passed the message on to the dealer. The man with the cards then glanced at the card he had turned down and it was a Queen.
“Sorry.”
Sergotoff looked at Medansky, the Foreign Minister’s scowl making the KGB chief feel like an idiot. The best he could manage was a shrug of the shoulders.
The bets were made and the dealer again began sorting out the cards. Medansky was dealt a seventeen, having been dealt a ten and a seven. Sergotoff was dealt a sixteen with a nine and seven. Sergotoff, the first to ask for a card, received a six. The dealer took his cards and almost had to struggle with him since he was not aware of the rules.
“It is alright. It is as they say in Las Vegas, you went bust.” Sergotoff felt a hurt by the words because of Medansky’s tone, the deep baritone that almost implied he was glad he had lost. The way the words were spoken sounded very caustic to the new card player. Medansky made a gesture to the dealer that he wanted another card. The request was met with the dealer sliding a seven of hearts over to Medansky. Studying the cards, the dealer leaned over and grabbed a peek.
“Twenty-four, sir, too many.” The dealer took the cards and Medansky’s face went sour like it had moments earlier. His scowl brought a smile to Sergotoff’s face, who was glad that someone else was sharing the same sinking boat feeling he was in. The dealer looked at the cards.
“Sir, you had a seventeen. It’s not advisable to take another card when you have a seventeen.”
“How did you ever become head of intelligence, Medansky?” questioned the Foreign Minister, who seized on the moment to get back at his partner.
The night went on and being so involved in the game of chance, the two members of the communist party never noticed the dwindling of the crowd size as the evening moved on. During the hours that they gambled, they hit peaks and valleys and started to feel the emotions that come with winning and losing. At the break of dawn, Sergotoff found that he had lost twenty-one hundred American dollars while Medansky discovered that he had a minus of more than five thousand of the same value. Both men were about to discover another American ritual, making excuses to the wife.
“You know, Medansky. I lost a lot of money tonight.”
“You do not see me being driven away in a limousine, do you?”
“When I was in Monte Carlo with Sophia, we saw some people lose lots of money. This capitalist thing could work. I am now seeing how they circulate money.”
“Of course this capitalist thing could work and I know who is paying for it.”
“We must stop it, Medansky, or the Communists will never return to power.”
“Well Sergotoff, if it is to be stopped, please stop it before I must face Betruda again.”
Making their way out of the casino toward the elevators, both showed their exhaustion from the long day, their collars open, their ties loosened.
“We drove more than five hours across dry barren roads for this,” commented Sergotoff, appalled at himself for having fallen victim to American imperialism. Thinking about it even more, he started to realize that not only did he fall victim to it, the money he left behind in the casino contributed to it.
“I wish I could complain, Serge, but I actually had fun...at least when I was winning I had fun.”
“We can’t let them trap us. We must stop this thing before it gets out of hand and succeeds. Before we know it every family in Russia will own two cars.”
The exhausted spy was not quite sure he heard what he thought he heard. Maybe he was just too tired to correctly filter the sounds that entered his ears.
“What did you say?”
“Are you deaf, Medansky? There is nothing worse than having a spy whose hearing is so far gone that they need to put a glass to the wall to hear the conversation. I said that before you know it there will be two cars for every Russian family.”
“So if the two cars were not Yugos, what’s the problem?” Medansky’s reply forced the Foreign Minister to shut his mouth and rethink his position. From what Medansky had just said, Sergotoff knew he was losing one of his allies. How many more of his friends were now taking that position?
Mikhail knew just from his experiences in America that the weekend had been a marvelous financial success. He did not need to wait to find out the exact numbers at this meeting in the state building with the Finance Minister, his experience told him. He suspected that he would not be able to trust their accounting so he brought in his own firm from America. He also made certain that the accounting firm had no business ties to the Hollywood community where two sets of books were considered the standard.
Entering the conference room, there were all the members from the communist party who were able to keep their government positions by merely being in the right place at the right time. Sitting there too was Allison, a quarter pounder with cheese in hand. Mikhail figured that she picked it up while on the run having been busy all morning with appointments.
“We did it! It was wonderful, we really did it!” Throwing her arms around Mikhail, her lips desired him more than the quarter pounder with cheese. That was a food item that she knew Orlina would not approve of.
“How much?”
“Almost three million dollars.” Mikhail squeezed his girlfriend with a little extra, the excitement of the moment pumping his adrenaline. Looking over
Allison’s shoulder he saw the animosity that Nirvana’s success had developed in the others. Their jealousy made him feel like he was at home in Los Angeles.
“And the rock band already has eighty-five dates scheduled. They could bring in another hundred million,” added Allison who, although excited, seemed to remember everything she wanted to disclose.
“You are proud of yourself, are you not?” questioned Medansky.
“I suppose so.”
“Well because of you I am out lots of money. I will need a raise.” Mikhail knew that when the KGB chief asked for the raise it told him that he had gotten more than an earful from his wife because of the losses. Everyone had heard about it because Betruda had made certain that it became common knowledge.
“You gamble at your own risk,” Mikhail advised, his tone very firm because he wanted to make certain that the others in the room understood that one had to take responsibility for their own actions. The disgruntled look that Medansky formed by lowering his eyebrows and covering his upper lip with the lower lip gave Allison a much better idea of the child that was locked inside.
“You missed a good party, Yalantov,” commented Mikhail, wanting to stick the needle to him. He had gotten word how the other members of the party had told friends on their return to Moscow what a wonderful time they had. When Mikhail first started hearing those comments, it reminded him that they forgot to get the postcards made up.
“I was on a very important trade mission.”
“Bring back anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Where did you go?”
“Aruba.” The answer did not really surprise Mikhail since Russia was near poverty, part of which was due to a lack of trade. What could Aruba have that Russia would need and vice versa? Besides, even if Aruba had something that was in demand in Russia, it was way too small to produce the quantity that Russia would need. Mikhail could not help but think just how fortunate it was for Yalantov that he did not work on commission.
“That will not get the job done, Yalantov. There are countries all around the world with growing economies. We need to start doing business.”
“Mikey, don’t you think that maybe having products to sell first would help us to do business?” interceded Allison, finding a flaw in her boyfriend's logic.
“We will have natural resources to sell.”
“You will strip the country, we will be nothing but a barren wasteland,” declared Sergotoff, whose deep voice was filled with anger.
“I thought I had shown you this weekend that there is a chance, but you just don’t want to see. Just stay out of my way and we will bring Russia back to life.” Mikhail extended his hand to Allison, who grabbed hold of his. Looking right into Sergotoff’s steel blue eyes, the contempt that the two felt for each other was felt throughout the conference room.
“I had been hoping that we could have sat down today and started working on an agenda for Russia’s future, something that would have told the people that they have a future. It’s not to be with you, is it?”
Sergotoff knew he had gotten to Mikhail, because for the first time since the two had met, Mikhail wore a frown. Before Yalantov could get the entrepreneur’s attention, the young couple had left.
“We will have to formulate a plan to retake the country.” Sergotoff’s words left the others scared of the thought of what he might have in mind.
Arriving at the freight yard earlier than he was supposed to, Mikhail and Allison found B. Czar and Russo waiting nonetheless.
“Wait until you see what our friend here pulled off this time,” offered Russo, the smile on his face a symbol of his amusement at the situation. B. Czar broke into a smile as well as he led the group through the freight yards. After making their way through several locked cars, they looked across the yard where there were maybe forty New York City Subway cars, graffiti still ensconced on them, parked at the far end.
“How did you get these?’
“Simple. I made a deal with New York to get the graffiti off their trains for a percentage,” proudly disclosed B. Czar.
“You’re looking at five percent of the work B. Czar’s people did.”
“Where did you get the people?” asked Allison, since she had no idea that B. Czar had managed to send Russians to New York.
“Just look in the streets in Moscow. Plenty of people laying around who want to work.”
“But how did you pay them?” came another question from Allison, who was extremely curious about how this man operated.
“I made a deal with New York about that too. The city paid them the minimum wage for the United States, which was a king’s ransom over here. Then I threw in a little something, I promised them some time in Nirvana free during the off season.” Allison had to bust out laughing at Russia’s version of Sergeant Bilko now that she was face to face with that exact personality type.
“How did you get them to New York?” asked Mikhail, wanting to know because he felt that maybe it was knowledge he might be able to use later on.
“I have a friend in the shipping business.” That certainly made sense since B. Czar operated in the black market and he certainly had a need for having merchandise transported. Mikhail had a need to inspect the subway cars even though he had been assured that they were all operable. He had always been grabbed by graffiti and sometimes he even discovered a new line by reading it. The short walk was made quickly because of Mikhail’s tight schedule.
Looking at the exterior, he began laughing but apparently the others do not see the same thing he did as they studied him with curiosity.
“Don’t you see it? Look, just think about it, here we are in Russia and on the side of the car we have some writing in Chinese, some English, some Spanish, some Ebonics and it’s all here in Moscow.” Once Mikhail explained his observation the others saw the humor in what he had seen. At least to him it verified that he was not crazy, maybe misunderstood, but not crazy.
“We must clean off the graffiti first.”
“It will be finished by the weekend, Mikey,” assured B. Czar. “I would also like to let you know that I have made arrangements to get some freight cars and flat cars shipped to Russia as well.”
“That’s great, B. Czar, we really need the flat cars for the lumber. How did you manage that?”
“It is simple. We will have to use Atlantic-Pacific freight lines for anything we ship to America that needs to be transported after it arrives at its American port for five years.”
“What is wrong with you? Once we’re locked in for a time period they could charge us more than it costs to go to the moon,” screamed Mikhail at the thought of an impossible situation.
“Do not worry, they do not call my attorney Houdini for nothing. There is an escape clause.” The confidence that B. Czar relayed when he mentioned it brought relief to Mikhail. If it were any good at all it would at least salvage a somewhat hopeless situation that he believed B. Czar had gotten Russia involved in.
“It is very simple, Mikhail, if we have more than three complaints about the service in any one month, we have the right to exercise an option to vacate the contract.” B. Czar seemed to be very familiar with the American legal system, or so he seemed to articulate. There was no question about it, the moment that Russia developed a legal system to address business matters, the people in this country were at B. Czar’s mercy.
“Have you given any more thought about how you might want to start making the companies that you’re setting up public?” asked Russo. The question reminded him that in fact it was a subject he had wanted to talk about.
“Let’s step in here where we can sit down.” Mikhail led them into the subway car where they found four seats together.
“Tim, you remember the thing with United Airlines and Avis?” Russo pondered the question and, although he was familiar with both companies, the question did not stimulate a response. Mikhail’s search of the journalist’s eyes told him that he must resume the lead.
“R
emember they were both owned and operated by the employees?”
Russo’s smile and that of Allison made B. Czar feel like the outsider looking in. He had been feeling secure in his relationship up until this point, what was he to think now?
“You do not have to worry, B. Czar, all they are trying to say is that they might try to make these companies that they are creating employee owned,” advised Allison. She could sense from his frightened expression that B. Czar was feeling very threatened. The change in the direction of the lines in the black marketer’s face showed that she accomplished what she had set out to.
“But what about the rest of the people, don’t you want to get them involved somehow?” asked Allison, her question inferring a previous discussion they had on the topic.
“I thought about that and this is the problem that I’ve come up with. If we develop a stock market and each of these companies is completely public, then the only ones that will have money to buy stock are the rich. If we keep these companies completely employee owned we would not be able to get the public involved.”
Russo and Allison exchanged glances, since they both knew Mikhail well enough that from the tone of his voice they sensed he had something on his mind. B. Czar had fallen into a tranquil state of security with Allison’s statement. No more reassurances were required; he now had his emotions under control.
“What if we make the companies fifty-one percent public and forty-nine percent employee owned?” asked Mikhail, seeking an input and a consensus.
“It sounds fine, Mikhail, but why that fifty-one, forty-nine split?” inquired Russo.
“Simple. If the employees own a majority of the stock, they would run the company in their best interests. They would become like the Czar...”
“Hey!”
“Sorry, B. Czar. What I am saying, Tim, is that they’d give themselves long lunches, long vacations, you know what I am talking about.”
“Afraid so.”
“Maybe, Mikhail, you might want to make the percentage a little larger on the side of the public just in case later on the companies need additional funds for expansion,” suggested Allison, not afraid to show her business acumen.
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