It was an early start for Mircea Rotar – early start, after the night he’d had, meant 11 am. His head was still throbbing from the all the vodka he drank – someone must have slipped some of the cheap local stuff in when he was too drunk to pay attention. He always insisted on the good Russian vodka, but someone was always sneaking some rotgut in, cutting corners. Saving money was something Mircea could understand, but he didn’t like being the cheated one.
At the border, he showed his Moldovan passport – he didn’t need anyone asking him what he was doing in a Moldovan car when he used the Romanian one. Those Ukrainians asked enough questions as it was when someone was crossing over from Moldova! He tucked some Hrivnia in the passport; US Dollars made him seem too prosperous, too international. A man who claimed to be a small-time businessman would only have local currency to bribe border guards into not being too nosy – Mircea wasn’t sure if the “children” he had listed in his passport were still supposedly under twelve or not. He rubbed his eyes while the bored looking guards flicked through his papers. To his great surprise, the notes were still there when they handed the passport back and motioned him through. It seemed the guards weren’t interested in their own money. He drove on, hoping the traffic police wouldn’t pull him over. They certainly would accept nothing less than US Dollars, and then rough him up for not having enough of them. He might be technically sober, but his Moldovan license plate could be tempting…his beaten up Nissan might not attract their attention, but one never knew. He found himself muttering a request of intercession to Saint Olga, something he must have obviously overheard somewhere. Prayer? He must still be drunk. Mircea made a note to stop at the next petrol station for a coffee. He drove slowly, trying to think of the schedule he had before him. It would take a while to get to the local capital, Vinnytsia, especially at the slow rate of driving he was doing. He had to make rounds of the businesses he owned shares in – the laundry, the café and the bar. More importantly, he had to make his other rounds – see what the latest crop of silly girls who would do anything to get the West were like. Mircea grimaced; those peasant girls with big stupid dreams were a motley lot. They were thin, but genetically programmed to balloon up with a few good meals. At least they tended to be fair, unlike their swarthy sisters in eastern Ukraine. Blondes always brought more money than brunettes, but most of them needed good dental work. A former colleague of his, Vasile, who ran his business from Chernivtsi, used to smash the rotten teeth out of girls’ mouths and shove in clumsy dentures instead. Mircea found even that too much trouble – it was much easier and cheaper to pull individual bad teeth. It was not like these stupid whores were going to be on magazine covers! By the time he pulled into a petrol station Mircea’s head was pounding. He had no idea how much he had drunk the previous evening, but it was obviously too much. He was getting older, much as he liked to pretend he wasn’t. He squinted at his reflection in the lavatory mirror – he was still good looking, his dark brown hair not showing any greys, but his hazel eyes were bloodshot. He clearly remembered days where one too many drinks would not have this effect on him, even if it was cut-rate moonshine. Nowadays, Micea had to keep the bosses sweet, even if it meant ruining his liver. Petrol station coffee was vile; quite conceivably even the stuff you pumped into the car’s fuel tank. Mircea swallowed two extra-strength painkillers, which were quite possibly illegal, but he was beyond the point of caring. He was at the point of punching anyone who looked at him funny, which was certainly not a good way to not call attention to himself. He took several deep breaths, trying to avoid the temptation of smoking – not only were the only cigarettes available worthless Ukrainian ones, but further dehydration would not do Mircea any favours. He bought some mineral water, even though he suspected it was not imported Alpine stream water but sourced from the tap out back. He needed liquid now, and more medication in a while. He wanted lieutenants to do these kinds of runs for him; too bad he didn’t trust other people with the business. He and Vasile were lieutenants in Chernivtsi, and Mircea clearly remembered the cuts they’d take. Breaking the girls into their new profession was a given, but the profits and drugs they’d skimmed could be hard to hide. They’d only just gotten away with it when the boss had been gunned down by a rival gang of filthy Turks. One of the new bosses was Vasile’s cousin, so he was safe, but Mircea could see the writing on the wall. He left without making too much of a fuss –damn! Business was better in Chernivtsi. The headache had ebbed some, but his whole face was tender. Mircea didn’t remember getting into any fights last night, so he was vaguely worried about what exactly he’d been drinking. He blinked a few times to test his vision, making sure he wasn’t going blind. What did these peasants make their firewater from? A reasonable man would cut down on his drinking, but being reasonable wasn’t part of Mircea’s world. He would be in a bad mood when he reached Vinnytsia, but luckily, that would be a good thing. He liked to make people afraid; it ensured their having to keep their corner-cutting to a minimum. He needed to keep profits up if he wanted to move up in the world. He flicked through the radio stations as he got back on the dual carriageway. Listening to some young girls screeching to an electronic drumbeat made him think of Vasile’s cousin smuggling prostitutes across the Mediterranean as nightclub acts. Surely that was a pricey enterprise in itself, having to equip them with musical instruments; certainly some of the bosses would expect their money’s worth in entertainment also! Mircea could just imagine those girls trying to sing, through bad dentures if Vasile had anything to do with it. He switched to the CD player, realising he had a loud heavy metal disc in it just before the pounding beat kicked in. He winced and felt his headache resurface. He stabbed at the eject button, cringing when that brought back the bad local radio station. He tossed the CD into the back of the car; this trip was going to be endless. Looking at the ragged countryside, he was glad for the billionth time that he didn’t have to live here. In a way, he should be grateful for the region’s poverty, as desperation filled his coffers. But on the other hand, the charade irritated Mircea. Why did he have to spin elaborate stories to get those naïve girls into the brothels? Did those idiots really think that Western Europe granted visas to talentless ill-educated nobodies like a big fairy godmother? Why did those buffoons expect that all their dreams would come true? Mircea knew that the United States constitution guaranteed its citizens liberty and the pursuit of happiness - but if that was impossibility for rich Americans, what chance did poor Ukrainians have? Mircea’s temper flamed as he realised his face hurt more than his head had. Pain made him cranky, and liable to get violent. As he was alone in the car, he gripped the steering wheel and cursed in as many languages as he could, finding the world did not have enough swear words. He struggled to keep within the speed limit, as he was in no shape to deal with traffic police. He lamented his lot in life – why did some stinking Bedouin get to be born into unbelievable luxury thanks to oil bubbling underground while he had to use all his wits to scrape together some semblance of a living? Just as he’d expected, he was in a filthy temper when he finally reached Vinnytsia. He was ready to spit bullets as he made his way into the laundry, the insolent look the clerk gave him making him nearly see double. He slammed his fist on the counter and demanded the receipts for that week, satisfied with the look of fear that crossed her stupid cow-like face. The clerk had remembered that he was the boss, and started visibly trembling as she scrambled for the ledger. “NOW!” Mircea roared at her, barely able to keep from laughing as she jumped. He called her old and ugly, thinking to himself that that was her fortune; had she been younger and prettier, she would be on her back under some drug-addled customer in a dirty room. The clerk had the good sense not to delay things further – she handed over the ledger, and then poked her head in the back office, loudly calling for the pressure readings, which was code for the other ledgers, the “real” ones. Mircea liked the irony of using a laundry as a front to launder money, but his face hurt too much for him to smile at the private joke. He pushed his way into the back office, glad to see the clerk gave him a wide berth. He was surprised to see a new worker in the office, a fit young girl in a shapeless smock. He motioned for the other workers to leave the room, which they did swiftly and silently. He didn’t even have to say anything to the new girl; wordlessly she knelt before him, not meeting his eyes. Business is good, Mircea concluded with a small sigh of satisfaction.
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