Mircea insisted on the good Russian vodka as he checked up on business – the figures were not as good as he wanted them to be, and he was getting more and more angry. He was liable to get a tension headache, and cheap booze would not help. At the club he had a share in, he demanded they open the bottle in front of him, trying to ensure he was getting the good stuff. It was more an exercise in power than any real safeguard against imitations, but it made him feel good. It let those lowly underlings know he didn’t trust them.
It was a tough evening – he had to meet again with the bosses, Ivan and Piotr. Mircea really hated them – they were the bosses, with stacks of money and power, but didn’t act the part. Mircea liked to dress up, with nice suits and good shoes, whereas Ivan and Piotr were happy to emulate gangster rap stars, in track suits and trainers. (Piotr had a thing about wearing sunglasses indoors. It made a lot of stupid superstitious people nervous; they thought the eyes were actual windows to the soul - Piotr cultivated a rumour that he didn’t have a soul, and had to wear sunglasses.) The absolute worst part of dealing with them was they sneered at Mircea’s outfits, saying he looked like an Italian waiter. Mircea couldn’t bring himself to copy them; to be more precise, Mircea couldn’t afford to imitate them. Their designer sports gear was more expensive than a good suit!
Mircea dawdled at the bar, not wanting to go back to the table where Ivan and Piotr were waiting. He really hated them. He was incredibly jealous of the things they had – not just the material things, but the British passports and the connections they had in the UK. Ivan’s passport was thanks to his wife, some mixed-race dimwit whose parents must have been happy to unload her off on any man. Mircea had heard they had children – not a happy thought for the future generation. Piotr had been born in the UK, the bastard son of a Russian diplomat and a cleaner. His papa had provided for him, but not enough to make his big babushka of a wife back home angry. Piotr’s legitimate half-brothers went to the best schools in mother Russia and followed in Papa’s footsteps in the diplomatic corps, while Piotr made due with the shadier Russian connections in the UK.
There were plenty of places and situations Mircea wished he had been born in. It seemed so unfair that there was a lottery in the universe, one that you couldn’t buy a ticket to. Or, as Mircea preferred, forge a ticket to. A shot like Piotr’s wasn’t even one he could grab – since 2007, he had an EU passport, so Mircea was saved the indignity of a sham marriage like Ivan’s. What Mircea needed, what Piotr had, were the connections. And those were out of reach – as far as the people who mattered were concerned, Mircea in his good suit was just as powerless as the peons pouring the drinks.
Glancing over his shoulder, he could see that Ivan and Piotr were glaring at him, obviously wondering what was taking so long. Mircea didn’t want to look like he was rushing, but he knew he had to get back to the table immediately. “Be quicker with the drinks!” he hissed at the barman, who began to sputter something about them being ready. Mircea scowled and leaned over the bar threateningly. There was a bit of a hush as people looked to see what would happen. Mircea knew he had to handle this correctly – if he made too much of a scene, it would look like he couldn’t control the staff, but if he did nothing, he would look weak. Fighting a tremble, he lightly cuffed the barman’s ear. “Be lazy on your own time,” he snarled. Saying nothing was often a lot more powerful than empty threats, so he left it at that, keeping his eyes locked on the barman’s. If the barman looked down first, Mircea was still the top dog; if he returned the stare, Mircea would have to act. He felt a trickle of sweat run down his back; fortunately, the barman lowered his eyes.
Mircea uttered a curse and took the drinks. He sloshed them slightly as he made his way back to the table, but he pretended not to notice. “We need to get better staff,” he said as he put the drinks down.
“Like ones who can carry the tray of drinks?” Piotr sneered. Mircea clenched his jaw tightly to keep from swearing, hearing a clicking sound as he did. Ivan smiled and shook his head, but took a drink without saying anything. Mircea had an urge to slap the sunglasses off Piotr, and fought to keep calm.
“Look, are we here to chat, or are we here to do business?” Ivan asked. Mircea couldn’t read Piotr’s expression behind those sunglasses. They spent the next few moments downing shots, the booze going straight to Mircea’s head.
“We’ll be extending our business to Cyprus,” Piotr announced. Mircea looked at him in surprise. They were going to try to horn in on the trade Vasile was doing with his fake girl bands?
“We have some new gentlemen’s clubs in Northern Cyprus,” Piotr continued. “Those Turks can’t get enough of blondes from Europe. Problem is, can we get that kind of quality here.”
“Of course we can,” Mircea insisted, feeling slighted. Piotr sneered.
“These are high end joints, with rich fussy customers. We can’t give them half-starved peroxide peasants.”
Mircea bluffed. “So we’ll cast wider nets, attract girls from other places.” That was risky – they could cross other gangs by doing that. “Hold beauty pageants…set up a fake modelling agency…”
“Not here,” Piotr said. “There are plenty of match-making and modelling businesses snapping up young girls with stars in their eyes. So many that these stupid bitches are wising up. Demanding proper papers, talking with journalists.”
“I don’t think ours are-“
“I’m not talking about these cows, I’m talking premium pussy!” Piotr snarled. “Girls who are good-looking and know it. Women who think that being tall and having good cheekbones entitles them to the good things in life! We’re dealing with the chaff right now, dumb farm girls who know they only have a limited appeal. We need beauties from the pits, with no access to real agencies. We need Belarusians.”
Mircea went rigid. They’re getting rid of me! He already had to make the move to Vinnytsia – there weren’t too many places left for him to make a good living.
Ivan interrupted Mircea’s growing panic by smiling at him. “You speak good Russian…ever been to Minsk?”
The relief Mircea felt was palpable. He turned to Ivan, resisting throwing his arms around him in gratitude. “No…I’ve never been to Minsk. Is it nice?”
This brought loud guffaws from both, and Mircea realised how naïve he sounded. Like those idiot girls! We’re not having a chat here!
“Is Minsk nice?” Piotr parroted in a whiny imitation of Mircea’s voice. “It’s a dump, you fool. A place people want to leave!”
Ivan reached over and patted Mircea’s shoulder. “We need you to go there, in your nice clothes, and convince the good-looking girls you’re giving them an opportunity. Make their dreams come true!”
“Exactly like you do here, but this time, get girls who make the customers’ dreams come true,” Piotr added. Mircea started to grow suspicious.
“Will you be coming with me?” he asked. Piotr uttered a curse, and probably rolled his eyes under those sunglasses.
“Do we hold your hand here?” he asked. “Are you a businessman or what? Can’t you handle this on your own?”
“Of course, of course,” Mircea said quickly, then changed gear. He couldn’t let himself be easily intimidated. “What are the risks?” Why aren’t you going?
“What are the risks anywhere?” Piotr said, pulling out a cigarette. A waiter came over to light it for him.
“Rivals?” Mircea persisted, clenching his jaw to keep steady.
Piotr blew smoke, not answering. “Pretty much the same,” Ivan answered. “You know, Russians…”
Mircea found himself exchanging a glance with the waiter, a beefy thug named Oleg. It was blatantly obvious that this was a high-risk venture, with dangers of treading on the toes of some mobsters. He waved the waiter away, trying to think of how he would handle this. It was, after all, a chance for him to expand his territory and make his mark. It was also a chance for him to get seriously hurt if he poached on someone else’s turf.
“Relaaaax,” Ivan wheedled. “We have your back. We have some agreements with the others...”
“Gentleman’s agreements,” Piotr put in, nodding at Mircea’s tie. “They’ll like you.”
That sounds like the kind of thing we tell the girls. As he was pondering the situation, Mircea felt a sharp pain on the side of his head. He cried out, and put a hand to his face. His jaw was throbbing.
Ivan and Piotr looked startled. “What’s wrong?” Ivan asked.
“My mouth hurts,” Mircea mumbled, hating to show weakness in front of Ivan and Piotr. Piotr looked confused for a minute, then burst out laughing.
“Your mouth hurts?” he squawked. “What have you been doing?”
Mircea’s cheeks burned. “Nothing. I don’t know. When do I leave for Minsk?” He grabbed another shot and poured it into his mouth, hoping the alcohol would sort whatever it was that was causing the pain.
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” Piotr teased. Mircea kept his eyes on the table, not trusting his facial expression. May whatever I have be transferred to you, ten times over!
“I probably need a filling,” he managed finally. “Too many sweets…I’m rotting my teeth.” He looked Piotr square in the sunglasses. “So…Minsk?”
Piotr drew on the cigarette. He stared back at Mircea, a challenging look. Mircea kept his gaze. After an eternity, Piotr exhaled a plume of smoke and shrugged. “We’ll have to make arrangements. Probably next week.”
Mircea took a deep breath, carefully testing how far his mouth would let him smile. He didn’t want to beam from ear to ear, but he felt like he had cause to celebrate. If handled correctly, this could be his chance to move up. With a bit of luck, he could control his own show…get his own lieutenants in Belarus, make his own syndicate. All things going well, he could get away from Piotr and his tracksuits and sunglasses.
“How about sampling the local beauty before we expand into other territories,” Mircea suggested. Piotr snorted.
“Local beauty? There is none here; that’s why we’re expanding!” He held up an empty glass. Oleg swiftly came to take it and fill it with drink. “I’m sticking to liquid and chemical entertainment tonight.”
Mircea fought back a groan. He didn’t want to think about how much his head would hurt in the morning. He looked to Ivan for support. “I don’t know about you, but I’m fine for drink. I need a woman!” He threw in a lewd gesture, which Ivan chortled over. Ivan got to his feet, and Piotr looked lost for a second. After pause, Piotr threw back his drink and rose to his feet as well.
“Right, then…let’s have a go at the local girls this evening, to remind us of what we should be looking for elsewhere!” He and Ivan slapped palms in a high five Mircea wasn’t part of. Mircea didn’t care – they were doing what he suggested, and saving him a further hangover. Treasure every victory, no matter how small. He watched smugly as Piotr and Ivan hitched up their baggy tracksuit bottoms, carefully adjusting his tie.