Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (45 page)

“Why not?” Ned asked. “I thought the whole point of Communism was that you all had jobs.”

“Look at it this way—when border is closed, Bulgarians buy Bulgarian shoes because that's all they can get, then border opens, one man buys Nikes and suddenly every woman in town wants to sleep with him. You can't fight that kind of thing. Then everyone in town sells everything they can to get a pair of Nikes.”

“So then you have an entire Bulgarian town of poor people with nice shoes?”

“Yes, and since nobody wants Bulgarian shoes anymore, factory closes, and everyone in town is out of work,” Semyon said. “Now they have nice shoes and nothing to eat.”

“Really? Nobody saw it coming?”

“Nope, the wanting of shoes is too great—and it's not just Bulgaria, it is every country between Germany and China.”

“So then what happened?”

“Well, Westerners came in selling their shoes, and we sold what we had.”

“Which was?”

“Women.”

“What?”

“Women,” Semyon said, as though he was speaking of any other commodity. “At first, they would do it themselves, offer sex to Western businessmen by the side of the road for next to nothing—they had no idea of what it was worth—and many get beaten up or even killed.”

“Really?”

“Yes, so they seek the protection of strong men,” Semyon continued. “What you call a pimp. Some countries, the biggest part of their economy is based on women and girls selling sex to foreigners.”

“Like Moldova?”

“Yes,” Semyon looked surprised. “For years, nothing but women and pornos came out of Moldova. How do you know about a sleazy little hole like Moldova and not know about the glorious nation of Uzbekistan?”

“I used to run a strip bar,” Ned replied nonchalantly. “If the dancers weren't from Quebec, they were from Moldova.”

Semyon giggled. “So you know what I mean. Eventually,” he said with what Ned took to be an air of pride, “the pimps got smart and started selling higher-profit products like hashish, heroin and even weapons to the same customers. They banded together, became gangsters, made millions, many millions of dollars.”

“And wear Nikes.”

“Even worse, even if a man in Bulgarian town has a job, it literally takes him years to afford Nikes,” Semyon said. “But his old friend the gangster drives a Bentley, has a herd of women, has everything. He could buy a Nike factory, let alone the shoes.”

“What about the police, the government?”

Semyon laughed. “The police are a joke. They make less money than the poor guy who mops up the McDonald's floor—they don't risk their lives for their jobs, they look in another direction. And the government ? It's made up primarily of the gangsters' friends and family—or the gangsters themselves.”

“So everyone from Germany to China is a gangster or a prostitute?”

“Of course not, but a huge number of them are,” Semyon sighed. “And they are everywhere—government, police, everywhere.”

“Seems sad, really.”

Semyon's face changed. It was the first time Ned had seen him genuinely angry. “How can you talk like this?” he sneered. “You are worse—
pfeh
, American gangster—why did you join the Sons of Satan? Want to make a quick buck instead of going to school? Maybe some girl liked the sound of your big rumbly motorbike?”

Ned couldn't help smile at how perceptive Semyon was. Semyon's face lightened. “Okay, fine, I guess it's all relative. We all want the same thing—lots of money for no work. We are gangsters because we are lazy men.”

They both laughed and clinked their beer glasses together in something of a toast. “I can't have too many more of these if I'm gonna drive tonight,” warned Ned.

“No, we'll stay here tonight.”

“Aren't we in a hurry?”

“I'm never in a hurry. Besides, I have a friend here.”

“Really?”

“I have friends everywhere.”

After dinner, the pair headed across the street to a low-slung motel. Semyon appeared to know the guy behind the counter who handed Semyon two keys with large plastic key rings after some passing chit-chat.

Ned hoped he'd be surprised with a clean, comfortable room, but he wasn't. The bed was covered in a madly patterned bedspread he knew was intended to hide stains. The bed creaked when he sat on it, and gave a plastic-like sound when he shifted position.

He looked around and was about to turn on the ancient TV when Semyon came in the door Ned had carelessly left unlocked. “You should be more careful, man. I could have been anyone.” Ned noticed he had a six-pack of beer and a bottle of vodka in his hands. “It's time to party, man!”

“Nah, man, it's like one in the morning and I am beat,” Ned said. The stress of the day had taken a toll on him and he really felt a need to relax.

“You Americans are babies,” Semyon said with obvious disappointment. “Okay, I'll go, but tomorrow night we party.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure thing. Good night, Semyon.”

“Good night, sleepy.”

Ned made sure the door was locked after Semyon left and went back to the TV. He was dozing off in an armchair when he heard a knock at the door. He bolted to the window to see who it was. He couldn't see. Whoever it was knocked again. The old door didn't have a peephole, so he opened it a crack. On the other side was a tall black woman in shorts and a tube top. She had a long face that looked like she had seen some hard times.

“You with Simon? Your friend Simon called me and said you needed a date,” she said. “So here I am.”

Ned stammered, and the laughed. “He did, did he?” he finally said while opening the door wider. Ned was actually both bored and lonely but lots of things about this woman made him uneasy. “Well, I'll tell him thanks tomorrow, but I'm really not feeling very well and really just want to get some sleep.”

“I got just the thing for you,” she said and stepped past him and into the room. “I'll make you feel all better.”

Ned started to get nervous. “No, really, I'm actually quite sick, and I don't think it'd be fair to give it to you,” he looked at her face to see if she believed him. Then, after a long pause, he asked, “Did he already pay you?”

She sat down in the armchair facing him still holding the door. “Yeah. Yeah, he did,” she said with a blank look. “I was supposed to be something of a gift I guess.”

Ned smiled and approached her. “Well, it's the thought that counts,” and realizing that could be construed as insulting, he added. “And I really appreciate your coming out. Can I give you a little something for your trouble?” He handed her a pair of twenties.

She grinned generously, then stood up and kissed him on the cheek. “You take care of yourself, baby,” she told him and started towards the door, before turning around. “Oh, and Simon asked me to tell you that I wasn't from Quebec or from some other place I can't remember, Mongolia or something.”

Ned laughed and thanked her again. He locked the door after she left and rolled a joint to relax.

Ned woke up to Semyon's insistent knocking and shouting. He was surprised to see that it was almost noon. He opened the door and his new friend let himself in. Semyon was grinning conspiratorially. “Now we get started!” he announced. “After we dine.”

They didn't get back onto the road until well past one o'clock, despite Ned complaining about the long drive they had in front of them.

When they arrived at the building where Ned had first met Grigori and his men, it was dark, but Ned could see that many of the same cars were parked out front. The watcher in the BMW got out of his car this time and greeted Semyon warmly. Semyon introduced him to Ned as Pyotr.

Semyon walked up to the door. He had drawn a crude face sticking its tongue out on the envelope and held it in front of the video camera when he pressed the intercom button. After he was acknowledged, he said, “Open up, it's the FBI.” Whoever was on the other side groaned and said something in Russian. The only word Ned could make out was Semyon's name. Then he heard the door unlock.

Semyon led him inside. It didn't look much like he remembered, but the last time he was there he had only paid attention to the basement. While the basement was stark and even putrid, the main floor was clean and looked very much like the abandoned factory it was. Had it not been in an abandoned section of Detroit, Ned thought, some smart developer could transform it into highly desirable condos for the hipster generation.

Ned followed Semyon up a set of stairs and along the hall to a wood and glass door. The word “Chairman” had been painstakingly hand-painted decades ago on the glass in white letters with a gold shadow. Behind it were venetian blinds that had been closed. Semyon knocked and the door was opened.

As Ned walked in, he could hardly believe his eyes. In better times, the chairman's office would have been desirable because of its size, the windows offering a near limitless view and tons of sunshine. But now it had been made out like a sultan's palace. There were clearly expensive—if not entirely tasteful—paintings and tapestries on the wall, a real bearskin rug complete with head, and two sculptures of rearing lions, each painted gold and no less than nine feet high. Between them was an oak desk as big as a small car. And behind it was Grigori, dressed again in an expensive-looking suit and tons of gold. Throughout the room were a few men, some Ned recognized from his time in the basement and some he didn't. They were all standing except one. As he had been when Ned was in the factory's basement, Vasilly was sitting alone in a chair tucked into a corner of the room. He remembered him as the thin man with the gun. His cold, emotionless stare left him feeling a bit cold inside.

Grigori said something in Russian to Semyon and Semyon giggled. Then he replied and handed him the thick envelope. Grigori put it on a pile of others, stood up and approached Ned. Ned couldn't help flinching when Grigori threw his arms around him and gave him a big bear hug. Ned could hear laughter from the rest of the men. Then Grigori offered Ned a seat and went back to his chair behind the desk.

He smiled broadly. “I have plans for you,” he said.

Ned did little but look nervous.

Grigori nodded at his own opinion. “You don't mind getting rich, do you?” he asked in a jolly way. “You do like money, don't you?”

Ned smiled and nodded back. “Yes, sir, yes I do.”

“Good, good,” Grigori said with obvious pride. “Here is your new job.” And he handed Ned a piece of paper. On it was printed:

“What will I do there?” Ned asked.

“You will be manager of shipping and receiving,” Grigori replied. “And also, you will be my main man in Mid-Atlantic region. It is all arranged.”

“I have rather specialized experience in shipping and receiving—nothing like this.”

Grigori laughed, and the others seemed to get the inside joke, too. “Our whole business—your business—is just shipping and receiving,” he said. “Besides, it's very easy job.” He went on to describe the position. He told Ned that Hawkridge was one of the country's biggest suppliers of parts and assemblies for heating, ventilation and air-conditioning systems. Andersson, whom Grigori referred to as “the Swede,” made his fortune by establishing factories in formerly Communist states long before any other westerners had dared to. While other companies in the industry were still making their parts in the U.S., the Swede was paying less than a fifth for the same parts from factories in Romania, Serbia and places like that. By the time his competition had started outsourcing to China, Hawkridge was already the market leader and was considered the gold standard despite having competitive prices.

Grigori's younger brother Fedor had owned one of the Romanian factories that the Swede purchased from and had come up with the idea of shipping what Grigori called “our product” with the containers of air-conditioning parts. The products in question were refrigerant coils. Since they were full of Freon and other relatively dangerous chemicals and the Swede had all the necessary permits and licenses, they were routinely left uninspected. Fedor shipped the Swede double the number of coils he ordered, filled half with “their product” instead of refrigerant, then had someone separate the two and distribute the heroin.

It was a lucrative business, with amounts of drugs and money rivaling the legendary French Connection. The key to it, as Grigori saw it, was to make sure that the person receiving the coils would do his job efficiently and quietly—and not take advantage of Grigori's generosity. And in Ned, Grigori believed he had found such a person. He knew the receiver could not be an Eastern European immigrant, couldn't have a significant criminal record, but would have to have a solid understanding of and extensive experience in the drug trade. He also had to be well-spoken, polite and able to hide the appearance of criminality.