“Arsen ment
ioned something about this being the only profitable operation in the region?” I ask Gerard.
The elder lawyer nods. “That’s correct,” he says to me.
“What are they basing that on?” I ask.
“Well, it’s all very complicated, but usually they base any sort of company profitability on the prior quarter. That’s why companies report quarterly earnings…” He tries to continue but he’s just confirmed what I was thinking.
“Where is he, Gerard?” I ask. I have urgency in my voice.
“He should be getting into the office in around half an hour for a meeting at 9 am and then he should be meeting with Luca Giannoni to finalize the deal later on this evening at 5 pm at Del Frisco’s,” Gerard says.
I get up from where I’m sitting. “Are you supposed to be there?” I ask.
Gerard nods. “I should hope so,” he says with a smile. “Considering I have the paperwork.”
I smile and feel like hugging him. “Then let's go, Gerard. I’m coming with you tonight, but first I have something I need to get ready.”
Gerard looks questioningly at me as I beam brightly at him. “It’s time for the company to meet Misty with the silky voice.”
Arsen
To be quite honest, I’m actually a bit relieved that the Russian mob tries to affect gangster living based on what they see from The Godfather and such. I mean, we could be fucking sitting at a Russian restaurant in Brighton Beach to sign these papers if they had suggested it instead of Del Frisco’s right in the heart of Times fucking Square. I mean, what would they even serve at the Russian place if we had to schlep all the way over there? Borscht? Dumplings? I’m no fucking Cossack, if I’m going to be doing a deal with the mob, let it be at least at a world famous steak house where they pour good wine.
We’re seated at a large table by the window, overlooking Broadway. Ever since the mayor turned Broadway into a 24/7 pedestrian zone, it’s gotten a lot weirder and crazier in Times Square. Ever walk by and see the women with just the body paint? The angry Elmo? The Naked Cowboy? Thankfully I don’t have to look at a naked fucking cowboy as I decide what cut of meat I want to be putting in my mouth tonight.
Gerard is sitting next to me and Luca Giannoni and his employer, Dimitry Mozorov are sitting across from me. Mozorov is red-faced from the vodka he’s been drinking and with his dark suit with red tie and grey hair on his portly body he looks like a fucking corporate Russian Santa Clause.
“Ever since Luca here told me about your late father’s empire, the Simulated Pleasures business is one that’s caught my eye,” Mozorov is saying with a thick Russian accent. “I’ve looked at the 90 day charts and I’m impressed at how this small operation has such high margins, Mr. Hawke. You should be commended.”
I take a sip of my scotch and laugh sardonically. Sure, I should be fucking commended. For causing the love of my life to quit the job she was using to get on her feet and then selling it off to mobsters after she left. I’m a real fucking saint.
“How about we wait until after dinner to sign the papers?” Gerard asks the table and I look at him with surprise. This is the same guy that several days ago was asking me why I was dragging my fucking feet?
Mozorov shrugs. “Whether we eat first or eat later makes no difference to me,” he says, grinning and rubbing his hands together. “Tomorrow morning, we will be new owners of Simulated Pleasures and a new day will dawn for the callers.”
“What is it that you plan to do?” I ask, more out of morbid curiousity than anything else.
Mozorov looks at Giannoni and nods.
“Since it doesn’t matter much if we tell you now that you’re going to sell, we can be a bit more upfront with our plans,” the lawyer says. “We plan to cut the percentages that the operators make in half,” Giannoni says to me, taking a sip of his wine. “Then after a period of time, we play to make them salaried workers.”
“How do you know they’ll stay?” I ask.
“We plan to start them off with lucrative contracts that they agree to, with steep payments to the company if they decide to quit,” Mozorov answers for him. “It will work similar to the way your gentlemen’s clubs operate eventually, where we’ll just provide the infrastructure and expect them to pay us to use our services.”
“The operators will be responsible for advertising themselves and doing their own promotion, significantly lowering the total costs to the company,” Luca Giannoni says as he drains his wine. “And should the operators not be able to turn a profit for themselves, the only way they’ll get out will be through a sizable payment to the company to break their contract.”
They’re going to fucking prey on the women doing the work. Not on the johns. But the women. Jesus fucking Christ.
But there’s nothing I can do, unless I pull out of this deal. I’ve effectively screwed over the entire company. I don't even know how many women are working as phone sex operators. I never cared. I just wanted to get rid of the operation so blindly that I never thought there was a human element to it.
I look over at Gerard. Somehow, despite the fact that what Luca Giannoni described as a form of employment extortion, he doesn't seem too troubled; it’s like the man has suddenly lost touch with his fucking conscience. Doesn’t he fucking care that while we eat beef tartare and drink wine we’re coming up with a deal that will screw over countless hardworking women all over the city?
“Is any of this fucking legal?” I ask out, not caring anymore.
Mozorov shrugs. “Who cares,” he says with a shrug and a grin. “If we get in trouble we just cancel all the contracts and close up shop. Guaranteed by then we’ll have turned a tidy profit.”