CHAPTER 7. SUNDAY, 12 JULY 19:15.
"So you work eighty, ninety sometimes a hundred hours a week. You've got an ex and her kids to feed. Teens now and they want everything. Western clothes and jeans. Not content to wear the gear every working guy in this damn city wears. Want the latest smart phone, iPod, computer, God knows what else. Can't keep up with it, me. But the little beggars don't want to work for it. No, sir.
"Want you to sweat your balls off whilst they goof off on some college course. Studying history or horse care or some useless subject. I dunno. Only history you need is to know the Great Patriotic War finished in 1945. My Granddad was in that. Come out with one leg and a chest full of medals. There was a real man. Not like my lads. Wasting their lives away, hitting the beaches by day and the Arkadia clubs by night.
"My current lady with her brood and they all wanna feed off of you as well. Give her credit, she works damn hard, comes and cleans here on her days off. Our flat way too small and too far away, damp creeping up the wall, roaches walking about like they own the place. One of 'em last night just stood there waving its feelers at me. Like it owned the place. Landlord wanting his rent, he's not gonna take many more excuses before he sends the heavies round with an eviction notice.
"Suppliers fed up too, one or two hinting they'll stop credit terms any day now and wanting cash on delivery. The oven needs work, the fridge on the fritz – you have to wedge the door shut now. Staff knowing the restaurant on a downward slope. Already lost my head chef and the newly promoted sous chef not good enough really.
"He's okay but nowhere near up to head chef status yet, you with me? Now he's looking to leave, know he's been in touch with my old head chef looking for a place under him again. Lydiya, you know, that pretty, friendly waitress who brought in a lot of repeat customers, she's handed in her notice.
"On top of that, my stomach's hurting. Real sharp, twisting, gripey pain. Hope it's only stress, not an ulcer, can't afford to be off with something like that.
"And now two loads of gangster thugs wanting protection. You know you've got to pay some 'insurance' in this city. Goes with the territory. Part of the cost of doing business, I knew that before I took this place on. Could just about afford to pay off one lot of hoods but not two. No way. A new bunch showed up a few weeks ago, some Georgian mob. Tell you what, President Putin knew how to deal with Georgians but Maiorescu's over the hill mob, well they have no idea.
"Excuse me, Maiorescu's heavies have just come in. Stay here, I'll be back in a few. If they don't break my legs. Only joking, I hope."
Two men, one looking like a shaved gorilla that spends all day lifting weights. The other a scruffy bugger with swept back black hair and wearing an old combat jacket.
"So, you say you've got new...security... arrangements in place?" said the scruffy one with a Romanian accent.
"Yes, a new Georgian lot."
"And this affects me how? You saying you're not paying?" said the Romanian thug.
"I can't. I'm out of money. It's costing me money just to keep this place open now," my friend the restaurant owner said.
"It's tourist season. Must be raking it in hand over fist." The camo jacketed hood walked over to the till and opened it. Obviously not as much as he'd expected but he took it anyway.
"Make sure you've got it next week, comrade, or there'll be trouble."
My friend the restaurant manager breathed a sigh of relief. He was okay for this week but what about next? We watched the two hoodlums go down the road to a newly opened bistro.
Later.
Decided to take my lady to that new Bistro that's just opened. One or two of the guys at my law firm say the food's excellent there. Not cheap but worth it. Looks the part anyway. Ah, here's the owner.
"Sit down, take a seat. Here's a menu," the man handed out some smartly printed menus. "May I recommend the calamari? The squid's fresh caught this morning. No, well what would you like to drink?"
"Here you are, sir. Peroni for you and vodka cranberry for you, miss."
The place was rather quiet as we were early for lunch as I had a court case to attend in the afternoon. I was taking my secretary out as she was coming to court as well. No, it's nothing like that! I'm happily married with another on the way. You know that. No, I'm not saying my secretary's not good looking. She is, but you don't shit where you eat. First rule of the office.
"Yes," the manager told us. "I've only recently opened. Managed to get this place cheap. No, I don't know what happened to the previous owner. Maybe he retired. Was he a friend of yours?"
"What's that?" the manager continued. "Yes, the refurbishment wasn't cheap. But worth it as I wanted that authentic Genoese look. I wanted to raise the tone of the place, make it a top place to eat in Odessa.
"Trouble? Well none from the customers. Excuse me, whilst I deal with these two gentlemen."
Listen to me now. Two men now entered the Italian style fish restaurant. Not whom you would expect to see in an upmarket joint like this. One looking like a gorilla that’d been taught the rudiments of language wearing a cheap, brown suit. The other, with slicked back black hair, bloodshot eyes and wearing a combat jacket and jeans.
The new owner of this fine dining establishment shrugged his shoulders at the men and opened his arms dismissively, even though there were lots of empty tables. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't listening but I caught some of their conversation.
"I'm disappointed, comrade, you were short last week and you promised you'd have it here now." said the man in the combat jacket. He had a Romanian or Moldovan accent. The man sniffed a few times, wiped his nose on a tissue he dropped to the mosaic floor. Don't think he had a summer cold, you with me?
"I'm sorry. I've only just started and I'm trying to build up trade and I can't pay you and the Georgian as well," said the manager.
"Not good enough. You pay us. You know that. Don't worry about some Georgian no mark."
"Shall I hit the bastard?" the second thug built like a weight lifting gorilla leaning against the door stopping any further customers entering the restaurant.
The first hood waved the second back.
"When does this Georgian collect?"
"Mondays, usually," said the manager.
"Well, next week you make sure you pay us. And with interest."
The owner, a man who was working to better himself and his family and probably working all the hours God sent just to keep going, moaned. The gorilla leaned over the bar and helped himself to a couple of bottles of vodka. He looked at the labels.
"Why don't you order a decent brand? Give us a decent drink," the thug said.
Then the two gangsters walked out.
I looked at my secretary. She's from out in the sticks originally. Now she'd seen some of the underbelly of this city. The owner looked at me, a sick smile on his face. I'm not always generous but I'd had a decent bonus from work. So I ordered the most expensive food on the menu and a couple bottles of wine. And I left a decent tip. Well what can you do? And I knew I was on to get a decent gratitude shag out of her later. Only joking! Don't say anything to the wife, you hear?