Tapo Pashkov rode the elevator to the top floor by himself. It was the twelfth floor of the downtown Phoenix office building that housed Entertainment Resources. Floors ten and eleven were occupied by the customer service employees surrounded by cubicles with laptops and headsets, taking orders for new credit cards and solving problems. The top floor, however, was strictly for top-level employees. And somehow Pashkov had worked his way up the ladder to actually confer with the boss, Khasi Zelman, CEO of Entertainment Resources.
Pashkov saw his reflection in the shiny steel doors and couldn’t believe what he was seeing in return. He looked like an investment banker with his gray suit, greasy black hair and finely trimmed beard. It was the image he was trying to portray, but he had a hard time growing accustomed to the look. Just three years earlier he was digging graves in the Chechen suburbs for the equivalent of ten dollars a grave. He would read the obituaries each morning, anxious to see how much money he would make that week. Now he was actually going to the top floor to discuss strategies with Mr. Zelman.
Pashkov’s aunt was Khasi Zelman’s ex-lover. Someone who Zelman wanted to accompany him to America almost a decade ago. But Pashkov’s aunt was too attached to her homeland and couldn’t imagine leaving her family behind. When Zelman sent word to his aunt that he was looking for hard-working Chechens to help with his business in Phoenix, Pashkov jumped at the chance to move to America.
At first, he was doing mundane jobs like picking up clients from the airport, or walking the boss’s dog, but soon he’d learned the art of intimidating soft American businessmen with their manicured nails and conditioned hair. Eventually, Pashkov graduated to extortion, where he became known as the Enforcer. His low forehead and thick eyebrows left him with a permanent glare. Even when he was happy, he seemed intense. His co-workers would joke that when Pashkov came home, even the fish looked busy.
He stepped out of the elevator and walked to the reception desk, where a thin brunette smiled from behind a high counter.
“How can I help you, Mr. Pashkov?”
“Mr. Zelman asked to see me.”
The woman glanced at the computer screen. “Yes, I see.” She pointed to a row of black leather chairs against the wall. “Have a seat and I’ll let Mr. Zelman know you’re here.”
Pashkov sat down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. The reception area was a long narrow strip of glossy floors with modern circular lights hanging on thin wires from the tall ceiling. There was a large fern on each side of the reception desk and big neon letters spelling out ‘Entertainment Resources’ on the wall behind the receptionist.
Pashkov wondered about the meeting. Normally Zelman had handlers who worked out of the off-site campus where all the criminals hung out. All the hardcore Chechens who did the dirty work. But Zelman rarely showed up there. He always maintained a professional persona which kept law enforcement at bay. With a team of lawyers on retainer, Zelman had played the game perfectly.
“He will see you now,” she said.
“Thank you, Gillian.” Pashkov then instantly hoped that was her name. He’d only been to the main office a couple of times.
He turned the knob on the giant wooden door, but nothing happened, until it buzzed when the receptionist pushed a hidden button to access the boss’s domain. And that’s what it was. A domain.
A massive room filled with live plants, avant garde lights, and all forms of entertainment paraphernalia. A pool table, ping pong table, and multiple large screen TVs hanging from the walls. There was a jukebox and a poker table and three slot machines. Pashkov had never been to Las Vegas, but he imagined this is what it looked like. And this was just the lobby.
A large, bearded man stood in the corner of the room with thick arms hanging by his side. He gestured to an open door and said, “He’s waiting for you.”
Music emanated from the open door. As Pashkov approached the office, the large man extended his hand and gave Pashkov a friendly expression.
The man’s name was Ropa. That sounded right, Pashkov thought. The Russian word for mountain. He shook the beast’s hand and entered the boss’s office.
Once inside, he found the chubby, bald guy sitting back in his chair, feet up on the desk. Zelman had his eyes closed and listened to the music with a smile in his face. It sounded more like a jumble of sounds than actual music. Pashkov was raised on traditional Chechen folk songs with an accordion and a bouncy beat and the familiar sound of a phondar, which consisted of three strings in a wood casing. This, however, was not bouncy or bright or even mildly entertaining.
From behind him, Ropa said loudly, “He is here sir.”
Zelman’s eyes opened and he gestured to the chair across from him with a smile. “Sit, Tapo. Listen to my son, Jerry’s, latest song.”
Zelman leaned forward and raised the volume on his laptop computer so Pachkov could hear the discord more clearly. “Huh?” he said with raised eyebrows. “It is good, right?”
Pashkov faked a pleased expression. “Yes, it is.”
“It’s called, ‘The End.’”
“Yes.” Pashkov understood now what this was. It sounded like a funeral dirge. People trailing behind a casket with their heads down. The perfect soundtrack for walk through a cemetery.
“You must be very proud,” Pashkov offered.
“Yes, yes.” Zelman beamed. “I am very proud.”
As the song ended, so did Zelman’s enthusiasm. He tapped the spacebar on his laptop and the room went still. He appraised Pashkov with a fixed stare. “So, how is your aunt?”
“She is well, sir.”
Zelman folded his arms across his chest and said, “I am hearing a lot of praise about how you have conducted yourself. The Sicilian job, that was very well done. Also, that gentleman you visited last night at the bowling alley just signed a five-year deal with us. Your ability to bend people to your will is very impressive.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Zelman pulled open a glass lid to a container of almonds sitting on his desk and held the container for Pashkov. “Have some.”
Pashkov instinctively lurched back away from the offering. “No, thank you very much, but I am highly allergic to almonds. They almost killed me as a child.”
“Really?” Zelman said, replacing the lid on the container and popping a few almonds into his mouth. “You can die from eating almond?”
“My throat swells up and closes my windpipe. Since then I walk around with an Epipen, just in case.”
“That is how I am with bees. One bee sting puts me in a hospital for a week.”
“Horrible.”
Zelman’s expression changed. He waved his arm around the office filled with shiny stainless railings and finely crafted wood shelves. “Have you ever wondered how all of this got started?”
Pashkov nodded, looking curious.
“Twenty years ago, I was back home working for the Chechen Mafia, doing grunt work, much like you. There was this crew of Albanians who would not pay for the marijuana we provided them. They said the quality was poor and they wouldn’t pay. It was an insult we could not accept. I had to get rough with one of the Albanians and crashed a baseball bat across his forehead.”
Zelman shrugged, adding, “I had a job to do. Later, I find out the guy I killed was the Albanian boss, so naturally I am elevated to a higher position.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a photo and handed it to Pashkov. It was an image of a nightclub with swirling lights and people dancing in the middle of the floor.
“That is where I got the idea,” Zelman said, pointing a finger at his compatriot. “I was relocated into the south of France where I was employed by a private security firm run by Chechens who quickly seized control of all the dance halls and entertainment establishments to maintain order. Then came the business dealings. Laundering money the old-fashioned way. But I was always the computer nerd, putting everything into files on the computer. When my boss asked where the information was, I would show him a flash drive and he would look confused. That was when I realized I had surpassed their intellectual abilities and needed to branch out on my own.”
Zelman stood up and put his hands in his pocket. “I decided there was a better way. A digital way to launder funds. That’s where our cryptocurrency became so valuable. No one can track our transactions. Not even the feds. But I realized that we needed a place to integrate our forces within a society so we could navigate the corporate world seamlessly, without scrutiny.” Zelman waved his arms around the room of finely crafted shelves filled with crystal trophies of their business awards. “I would say our integration is complete, no?”
“Yes.” Pashkov wondered where all of this was going. He couldn’t think of anything else to say so he asked, “What about Malkin?”
Zelman waved the back of his hand. “He was charged with impersonating an officer. A misdemeanor in Maryland. That’s all. Our lawyers are taking care of it, then he has a chore to do.”
Pashkov sat there trying to convince himself that everything would be fine, but his boss appeared to sense his uncertainty.
Zelman came around and sat at the edge of his desk right in front of Pashkov and appraised him. “Here at Entertainment Resources, we all fight for each other, because we are all family.” He raised his eyebrows for affect.
Pashkov seemed obliged to smile.
“As Chechens, we face the same discriminations that all minorities face in this country. We are no different. And the Sicilians would love nothing better than to see us wiped out. Especially after what we did to the Perrino family.”
Now he was getting to it, Pashkov thought.
Zelman had clenched his fist into a ball and was tapping it on his knee. “We need to be ready for the attack. They will come after us with everything they have. I want you to be in charge of the crew and finish the job we started. Are you prepared for that kind of responsibility?”
Pashkov sat upright in his chair. “Yes, sir.”
“I will handle the finances and you will be my muscle. I am putting you in charge of the crew. You will have my full support on whatever decisions you make as long as it leads to the elimination of the Sicilians. Understood?”
“Certainly.”
“One more thing,” Zelman said, looking down at his computer screen where the music was paused. “I need you to protect my most precious asset. My son, Jerry. He is an innocent twenty-one-year old kid who likes to make music and has no desire to join our crew and I am perfectly fine with that.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Tapo,” Zelman said, leering down at him now. “We need to start this operation immediately. I will text you a file with all the data we have on the Sicilians. Can you do this for me?”
Pashkov stood up and held out his hand. When Zelman shook it, Pashkov said, “I will go to my grave executing your orders, sir.”
Zelman actually grinned at that one. “Let’s hope it does not come to that.”