Zelman sat behind his desk while his accountant sat across from him with a laptop computer on his knees. Zelman was getting frustrated listening to the guy explain the state of his finances. Entertainment Resources was bleeding money and although Zelman had known about it for months, his accountant seemed to be reviewing things like they were on the Titanic.
“Khasi, you need to understand, your P & L looks like a ski slope,” the guy said, sitting there in his Clearance Warehouse suit and Walmart shoes.
The fact was Zelman had invested twenty million dollars into an illegal fentanyl operation. He supplied revenue for a local crime family who needed confidentiality and Zelman’s cryptocurrency was perfect for financing that type of operation. He anticipated collecting thirty million within the next week, so all of this was a big charade to keep the employees satisfied.
However, Mr. Pinhead across from him couldn’t know about the missing twenty million otherwise he’d become an accomplice and another loose end. And Zelman despised loose ends.
“It’s okay, Ron,” Zelman said. “The economy is slowing, and people aren’t spending as much. I have a plan to turn it around.”
Zelman did have a plan. An exit strategy actually. It involved Zelman completely cashing out and leaving the country. With Jade gone and all the pressure he was getting from the Feds, he knew there was an expiration date. And within seventy-two hours he was going to be sitting in a villa in Barcelona overlooking the Mediterranean.
Now, it was time to get rid of the bean counter. He texted his bodyguard and a few moments later, Ropa poked his thick head into the office and said, “Your three o’clock is here, Mr. Zelman.”
There was no three o’clock meeting scheduled, but Zelman wanted his accountant gone so he used his large assistant to shorten his quarterly financial briefing.
The CPA looked startled. “But, Khasi, we just got started. We need at least forty-five minutes to review your financials. We haven’t even discussed the missed IRS payment in October.”
“Relax, Ronald,” Zelman said, holding the door open. “We’ll finish this next week when I have a better handle on the receivables.”
His CPA left with a confused expression, but knew better than to overstep his boundary. Zelman returned to his desk and tapped his space bar to resume the music he was listening to before the briefing began. Jerry had downloaded new songs for him to hear and even though it wasn’t his type of music, he was proud of his boy’s gift. Jerry was maximizing his talent, and Zelman appreciated his ambition to create his own path.
Zelman leaned back in his leather chair and enjoyed hearing his son’s voice singing about peace in the world and treating our children well. Such a good message from such a mature young kid.
There was a knock on his door and a moment later, Ropa stepped in and walked over to his desk.
Zelman lowered the volume on his computer. “Yes?”
“There’s a car outside in the parking lot, three guys have been sitting there with the engine going for the past forty-five minutes.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So, we ran a check on the plates,” Ropa said, looking like he was trying to measure Zelman’s reaction. “And the car belongs to Al Mancini.”
This got Zelman to his feet and pulled down an inch of his blinds to peer down at the parking lot. The black car gleamed with a coat of new polish. Was it a Mercedes? A Bentley? Something expensive, that was for sure.
“You want I should go down there and have a word with them?” Ropa asked.
Zelman had to think about that. There was certain information Ropa wasn’t privy to, and he wanted to keep it that way.
“Ask if they need any assistance with their car,” Zelman said. “See how they react.”
Before Ropa could leave, the passenger side door opened and an oversized beast of a man came out and pulled open the back door where Mancini appeared, tugging on his wool coat and flicking the remnants of a cigar onto the asphalt.
“Get down there,” Zelman ordered. “Have them brought up here right away. Be pleasant. Act like we’ve been expecting them.”
Ropa seemed confused, but didn’t have the nerve to ask any questions.
Zelman sat down at his desk and logged out of Jerry’s music file. He’d suddenly lost his appetite for bright, bouncy beats. He tried to figure out what Mancini was doing there. The guy wasn’t involved with the Perrino massacre. He even turned down the offer to make the make the play himself but must’ve gained some benefit from the incident. Maybe he was there to form an alliance?
A few minutes later, Ropa escorted the three men into the office. Zelman remained behind his desk with his right ankle resting over his left knee and his hands clasped together in his lap.
“Gentlemen,” Zelman said agreeably. “What can I do for you?”
The two larger guys stood behind Al Mancini, who stood in front of Zelman’s desk and looked around the office with admiration.
“You got a nice place here,” Mancini said.
Mancini strolled around the room as if he were looking to buy the place. When he reached the back wall directly across from Zelman’s desk, he stopped and examined the large portrait hanging on the wall.
“You serious with this?” Mancini asked.
It was an image of a superhero wearing a tight leather suit, blue with a white star on his chest. The guy was looking down at his gloved hands which held a silver saucer with green, white, and red circles. At the bottom of the portrait were the words: Captain Chechnya.
Mancini looked at his two cohorts and chuckled. “You believe it? They turned Captain America into a foreigner.”
The two burly men grinned while Mancini played with the frame, adjusting it so it was level.
“There,” Mancini said, backing away from the painting. “Now it’s straight.”
He turned to face Zelman, who said nothing, forcing the guy to speak first.
Mancini seemed to sense that and he remained quiet for a solid minute, just staring at Zelman, sizing him up. Finally, Mancini said, “There’s been a merger of sorts.”
“Okay?”
“The Lucia family business has been consolidated into the Mancini family business,” Mancini said, his entire body perfectly still. Abnormally so. Like someone who didn’t blink.
“And what does this have to do with me?”
The room was so quiet Zelman could hear the fabric stretch as Mancini crossed his legs.
“It seems that Mr. Lucia has twenty million into a business venture with you, and we are here to receive the payment for that investment.”
“Well, that’s an interesting way to put things. However, Mr. Lucia should have notified you that the turnaround time was two weeks. And those two weeks aren’t up for a couple of days.”
Mancini was nodding before Zelman had even finished. “Yeah, yeah, he told me all about it. See the thing is, we have different terms than Mr. Lucia. We work on a tighter schedule.”
Zelman cocked his head. “That is not the agreement I made with Mr. Lucia. Maybe if he were here, he could vouch for me.”
“Yeah, well there’s not a lot of vouching going on in our line of work. When do you think you could get us the thirty million? That is the agreement, correct? He gave you twenty, in return for thirty?”
Zelman had required a total of forty million to pay for the transport of fentanyl from a foreign country. He didn’t even know which one. He just knew that he was twenty million short and didn’t have a whole lot of options when it came to a short-term loan. The net gain would be ten million for him and ten for his silent partner, Dom Lucia. They each had invested twenty million in order to received thirty back.
“That is precisely the arrangement,” Zelman said. “I can make a call tonight and possibly move up the return investment by a day.”
Mancini uncrossed his legs and leaned back in his chair, tapping the arms with his fingertips. “Let me ask you something. What did you think was going to happen when you had the Perrino family whacked?”
Zelman felt like that was a loaded question. He stared back at the older guy. “The Perrinos are a small group of has-beens. Sal Perrino was way past his prime and there was no one there to take his place. I did my research before I acted.”
“Did you?” Mancini said. “So you knew that Nick Bracco practically grew up with the Perrinos back in Baltimore? And that he only lives ninety minutes away from here?”
“I know all about Agent Bracco, and I am aware of precisely where he lives,” saying it with attitude, knowing he already had a guy up there taking care of the Bracco family.
Mancini edged forward like he was about to get up, then said, “You know when you miss payroll, it upsets people.”
Zelman sneered now. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
Zelman jumped up from his chair and leaned across his desk, while the two heavyset men moved closer to their boss. “I decide whether . . . Who told you I missed payroll?”
Mancini gave him a half-shrug. “Loose lips sink ships.”
Zelman scrunched up his face. “I do not know what that means.”
“Ah, it’s an old Navy phrase. Being from Chechnya, you wouldn’t understand.” Mancini got to his feet. “Let’s just say, people aren’t as loyal as you think once they miss a paycheck.”
Zelman stared, wondering where the crack was in his organization.
Mancini stared back at him. “The Mancini family is not a small group of has-beens. And more importantly, we have formed an alliance that will overwhelm your ability to protect yourself. There isn’t a condo in the world where you can hide, Mr. Zelman. Not even in Barcelona.”
Zelman watched the guy stroll toward the door while his security team glared at Zelman.
“Make that phone call,” Mancini said over his shoulder. “I want the money tomorrow.”
Then he was gone.
Zelman’s chest pounded as he stood there dumbfounded. How did this guy know about the missed payroll? And the villa in Barcelona? His exit plan had just been pushed up.
The door reopened and Mancini stuck his head in. “And please, don’t try to run. That will only accelerate your demise.”