The Russian Problem (Darby Stansfield Thriller Book 2) Page 3

  I crumpled a piece of paper into a ball and launched it at his head. It was time to lighten the mood. “Listen up. I got some great news. I’m taking a vacation.”

  “Yeah? Where to?”

  “Minsk.”

  “Minsk?”

  “Belarus, my friend.” I took the flier out of my backpack and put it on my desk.

  Tav’s attitude changed as he walked back to my desk and took a seat. “Holy cow. These women are smoking hot.”

  “No kidding. Why do you think I’m heading over there?”

  “What is this, some sort of sex tour?”

  “No way, man. This is nothing like those BangCock trips to Thailand that your buddy takes three or four times a year.”

  “Who? Reggie? Nah, man. He only went, like, once or twice. His wife found out. The guy’s grounded for life now.”

  “Whatever. You know what I’m saying.” I went on to explain to Tav how the tour worked. There were parties at night, dates during the day, and maybe a little action in between. I wanted Tav to understand that, for me, this was real. I wasn’t some young gun heading to Tijuana for the weekend. “Tav, this is an honest way for me to meet a Russian woman. I might find someone over there. You never know.”

  “Wow, I can totally see why you’re flying halfway around the world rather than working the pool of roughly 350,000 single women that San Francisco has to offer. Brilliant. I mean, why use the salt shaker in front of you when you can reach across the table and use the other one?”

  I threw both of my arms up in the air. “Well, if you lay it out that way, of course it doesn’t make sense.” Deep down inside I knew that what Tav was saying was right. Sort of. All I had going for me was the Hottie Defense; these women were so hot that I couldn’t take a pass.

  “So you go, you get to know them, maybe hit it off, then you leave after what––a week? What happens then?” he asked.

  “I guess if you felt like there was some awesome connection, you would keep in touch though e-mail, phone calls, trips back there.”

  “Seems like a lot of work. I mean, don’t get me wrong, they’re beautiful and have a different look from the women here, but––”

  Hottie Defense. He was coming around, but I had to get rational on him to put it to bed. “Look, it’s no different than Match.com. It’s a way to reach out to women you normally wouldn’t come into contact with. Why limit yourself to one bar or one city or one country?”

  Tav exhaled loudly. “When do you leave?”

  “Three days.”

  “That’s sudden.”

  “The lady that’s running the tour had space on her next trip to Minsk. Plus, she said Belarusian women were the best.”

  Tav picked up the flier and ogled the women once more. “I don’t blame you.”

  Hey, he’s coming around. Maybe he’ll ride shotgun. “You should come.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Yeah, it’ll be great. We’ll be each other’s wingman.”

  Tav’s eyes shot up to the upper right hand corner of his eye socket. He was calculating. That was a good sign.

  “How much is it?”

  “It’s $2,500 plus airfare. Though I’m using miles to pull it off.”

  “I don’t think I have enough miles. The airlines will rape me this late in the game. No way I can swing last minute airfare and the cost of the tour.”

  No sooner had Tav spoken those words than a foul-smelling shadow fell upon us.

  “What tour are you two idiots talking about?”

  8

  “You thinking of taking a vacation, Stansfield?”

  We both looked toward my door only to see the village ogre, Harold Epstein, standing there. He’s the manager on the sixth floor, where he oversees the bottom-feeders—the sales associates who get stuck trying to sell wireless solutions to mom-and-pop retailers. It wasn’t so long ago that I used to be down there.

  Harold’s the only guy I know who looks like a homeless man wearing a jacket and tie for the very first time. He also sports the most unruly nose hair I’ve ever seen. It curves around the nostril like a vine following a wall.

  “I see you made another fine suit purchase straight off the rack––husky section.”

  “Fuck you, dickwad.”

  “What are you doing up here? This floor is for heavy-hitters. Are you here to make out with my butt?”

  Harold stood at the entrance to my office. I had banned him from ever setting foot inside. So far, the pear shaped fungoid was following my orders.

  “What’s that flier? Is that porn?” he asked, while shaking his finger at us. “You know that’s against company policy.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’re compiling a list of all the hot women around the world who so far have said they would never date you. Over three billion and counting.”

  “I wouldn’t talk, Darby. It’s not like you got them hanging on your arms.”

  “Oh, and how would Mr. I-Never-Been-To-A-Club know that?”

  Harold now stood with both hands on his hips, like he had the authority of a mall cop. Tav and I must have had the same thought because we both started to snicker.

  “Laugh all you want, but I’ll be the one who will have the last laugh. I know you’re struggling with your sales.”

  “The only thing I’m struggling with is the stench that is all you.”

  The next thing I knew, Harold had marched right over to my desk and leaned over. His breath was now front and center, its arrival like a slap in the face. A grin appeared on his rotund face. “There’s a sales meeting. The big guy wants updates on how everyone is doing. See you in five.” Harold snickered and then flipped me the double bird as he backed out of my office.

  Gerald Thorn, the VP of Sales at Teleco, is the “big guy” Harold was referring to. He was the heart and soul of the department and the best salesman to rise up the ranks. He could close anyone, even a bankrupt business owner.

  But the sales meeting wasn’t what got my goat just now. As much as I couldn’t stand that feeble-minded man, what Harold said, well, it was true. It wasn’t like I dated steadily or had a long time girlfriend. I gave Harold crap about his lack of social life, but who was I to talk? My love life was pretty much non-existent. Every now and then I would meet a girl, but those moments were few and far apart. It made me despise him even more, because he was right.

  “What a jerk,” Tav said as he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t sweat him, Darb.”

  “Do you think I’m a loser?”

  “What?”

  “A loser. You know there’s some truth to what he said. It’s not like I’m surrounded by women.”

  “Don’t even begin to compare yourself with Harold. That guy couldn’t get to first base with a drunken blow-up doll.”

  I turned to Tav. “I’m serious. I need to get my personal life in gear. I really need to make an effort to date. With a little candy on my arm, I could really stick it to the Neanderthal.” I stood up and began to gather my stuff for the meeting.

  Tav folded his arms across his chest as he leaned back a bit. “I thought your hatred for him stemmed entirely from him trying to get you fired. Still is, just so you know.”

  Tav was right. Harold’s been trying to get rid of me since Day One on the job. He almost had me, too. It was about a year ago. At the time, my client list was lagging and I had no prospects on the horizon. He was on the verge of firing me for underperforming on the job, but then I gave birth to my consulting idea and snagged a client. Best idea I ever had.

  So far the only other person who knows about my side ventures is Tav, plus the gangs involved. Along the way there were others, but they either ended up dead or were criminals themselves. Harold’s the only one who has an inkling that something about my clients isn’t right. He hasn’t figured it out yet, but with his determination to see me fired, he’s the most dangerous person I have to contend with. He’s constantly digging around like a pig at an all-you-can-eat trough.

  “So
what’s this about your sales dropping?” Tav asked. “I thought things were going well.”

  “They are. I mean, I’m placing orders for the Russians. They’re just not big ones, so I slipped a little. It’s not a big thing unless someone goes out of the way to make it a big deal. We all slip and rise throughout the month.”

  “So this is Harold getting Gerald to hold an update meeting when he knows your sales are down so that you look bad.”

  “Exactly. Now I gotta answer to Thorn––the guy who wrote the book on selling.”

  9

  By the time I entered the conference room, it was packed with every heavy-hitter on the floor. It was standing room only. Sitting at the head of the conference table was Gerald Thorn, our fearless leader. “Everyone ready to sound off?” he asked.

  A sound-off is when every heavy in the room shouts out his monthly goal and where he currently was at that moment. If you’re ahead, it’s glorious. If you’re behind, it’s dreadful. And to make things worse, Gerald started the sound-off on the opposite side of the room, making me dead last.

  Frank Rose was up first. How convenient it was that Rose always found himself sitting next to the big guy. He was the golden child in the room—could do no wrong in Gerald’s eyes. I’m not dissing Rose, but when you drive a different Porsche to work every week, it says, “I’m top dog” and “Fuck all y’all” at the same time.

  It was the fifteenth of the month. My monthly goal had been set at twenty-five thousand, and I was sitting at eight and a half. So I was off the mid-month mark by four thousand. That’s not that bad. I still have two more weeks to go. A lot can go down in two weeks.

  Rose stood up straight like a pole. More like a tool. “End goal, forty-five thousand. Sales to date, fifty thousand.”

  The room erupted in cheers. Backslapping and repeated “You the man” could be heard all around. Sonofabitch. Not only was he ahead, he had already beat his monthly goal. But hey, he’s the best of the heavies—he should be ahead. But as the sound-off continued, it revealed other heavies to be ahead as well, and most were right on target. So far there was only one guy behind and it was by a measly five hundred. When they hear my numbers, they’ll forget about him.

  I looked over at Harold, who almost never sat in on our sound-offs. He had wiggled his pork butt into the chair right next to Gerald. That cross-eyed mutt stared at me with a grin resembling that of a sickened camel. His enthusiasm growing as the sound-off moved closer and closer to me. He was about to have a wet dream of epic proportions, when he would finally succeed in publicly humiliating me in front of Gerald and the whole heavy-hitter team.

  What was I to do? I was unprepared. Had I more time, I’m sure I would have thought of an out. My mind started spitballing ideas.

  Brain: Sneak out. No, wait! Start a fight.

  Me: What?

  Brain: Do the Exorcist thing with your head.

  The worst was yet to come as my noggin continued to churn. Finally it declared what it believed to be its best idea yet.

  Brain: I have it. Surely you’ll proclaim this one a Darbytastic idea. Why don’t we crap your pants so you can excuse yourself?

  Me: Dead man walking.

  We were now five heavies away from me. I should have been shunned twenty minutes ago, but the locker-room love being bestowed upon heavies by other heavies for their sales dominance had slowed down the sound-off. It was nearing noon. Everyone knew what that meant; Gerald Thorn would leave for lunch. It didn’t matter if he was in a meeting with our most important client; the man would stand up and go to lunch. It was wired in his head that he had to eat when the two hands pointed straight up.

  I couldn’t believe it. I quickly joined in the celebration. I slapped butts, dished out high-fives, and did double bicep poses. Whatever it took to keep the sound-off from reaching me I did. Who had a silly grin? Me, that’s who. I had an out and it was only five minutes away.

  Brain: We did it! We did it!

  Me: What do you mean “we”?

  Gerald also sensed what was five minutes away. He stood up and buttoned his jacket. “It’s lunchtime, gentlemen. Why don’t we pick this up another time?”

  Hooray! I was off the hook. I immediately headed for the door. Just as I had a foot out, I heard a wounded animal cry out. I looked back.

  Harold held a file in his hand. “Wait! I’ve got all the sales figures right here. I could quickly read them off.”

  Gerald stopped for a moment, contemplating. He looked at his watch, then over at Harold. Everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing. They waited for his answer.

  Sweat ran down the sides of Harold’s face. He had pit rings that would make the planet Saturn proud. His lip quivered. He was dying to blurt out the figures.

  The King of Sales gave the entire room a once-over. He took a deep breath, pressing his lips together so his mustache covered them. What was he thinking? What would be the decision? He looked down at his watch, then at Harold. “How many we got left?”

  “Five,” Harold said.

  Gerald again checked his watch. It looked like Harold had him. The King was wavering. He rubbed both sides of his chin with one hand and then tugged on his mustache. The entire room was on edge, awaiting an answer. No one dared move, not even an inch.

  After what seemed like hours, Gerald finally said, “Fuck it. Let’s eat.”

  10

  I once read somewhere that beautiful women think the reason they don’t get asked out much is because they think their looks intimidate men. That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. I’ve asked them out. They said no.

  I arrived at San Francisco International Airport around a quarter to six. The sun had just cracked the horizon and the fog layer was more of a mist, not enough to delay departures this morning. So far, the day was going as planned.

  I met up with Elana Voronova and the rest of the tour at the gate. I did a quick head count. There were a total of five guys including myself who had signed up for the tour. I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a pathetic thing.

  “Hi, Elana.”

  “Ah, Darby, hello. How are you? Excited about trip?”

  “Oh yeah. Can’t wait to get going.”

  “Good, good.” Elana pointed to the men around her and said, “These are your tour mates. Introduce yourself. Make friends.”

  I was hoping she wouldn’t say that. I was feeling a little shy this morning, maybe a tad bit embarrassed that I needed to get on a tour and travel halfway around the world to meet a woman. Whatever. I decided to suck it up and make the best of my trip.

  I went around and did the whole introduction thing. Most of these men were guys whom I don’t think I would have hung out with. Then again, who was I to talk? Tav was my only friend.

  The first two I met looked like they could be brothers. Turns out they were a couple of Silicon geeks. I stuck out my hand. “Hi. I’m Darby Stansfield.”

  The dark haired one grabbed a hold of my hand and shook it like it was a Polaroid picture. “Hiya. I’m Gene Wimmers. This here is Matt Sherry. Nice to meet you. Whaddaya say? Gonna be a great time or what, huh?” Gene said as he winked at me.

  “Yeah, I think it will.”

  They both worked at Google. Don’t ask me what they did; my mind started to drift when they tried to explain it to me.

  They seemed decent enough even though they were dressed as if they were heading into the office. Both had on wrinkle-free khakis with a white, button-down, long sleeve shirt. Gene was the more outspoken of the two. Which is great if you like talking about search engine optimization. I don’t.

  I excused myself and made a beeline to the redheaded guy sitting by himself listening to his iPod. “Hey. I’m Darby Stansfield,” I said with my arm extended.

  This guy looked up at me with an eye squinted. I felt like he was deciding whether to talk to me. It was the first day in third grade all over again. He finally pulled his ear buds out and shook my hand.

  “Alonzo Forrest
er. Nice to meet you. What brings you on the trip? Fun or marriage?”

  “Uh, fun. Definitely fun. You?”

  “Marriage. I’m looking to find a sweet girl I can settle down with. I’ve done two trips to Ukraine. Almost got lucky last time, but it didn’t work out. Third time’s a charm, they say. What do you do for living?”

  “I sell wireless business solutions.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “You don’t look like you’re in sales. I’m in the jam business––marketing manager at Smucker’s, up in Chico. Heard of it?”

  Nah, I’m the one person in the whole wide world that’s never eaten jam before. “Sure. Hey, are you guys allowed to eat Welch’s or is that against company policy? You know, kind of like how Coke employees can’t drink Pepsi.”

  Alonzo gave me an emotionless look before tuning me out with his iPod. Whatever. I wasn’t here to make friends.

  The last guy was old. He looked at least sixty. He was also the best-dressed one out of all us. His suit looked like it was custom made by his personal tailor. This guy reeked of money. Turns out he used to be a successful lawyer in the city, but was now retired. His name was William Weingard. His wife passed away a couple of years ago. I guess this was his way to get himself back out there mingling with the opposite sex. He appeared to be the most normal of the group.

  About a half hour later, we boarded the plane. It was a straight shot to Frankfurt and then from there, the final leg to Minsk: the land of hot women who liked fun, lovable, caring, energetic, rich dudes. Funny thing, nobody here looked like they had any money except for the lawyer, William.

  11

  Minsk, Belarus