Olga Dies Dreaming(61)
“The boss said to enjoy this however you want, but if he were you, he’d keep the watch, invest the cash, and sell the champagne to one of your WASP clients.”
Olga decided that was exactly what she was going to do—though in truth some of the cash was tucked into Lourdes’s college savings account. She was unsurprised by but keenly aware of the sum the champagne earned her. She’d been able to present it as discounted product to the client, when for her it was all profit. Her wheels began to churn. This seemed a harmless way to earn a few extra dollars and her clients all loved good wine and champagne. Olga began to overorder, just a bit at first, and then more and more, when placing her clients’ champagne orders. Then, when she had amassed enough inventory to cover a whole party, she would offer the product to her clients at a discount.
A couple of years later, when the oligarch’s daughter was having her baby shower, Olga planned it gladly, free of charge. She was grateful for the new revenue stream they had opened up for her. Igor suggested more ways that they could work together, as the family restaurants sometimes found themselves with extra product—caviar, vodka, expensive whiskeys—but sometimes found themselves short on other extravagances, like hard-to-find wines. Though Olga was mildly apprehensive about forging an ongoing alliance with the Russian mob, the opportunity seemed too good to refuse. In this way, their exchanges began. Olga would tag onto her clients’ liquor orders a few extra cases of champagne, but also an additional case of Stag’s Leap Cask 23 here, a case of Penfold’s 2013 Grange there. In turn, Igor would deliver below-cost cases of Russian vodkas and Johnnie Walker Blue Label, which Olga could then, of course, resell. Once every couple of months they would exchange product and cash, as the relationship proved symbiotic for all parties.
Had she stopped to think about it from a purely catechistic perspective, the wine enterprise was clearly a form of theft. Morally and possibly criminally wrong. But Olga did not stop to think of it this way, instead viewing this as a present of unquantifiable value that the oligarch and Igor had given to her. Prior to meeting them, Olga was eking out a living, believing, mistakenly, that if she provided quality services the money would eventually work out. They gave her a new lens through which to see her day-to-day operations: apply big-business thinking to her mom-and-pop shop.
* * *
“YOU KNOW,” IGOR said to her today, “there are a lot of people in my line of work making weddings, birthday parties, all of the stuff you do, Olga. They have cash, not so much to burn, but to … well, clean up. Simon thinks, why not kill two birds with one stone by working with a nice girl like you, who understands how the world works? Do you get what I’m saying?”
Though a lover of risk and cash in equal measure, Olga’s gut instincts told her that this was a bridge too far for both. Exchanging product was one thing; cleaning people’s money could quickly turn friends into enemies. She did not want to become the oligarch’s enemy.
“Igor, please tell Simon I appreciate him thinking of me, truly, but things are looking up for me these days, and, well, cash is tricky. The IRS and all.”
“What do I know of the IRS?” he said, looking at her with mild disdain, as though he had sized her up as admirable and now needed to reassess not only her, but his own judgment. “If you change your mind, you know where I am.”
And with that, Igor and his two OTBs, hand trucks loaded with several cases of Cakebread, headed out the door, passing Meegan who was on her way in.
“Who were those guys, Olga?” Meegan asked as she placed her bag down.
Olga sighed. It had been a long weekend and she was too tired for Meegan this morning.
“Russian mobsters coming to buy hot goods to resell on the black market in Moscow, Meegan.”
Olga turned to her computer. There was a moment of silence and Meegan started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Olga asked.
“You said that about those guys as though it could be true!”
Something about her failed attempt at honesty gave Olga the giggles and soon both women were wiping tears from their faces. The moment softened Olga towards Meegan, at least momentarily.
“Did you have a good time at the party?” she asked.
Meegan hesitated.
“At first, I guess.” Meegan sighed. “But then Trip ended up in a pack of his sweaty coworkers doing shots off an ice sculpture, and I got stuck making conversation with all the other girlfriends.”
Olga smirked, more with familiarity than malice.
“‘It’s not the life I chose, it’s the life that chose me,’” she said.
“What?” Meegan asked, earnestly.
“Rap lyric. But the point is, in my opinion, when it comes to men and relationships? We’re all born with our lives set on certain tracks. On your track, unless you go out of your way to buck convention, you will encounter Trip after Trip, always ending up outside of a shot circle with the other girlfriends, who eventually will become wives and then moms. Making small talk, or as you called it, ‘conversation.’”
“What a remarkably cynical assessment,” Meegan offered while collapsing onto the office sofa.
“Let it marinate for a minute, see if it rings true, and tell me later. Or, in a few years.” Olga smiled. She hadn’t meant it cynically at all, in fact.
“Well, so, what about your ‘set track’ then?” Meegan said with a sly smile. “It clearly has Mr. Eikenborn on it.”