Dacha Diving For Dollars

“What was that again? I’m trying my best to track every important point here.”

F. Drumpf, Jr was admiring the design of the detailed tile work on the smaller man’s indoor pool while Vlad the Blade continued to gab on in that gobbledygook of his. The man believed he was pretty smooth in his delivery, that’s for sure. He must have dreamed he was conducting a big Russian orchestra, compensating for being so short. The interpreter was nodding his head as if he got it. But, got what? Drumpf, Jr frowned and looked at the walls as if he was deep in thought. The walls were not bad either, some kind of smooth plaster, except smoother. But, how much longer can a guy go on about what it is he’s got to say? The deal’s done. Everybody gets what they want. It’s 1992 already. A no good year if there ever was one for real estate. First real estate goes south, then the banks. Now, time’s a wasting.

Drumpf,Jr said, “I wouldn’t mind another spritz of that bubbly seltzer of yours before I have to shove off. That stuff’s good for a gurgling gut.”

Who knew what the hell time it was in what zone way out here nowhere and how much longer it was going to take? Why would a guy with thirty one mil in cash to invest wisely build his showplace estate out in the boonies where it was so cold and dark? Not even a beach or palm tree or a golf course in sight.

“You say this comes from an underground spring? But still, all it is is water. I wouldn’t mind having a piece of that action.”

This foreign pussy he had waiting in the plane had better be worth the overtime rate. She was probably freezing her tight buns off. She better know how to find the switch that turns on the heat. But, this was the man who had the short term cash he needed to stay on the upside so what was he supposed to do, grab it, and say what a pleasure Vlad, nice digs, see ya later, let’s do it again next year, gotta run to seal another deal? Even if it was true for a change?

“Yeah, that stuff really hits the spot. I can feel it gurgling down deep.”

Nothing beat the beautiful feel of a green paper dollar, though, fresh from the bank. No expensive pussy could touch it. 1992 right from the beginning had been a brutal year for borrowing what with all the Johnny-Come- Lately’s driving up rates. London and Hong Kong, too. Some big shots had to hit the bricks. About the most a man can do when it hits hard like that is get it back fast where the getting’s good. Thirty one mil and change is not bad for a day’s work, he had to admit. Even if he did have to go all the way to the end of the Earth to collect. The politicians loused up the whole economy with their taxes when it was running so smooth.

“Remind me to have my people send your people a coupl of cases of this drink you’re all gonna love we got only in New York called Yoo-Hoo.”

Drumpf, Jr was alone but his people had his back. They better if they know what’s good for ’em. That was a big part of the art of the deal. Don’t let no two parts know your business who don’t need to know on a need to know basis. But, never be really all alone like it looks. There were more parts, too. But they’d have to get into that another time. The recording devices installed by KGB agents in the walls and ceilings would be turned on then too. They were sitting on soft turquoise lounge chairs hand stitched in a cinder block sweatshop on Garfield Ave. in East L.A. The grand dacha on Lake Komsomolskoye was surrounded by tall trees that blocked the sunlight and did nothing to bring out the pastel highlights. The chairs’d go good color wise with the color of the water in Palm Beach. It would be a smart idea, Drumpf, Jr decided, to order some of these chairs myself. Small Mexicans in East Los Angeles knew how to get a good stitch tight. It helped they were closer to the ground.

After an exchange of puzzled looks and mutterings with Putin, the interpreter asked, “How you correctly spell this Yoo-Hoo?”

Drumpf, Jr was leaning forward in his chair as if he was a cat paying careful attention to a rat hole and ready to spring. A frisky in and out boytoy of Roy Cohn’s, some fruity yet studly drama coach on Lower Broadway who sucked hard, used to call it pinpoint emoting. Putin sat straight in his chair when he was not standing to elaborate as if someone in a distant room might be missing a sugary bon mot. The short man needed to learn how to loosen up if he wanted to last. He was wasting a lot of pinpoint energy. Their one lone interpreter claimed to speak six languages, and be able to work for the both of them, even Steven, but Drumpf, Jr was skeptical. Sure, the guy sounded good but how much does that ever mean? Speaking is easy to fake. Russians knew how to do tile work, though, he had to admit that.

Sitting in the stiff position is what gets hard. That’s where a good game of golf comes in. Excellent for stiffness. Nine holes was okay, but the full eighteen turned the real trick. He wouldn’t mind if he wasn’t in a rush to dive into that pool a time or two. That board looked mighty springy. He used to be a pretty great diver at military school in Valley Forge but had to give it up because of pressure on his braces and his ears.

Diving was all about timing. Diving after expensive pussy, too. The springy cat knew it and he knew it better than any man alive and it was about time that Vlad the Blade knew it too.

“This is not the only major winning deal in the shiny new platinum pipeline, you know.”

No rat coming out of a hole or grubby con man after a hard night working in a gulag had ever been any happier than Drumpf, Jr when Vlad seemed to be finally petering out after all of the extravagant gestures with his pendulous arm. He was able to squeeze in and add before the short man who has no doubt compensating for size had the chance to get going again with a second wind, “You’ll find out this is going to be the start of something big.”

Vlad did not disagree. The unnamed Cayman Island account inherited by his lovely blonde daughter with the skin as thin and papery as a drift of Eastern Siberian snow still showed a balance of $62,357,404, the net profit after expenses from the oil, gold, and diamonds dug from the Mirny mine in Eastern Siberia, the worlds deepest hole, for which Vlad the Blade as the agent of authority had been compensated in full. There was no way in the new, fair, and just post-revolutionary regime developing out of the former Soviet Union into an enterprising system of privatization that he would be successfully accused of corruption by enemies of freedom when the Iowa corn, beef, and pork to be received in exchange for the valuable Russian commodities inexplicably became lost in transport or at sea though no fault of his own as the official administering and adjudicating all procurement issues of note for St. Petersberg.

“That about wraps it up.”

“Da.”

“I’ll be sure,” Drumpf, Jr added as he stood stiffly to shake out the kinks, “to hit one straight down the middle of the fairway in honor of beautiful international relations for you and yours.”

 

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About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in humor, short stories, wtf and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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