Heads You Win

“And you wouldn’t be expected to. That isn’t a side of the business you’d be involved in. All I’m looking for is a courier to deliver messages to my workers in the field. That shouldn’t be too demanding for someone of your intelligence.”

“But how could that possibly be worth a hundred dollars a week?” asked Alex.

“You’re bilingual, and most of my couriers only speak Russian,” said Ivan. He took a wad of hundred-dollar bills out of his back pocket, peeled off four, and handed them to Alex, which stopped him asking any more questions.

Elena watched from behind the counter as the cash changed hands. No one paid out that kind of money if it was legitimate. What made her even more suspicious was that Alex hadn’t touched his favorite pizza.

* * *

To begin with, Ivan was not too demanding. It was as if he was testing out his new recruit, asking him only to deliver innocuous messages to various contacts across the city. Alex rarely got much more than a grunt in return from his fellow countrymen, and when they did speak, it was always in Russian. But Ivan explained that they were all immigrants who, like him, had escaped the tyrannies of the KGB and didn’t trust anyone. Alex couldn’t pretend he liked the people he was dealing with, but he hated the KGB even more, and equally important, Ivan never failed to pay his wages on time. Most of the money was passed on to Mr. Wolfe the following morning, who seemed to be the only person making a profit.

Alex would leave NYU at around four in the afternoon, and be back at the market in time to relieve Bernie at five. He rarely shut up shop much before seven, when he would walk across to Mario’s and join his mother for supper. He would always carry a couple of books under his arm, leaving the impression that he was a hardworking student who’d just come from a lecture. Although he didn’t mind admitting to Elena that he was enjoying the economics course far more than he’d expected.

Over supper he would read a chapter of Galbraith or Smith, and when he returned home he’d write extensive notes before going to bed. A routine a Jesuit would have approved of, while disapproving of what Alex was trying to achieve.

* * *

By the time Alex returned to university for his sophomore year, he was renting three stalls. Fruit and vegetables, jewelry (three times the mark-up), and clothes, which he purchased from Addie, who put aside anything that didn’t look second-hand, which would then turn up in Alex’s stall the following morning at double the price. He spent every Saturday evening with Addie, occasionally staying overnight, which wasn’t always appreciated, as he had to be back at the market by 4 a.m., in order to make sure he didn’t get second-best. Five o’clock, and you ended up with the leftovers.

By the end of his sophomore year, Alex had paid back every penny of his debt to Dimitri, and had bought his mother a fur coat for the New York winters; a thrift store bargain of the month at sixty dollars. He was even thinking about getting himself a second-hand delivery van so he could speed up deliveries and save time, but not until he’d graduated.

Although Alex was working sixteen hours a day, he was enjoying a lifestyle no other undergraduate at NYU would have thought possible. But the real bonus was that his three stalls were now producing a large enough profit to make it possible for him to buy a fourth (cut glass, the latest rage).

Everything was going to plan, until he was arrested.

16

SASHA

University of Cambridge

“When do you think we’ll hear the result?” asked Sasha.

“The ballot closed at six o’clock,” said Ben, “so the returning officer and his team will be counting the votes now. My bet is that we’ll know in about half an hour, possibly sooner.”

“But how will we find out?” asked Sasha, not wanting to admit how nervous he felt.

“The outgoing president will announce the names of the new officers along with those who’ve been elected to the committee, and then we either celebrate or drown our sorrows.”

“Let’s hope we both make it onto the committee.”

“You’re a shoo-in,” said Ben. “I’m just hoping to scrape into fourth place.”

“If you do make it, how will you celebrate?”

“I’m going to have one last crack at getting Fiona into the sack. If she makes VP, I must be in with a chance.”

Sasha took a sip of his lager.

“And what have you got planned?” asked Ben.

“Either way I’m going to see Charlie, and try to make up for all the time I’ve been spending in this place.”

“She’s been pretty preoccupied herself since she joined Footlights,” said Ben. “Perhaps you should have become an actor, not a politician. Then you could have played Oberon opposite her Titania.”

“Lucky Oberon.”

A sudden silence fell over the room as the outgoing president of the Union made his entrance. He came to a halt in the center of the room, coughed, and waited until he had everyone’s attention. “The result of the ballot for officers of the Union in the Michaelmas term is as follows. President, with seven hundred and twelve votes, Mr. Chris Smith of Pembroke College.”