Now that the baser business was attended and the Syndicate stabilized, Zixin turned toward smoothing things over with the Yakuza. Their alliance had not fully eroded away, but it was going to take a show to demonstrate that things were getting back on track.
Five clubs were slated to be opened. The Red Light District near central Moscow was out of the question. The Russians ran the district and it was locked down tighter than a Soviet gulag. Eventually, they might expand into it, but the idea was to slice out a piece of the pie from under the Russians noses, in parts of the city where they wouldn’t necessarily bother to fight over. The local gangs might put up some trouble, but they were easily intimidated by the larger, more organized Syndicate.
Five clubs.
They were all going to be hosting clubs according to the Japanese style. Establishments where clients pay to talk and drink with beautiful and charming men and women, were found in nightlife districts all over Japan, and were extremely profitable and popular. A patron didn’t need to commit to a single host once inside as different hosts were brought to tables on rotation. If a client took an interest with one, they could request the host stay with them the rest of the night, and they were pricey, too. Dropping at least a thousand or more per night was expected. The allure was appealing for workers promised all the glamour and money of the nightlife without the dangers and diseases of the street, but the truth was far less exciting. Hosts and hostesses were often coerced into their jobs, kept addicted to substances onto which their paychecks depended, or were flat out were threatened with harm if they left. The leverage that kept them there usually hinged on their illegal status, meaning the human traffickers benefited far more than the employees as they had no where else to go. The safety of the employees was also far less guaranteed. Sexual favors were an expected part of the job and often performed within view of other clients.
The hosts were only part of the plan. The Japanese also intended to intertwine the sport of Puroresu with their clubs, a modern Japanese style of professional wrestling where gambling rings made the most profit. Entertainment and sex, the only thing left was drugs.
The CCD was flush with all sorts of legal pharmaceuticals. One could walk up to a vending machine on most corners for push-button highs, but there was always something on the cutting edge that promised the better, longer, deeper binge. Moving drugs out of the Golden Triangle and into Moscow was possible, but not without competition from the Russians. Zixin knew there were rumors of something else out there. He intended on tracking down the source soon, but for now, there were more logistical issues to handle.
The Japanese brought the business model, the Syndicate brought the workers, that left the sites and clubs themselves, and it was a Custody man that jingled the keys to their possible new kingdoms that Zixin would meet tomorrow.
For now, he entered the dive bar that the Japanese were known to frequent. Called The Hole, it was in some shitty, lower class neighborhood in Moscow. He wore black on black for the night: an expensive black suede shirt and leather coat, and stood out as a result. The place stank of oil and musk, but Zixin was careful not to curl his nose at it and risk offending his guests.
After entering, a second man followed him inside. A syndicate on the payroll, he took up a place in the corner to watch over his man. There were certainly more outside, out of sight.
Zixin walked up to a table and stared down at a man and woman sitting there. He nodded his head, face blank with intention, and the guy mumbled something, tugged on his girlfriend’s hand, and vacated the spot.
He promptly sat down and ordered a beer.
Five clubs were slated to be opened. The Red Light District near central Moscow was out of the question. The Russians ran the district and it was locked down tighter than a Soviet gulag. Eventually, they might expand into it, but the idea was to slice out a piece of the pie from under the Russians noses, in parts of the city where they wouldn’t necessarily bother to fight over. The local gangs might put up some trouble, but they were easily intimidated by the larger, more organized Syndicate.
Five clubs.
They were all going to be hosting clubs according to the Japanese style. Establishments where clients pay to talk and drink with beautiful and charming men and women, were found in nightlife districts all over Japan, and were extremely profitable and popular. A patron didn’t need to commit to a single host once inside as different hosts were brought to tables on rotation. If a client took an interest with one, they could request the host stay with them the rest of the night, and they were pricey, too. Dropping at least a thousand or more per night was expected. The allure was appealing for workers promised all the glamour and money of the nightlife without the dangers and diseases of the street, but the truth was far less exciting. Hosts and hostesses were often coerced into their jobs, kept addicted to substances onto which their paychecks depended, or were flat out were threatened with harm if they left. The leverage that kept them there usually hinged on their illegal status, meaning the human traffickers benefited far more than the employees as they had no where else to go. The safety of the employees was also far less guaranteed. Sexual favors were an expected part of the job and often performed within view of other clients.
The hosts were only part of the plan. The Japanese also intended to intertwine the sport of Puroresu with their clubs, a modern Japanese style of professional wrestling where gambling rings made the most profit. Entertainment and sex, the only thing left was drugs.
The CCD was flush with all sorts of legal pharmaceuticals. One could walk up to a vending machine on most corners for push-button highs, but there was always something on the cutting edge that promised the better, longer, deeper binge. Moving drugs out of the Golden Triangle and into Moscow was possible, but not without competition from the Russians. Zixin knew there were rumors of something else out there. He intended on tracking down the source soon, but for now, there were more logistical issues to handle.
The Japanese brought the business model, the Syndicate brought the workers, that left the sites and clubs themselves, and it was a Custody man that jingled the keys to their possible new kingdoms that Zixin would meet tomorrow.
For now, he entered the dive bar that the Japanese were known to frequent. Called The Hole, it was in some shitty, lower class neighborhood in Moscow. He wore black on black for the night: an expensive black suede shirt and leather coat, and stood out as a result. The place stank of oil and musk, but Zixin was careful not to curl his nose at it and risk offending his guests.
After entering, a second man followed him inside. A syndicate on the payroll, he took up a place in the corner to watch over his man. There were certainly more outside, out of sight.
Zixin walked up to a table and stared down at a man and woman sitting there. He nodded his head, face blank with intention, and the guy mumbled something, tugged on his girlfriend’s hand, and vacated the spot.
He promptly sat down and ordered a beer.