The first time the guy waddled toward the souvenir shack, Zhukanov made sure to be in the back room, examining the day's receipts, trying to figure out how much he could skim and get away with. The second time, though, he was up front, counting trolls, making sure no one had ripped him off.

The big pig said, “Hey, man,” and shoved the picture in Zhukanov's face. Zhukanov shook his head dismissively- it wasn't even worth talking about- but the guy just stood there.

“You didn't even look at it, man.” Breath like a toilet. Zhukanov refused to dignify the question, picked up a Malibu troll. “Want to buy something?” His tone making it clear that the guy couldn't afford a lousy toy.

The fat guy tried to give him the evil eye. Zhukanov almost laughed out loud. Big but flabby. Back in Moscow, he'd trampled runny-shit like this half-drunk.

Finally the guy jiggled off. What an imbecile.

Still, it was competition. He'd have to be sharper than ever.

Now it was dark and all the retail shops were closed; the only things open were the cafés on the north end of Ocean Front. And the Yid church a few stores south. Bunch of old Yids in there wailing, plotting, whatever the hell they did when they got together.

He had skim money in his pocket, the vodka had awakened his senses, and he was hungry and horny and getting angrier by the minute at the nigger cop and everyone else who was conspiring to deprive him of what was rightfully his.

Tomorrow, he'd call the newspapers and tell them the truth about the anonymous tip, how stupid cops didn't respect dutiful citizens.

No, no, not yet- that would focus more attention on the walkway, bring in more problems. He'd give the nigger one more chance. What was his name, he had the card, somewhere… not in his pockets. Maybe he'd left it in the back room.

Slipping behind the curtain, he searched among the clutter but didn't find it. No matter, he'd ask around, a bald nigger detective, someone would know him. Then a man-to-man talk. Maybe offer him a piece of the twenty-five. If that was the only way.

If the nigger still didn't cooperate, he'd go to the papers- no, the TV stations. Get in touch with one of those blondies who read the news, tell her the truth. Maybe some big-shot movie producer would be watching and say, “Hey, this is a good idea for a movie.” Arnold Schwarzenegger, a Russian cop, comes to America to show the stupid Americans how to- Did they do that one already? It sounded familiar. No matter. With movies, you had something good, you did it again.

Publicity. That was what he needed.

On top of the money, he'd be the hero, trying to find the kid, solve a crime, but no one listened and-

“Hey, man,” said a voice from up front.

Fatso.

How had he gotten in? Then Zhukanov realized he'd forgotten to pull down the shutters and lock up. He took another swallow of vodka.

“Hey! You back there, man?”

Stupid asshole. Get rid of him and find some place to eat and drink. Zhukanov put on his Planet Hollywood jacket and tapped his front pockets. Cash in the right front pocket, knife in the left. Cheap Taiwan blade- he carried it with him for the walk from the shack to his car, sometimes with an unlicensed 9mm. Part of the back-room arsenal: nunchucks, a sawed-off baseball bat, age-blackened brass knuckles he'd inherited from his father. So far, the only thing he'd had to use was the bat, as a warning to kids with itchy fingers, but you never knew. The gun was back home. Cheap junk. It had jammed, and he had it on the kitchen table, trying to figure out what was wrong with it.

“Hey!”

Zhukanov bolted the rear door before parting the curtains. The fat bastard had his elbows on the counter, scratching a blubbery chin, sweating, eyes raw-looking and swollen. Hulking silhouette against the black beach sky, maybe tough-looking to some tourist, but all Zhukanov saw was a vat of grease.

“Hey, bro, din' you hear me?”

Zhukanov said nothing.

“Listen, man-”

“Can't help you.”

“How can you say that, man, you don't know what I'm asking.”

Zhukanov started to slide down the front shutter. The fat man reached up and stopped it.

Zhukanov pulled. The fat man resisted. Flabby, but his weight gave him strength.

Zhukanov said, “Move, fatso.”

“Fuck you, shithead!”

That brought the blood to Zhukanov's face. He could feel it, hot as winter soup. His neck veins throbbed. His hands ached from gripping the shutter.

“Go away,” he said.

“Fuck you, man. I got a question, you could at least try a fucking answer.”

Zhukanov went silent again.

“No big deal, bro,” said the fat man. “Maybe you've seen this kid since I was here. You say no, fine. So why you giving me shit?”

The shutter wouldn't budge. The fat guy's resistance enraged Zhukanov. “Go away,” he said very softly.

The fat guy pushed at the shutter and it shot up. Daring Zhukanov to try closing it. A bully, used to having his way.

Zhukanov remained in place, smelling him. The stench wasn't just his breath, it was all of him. A walking garbage heap.

“Seen him?”

“Go away, asshole.”

Now it was the fat man's turn to go red. Pig eyes bulged; spittle bubbled at the sides of his mouth. That soothed Zhukanov's anger, turning it warm and smooth. This was starting to get funny. He laughed, said, “Stupid fat-ass piece of shit.”

The fat guy made a deep, fartlike, rumbling sound, and Zhukanov waited for the next insult, ready to throw something back, laugh in the bastard's face again.

But the fat guy didn't say a word, just went for him, faster than he thought possible, one huge hand shooting out and snagging him by the throat, pulling him up so hard against the counter he thought his ribs had broken. The pain nearly blinded him and he thrashed helplessly.

The fat guy's other hand was fisted, zooming at him for a face-pulverizing punch.

Zhukanov managed to jerk his face away from the blow, but the hand around his neck kept squeezing and he could feel all the breath go out of him, hear the fat guy snarling and cursing. Ocean Front was dark, abandoned, just the waves, no one around to watch this monster strangle him to death- no one but the Yids, yards away, doing their Christ-killing chants; they wouldn't help him anyway.

He tried to tear at the strangling hand, but his hands were sweat-slick, so weak, and the fat man's arm was moist too, and he couldn't get a purchase. Slipping and flailing as his field of vision funneled to a pinpoint of light, he saw the fat man's enraged face, another fist coming at him.

A spasm of panic saved his face but brought the blow along the side of his head, hard enough to rattle his brain pan. His arms continued to wave around uselessly. He didn't remember the knife until he'd nearly lost consciousness.

Then he remembered: pocket, front pocket, left side for the quick draw, just like they'd taught him in hand-to-hand. The fat man began shaking him harder, feeding off the pain and terror on Zhukanov's face, not noticing as Zhukanov reached down.

Zhukanov floundered, found it, grabbed too low. Cold metal, a sting, grope-grope, finally he touched the warmth of wood.

He yanked upward. Pushed the blade. No strength, not even a thrust, just a weak, womanish poke and-

Must have missed, because the fat man was still choking him, cursing… gargling. And now the shaking had stopped.

Now the bastard wasn't making any sounds.

A look of surprise on his face. The blubbery lips formed into a tiny O.

Like saying, “Oh!”

Where was the knife?

Suddenly, the hand around Zhukanov's throat opened and air rushed into his windpipe and he retched and choked; finally realized he could breathe, but his throat felt as if someone had used it for a lye funnel.