The fat man was no longer facing him; he was flopped down on the counter, arms hanging over.

Where was the knife?

Nowhere in sight. Losing everything. Must be the vodka.

Then he saw the slow red leak from under the fat man's shoulder. No gush, no big arterial spurt, just seepage. Like one of those summer tides when the waves got gentle.

He took hold of the fat man's hair and lifted the massive head.

The knife was still embedded in the guy's neck, just off-center from the Adam's apple, tilting downward. Diagonal slice through jugular, trachea, esophagus, but gravity was pulling the blood back down into the body cavity.

Zhukanov panicked. What if someone had seen?

Like the kid in Griffith Park, watching, thinking he was protected by darkness.

But there was no one. Just this fat, dead piece of shit and Zhukanov holding his head up.

A hunter with a trophy. For the first time in a long time, Zhukanov felt strong, territorial, a Siberian wolf.

The only bad thing was the size of the bastard, and now he had to be moved.

Letting the head flop down again, he turned off the lights in the shack, checked the cut on his hand- just a nick- vaulted over the counter, and scanned the walkway in all directions just to make sure.

The stained-glass window in the Yid place was a multicolored patch in the darkness, but no old Yids out in front. Yet.

Removing the knife, he wiped it with his handkerchief, then eased the corpse down to the ground. Wiping blood off the counter, he stuffed the kerchief into the neck wound. Having to roll it up into a tight ball, because the slash was only a couple of inches wide.

Small cut but effective. Small blade- it was the angle that had done it, the fat guy leaning forward to strangle him, Zhukanov giving that little girly poke upward and then suddenly the guy's weight had reversed the trajectory, forcing the knife down into his throat, severing everything along the way.

Making sure the handkerchief plug was secure, he inhaled deeply and prepared himself for the tough part. Mother of Christ, his neck hurt. He could feel it starting to swell around the neckline of his T-shirt, and he yanked down, ripping some elastic. Looser, but he still felt like the fat guy was choking him.

Another look around. Dark, quiet, all he needed was old Yids flooding out.

Okay, here goes.

Taking hold of the fat guy's feet, he started to pull the corpse.

The damn thing only budged an inch, and Zhukanov felt horrid pain in his lower back.

Like dragging an elephant. Bending his knees, he tried again. Another vertebral warning, but he kept going- what was the choice?

It took forever to get the bastard out of view, and by then Zhukanov was sweating, out of breath, every muscle in his body aflame.

And now he could hear voices. The Yids coming out.

He yanked, dragged, breathed, yanked, dragged, breathed, frantic to get the corpse well back from the walkway. Had he gotten all the blood off the counter?

He rushed back, found a few stains, used his shirt, turned off the lights, and slammed down the shutter.

Now he could hear them louder, old voices jabbering.

He got the corpse halfway to the back of the shack. Stopped when his chest clogged up. Bent his knees again, resumed.

Yank, drag, breathe.

By the time he reached the alley, all he could hear was the ocean, no voices; all the Yids gone home.

He dragged the corpse next to the shack's garbage bins. Not a commercial Dumpster, because the boss was too cheap. Two wooden shipping crates that some Mexican illegals emptied every week for ten bucks.

Okay… now what?

Leave him there, concealed by darkness, fetch the car, load the bastard in it, and take him somewhere to dump- where did the West Hollywood guys go for that?- Angeles Crest Forest. Zhukanov had a vague notion where that was; he'd find it.

Another forest. If the old man could see him now.

David had finished off Goliath, and soon Goliath would be rotting in some gulley.

No, wait, before that he had to triple-check for bloodstains- inside the shack and out, along the side of the shack, where the pig had been dragged.

He'd get the car, load the guy, keep him there while he gave the shack a thorough going over. Ditch the knife, the clothes he was wearing. The nunchucks and the baseball bat, too? No. No reason to panic. Why would anyone connect him to the fat bastard, even if they found the corpse?

Just the blood, the knife, his clothes.

Get it done before sunrise.

The guy would leak all over his trunk, but he'd clean it. Running it through again, he decided it was a good plan.

He stretched, fingered the tender, hot flesh of his neck. Slow down, slow everything down, it's over- why had the bastard invited trouble like that?

Zhukanov thanked him for starting up. He hadn't felt this good since leaving Moscow.

Okay, time to get the car. He'd taken three steps when light caught his eye.

The back door of the synagogue opening- someone still there!

He pressed himself against one of the wooden bins, tripping over the corpse's legs, nearly falling on his ass.

Forcing himself not to curse aloud, he breathed through his nose and watched as an old Yid came out of the synagogue. Zhukanov could see him clearly, illuminated by the light inside. Short, thickset, one of those beanies on his head.

The Yid reached in and the blessing of darkness returned. But just for one second, because now the guy was opening a car door.

Not the driver's door, the left rear door. Someone in back of the car sat up. Got out. Stretched. Just like Zhukanov had just done. The Yid talked to him.

Shorter than the Yid- a kid.

Hiding in back- had to be the kid. Why else would he be hiding?

The right size, and he'd been lying low- who else could it be?

The kid got back in the rear seat, lay down, disappeared.

So he'd been here all along. Hidden by the Yids- made sense; twenty-five grand would make them come in their pants.

We'll see about that.

The Yid's car started up and the headlights went on. Staying in the shadows, Zhukanov ran toward it. The Yid started backing out just as Zhukanov got close enough to read the license plate.

Bunch of letters and numbers. Zhukanov mouthed the magic formula soundlessly. At first his brain refused to cooperate.

But the old Yid helped him, taking a long time to back the car out and straighten up, and by the time he finished, Zhukanov had it all memorized.

No time to get his old car to follow. He'd write the number down, call the Department of Motor Vehicles. Giving out addresses was illegal, but he knew a clerk at the Hollywood branch, wiseass louse from Odessa who'd do it for fifty bucks.

Given the payoff, an excellent investment.