Ilya went to the bar, joined the rows of drinkers trying to get service, and called to the sweaty bartender, “Excuse me, please.”

A boozy young guy sitting at the bar turned and looked at her face, then at her tits, got up from the bar stool, and said, “I’ll give you my seat if you’ll let me buy you a drink.”

Ilya gave him her best professional smile, took his bar stool, and said, “That is lovely, darling.”

Smiling at her accent, he said, “Are you Russian?”

“Yes, darling,” she said.

“How about I order you a Black Russian?”

“I prefer a white American,” she said, and the young guy laughed out loud, drunk enough that anything was funny.

Ilya wished that the world had not stopped smoking. She would have given a diamond for a cigarette at this moment.

As busy as he was, Viktor Chernenko had made a promise to Andi McCrea, and a promise was a promise. He looked at his watch and told Compassionate Charlie that he had to quickly run to a Russian nightclub called the Gulag to do a verbal muscle job for Andi in the proprietor’s own language. As for the outside detectives who were on their way to the station to help piece together the puzzle of the Ramsdale murder and Hollywood robberies, Viktor planned to stay tonight as long as there was hope of finding Farley Ramsdale’s woman. He had a copy of her minor rap sheet for petty theft and drug possession and saw that the name “Olive Ramsdale” must be a recent alias. She’d given the name “Mary Sullivan” when she’d been arrested, but who could say if that was her true name?

Then he put in a quick phone call home and got his wife, Maria, on the phone.

“Hello, my darling,” he said. “This is your most loving husband.”

Compassionate Charlie said, “What the hell?” and looked at Viktor like he’d just burped pepper spray. Charlie couldn’t bear telephone canoodling.

“I am working on the most important matter of my entire career, my little sweetheart,” Viktor said. “It is possible that I shall be sleeping here in the cot room tonight. I do not know for sure.”

Then Viktor listened with a dopey smile on his broad Slavic face, said, “Me too!” and actually did kisses into the receiver before he rang off.

“Is this your first marriage, Viktor?” Charlie asked him.

“My first, my last,” Viktor said.

Charlie shook his head and said, “Must be a Russian thing.”

“I am not Russian,” Viktor said patiently. “I am Ukrainian.”

Compassionate Charlie said, “Bring me back some kielbasa if the Gulag looks like a clean joint.”

“That is Polish, not Russian,” Viktor said, heading for the door.

“Polish, Russian, Ukrainian. Gimme a fucking break, Viktor,” Compassionate Charlie whined.

Cosmo knocked at the door to Dmitri’s office and heard “Come.”

When he limped into the office, he saw Dmitri in his high-back chair behind the desk, but not with his feet up this time and not watching exotic porn on the computer screen. An older man in a dark suit and a striped necktie, bald except for a scraggly fringe of gray, was sitting on the leather sofa against the wall.

Standing by the window that looked down on the smoking patio where the murder had occurred was the Georgian bartender, wearing a starched white shirt, a black bow tie, and black pants. His wavy black hair was even thicker than Cosmo’s and he had a square, dark jaw that no razor could ever shave clean. He nodded to Cosmo.

Dmitri smiled that unreadable smile and said, “The happen-ink guy is here! Please to meet Mr. Grushin, Cosmo. And show to him your goods for sale.”

“I have some sample,” Cosmo said, and Dmitri’s smile faded and his face seemed to grow pale around the corners of his mouth. So Cosmo quickly added, “All other diamonds downstairs with Ilya. Not to worry, brother.”

“I do not worry,” Dmitri said, smiling again. “Why are you so injured?”

“I shall explain after,” Cosmo said. Then he removed a plastic sandwich bag from his jacket pocket and poured out two rings, three sets of earrings, and five loose diamonds onto Dmitri’s desk.

Mr. Grushin got up and walked to the desk. The Georgian pulled the client chair close so he could sit. Mr. Grushin took a jeweler’s loupe from his pocket and examined each item under the light of the desk lamp and when he was through nodded to Dmitri, got up, and left the office.

“I may see money now, brother?” Cosmo said.

Dmitri opened the top desk drawer and withdrew three large stacks of currency, placing them on the desk in front of him. He did not ask Cosmo to sit.

“Okay, my friend,” Dmitri said. “Tell me of ATM. And when I shall receive my half of money you got from there.”

Cosmo felt the dampness under his arms, and his palms were wet when he pointed his uninjured hand at the Georgian and said, “He gave us a no-good car. The car die when we leave ATM!”

The Georgian said something quickly in Russian to Dmitri that Cosmo couldn’t understand, then turned a scowl toward Cosmo and said, “You lie! The car is good car. I drove car. You lie.”

Now Cosmo felt his stomach gurgle and his bowels rumble and he said, “No, Dmitri. This Georgian, he lie! We have to drive the car away from ATM and park at the house of guy I know. We almost get caught by police!”

“You lie!” the Georgian said, taking a menacing step toward Cosmo until Dmitri held up his hand and stopped him.

“Enough,” Dmitri said to both men.

“I tell you truth, brother,” Cosmo said. “I swear.”

“Now, Cosmo, where is money from ATM?” Dmitri asked.

“The man where we must take no-good car, his woman steal our money and run away from her man. But not to worry. We shall find her. We get money.”

“This man,” Dmitri said calmly, “he does not know noth-ink of me? Noth-ink of the Gulag?”

“No, brother!” Cosmo said. “Never!”

“And what of this man? What is his name?”

“Farley Ramsdale,” Cosmo said. “He is addict.”

Dmitri looked in disbelief at Cosmo, then at the Georgian and back to Cosmo, and said, “You leave my money with addict?”

“No choice, brother!” Cosmo said. “This Georgian give us car that don’t run. And Farley not at home so we got to hide car in his garage and hide money under his house. But goddamn addict woman, she find it and run away!”

Cosmo’s mouth was dry as sand now and it made a popping sound each time his lips opened. The Georgian was glaring at him dangerously but Cosmo could hardly take his eyes from the thirty-five thousand dollars. It was a bigger pile of money than he’d imagined.

“Go get Ilya,” Dmitri said. “Brink her up and I buy you drinks and we complete diamond deal and you tell me how you catch addict woman and tell me when you goink to get me my money from ATM.”

This was the moment he dreaded. This is what Ilya said he must do regardless of the outcome. Cosmo swallowed twice and said, “No, brother. I take money now and your Georgian come with me down to the bar and Ilya go to bathroom and get diamonds from safe place and give to this Georgian. Lot of peoples down there. Safe for everybody.”

Dmitri laughed out loud at that and said, “Cosmo, is information on TV and in newspaper correct? How much you find in the box?”

“Ninety-three thousands,” Cosmo said.

“TV lady say hundred thousand,” Dmitri said, “but never mind, I believe you. So this mean you owe to me forty-six thousand and five hundred dollars and I owe to you thirty-five thousand dollars. So we do mathematics and we discover eleven thousand, five hundred dollars you owe to me. And the diamonds, too. Is very simple, no?”

Cosmo was dripping sweat now. His shirt was soaked and he kept wiping his palms on his trousers, standing there like a child, looking down at this Russian pervert and up at the Georgian thug standing beside him. And he wanted badly just to touch the Beretta, cold against the sweat on his back.

Cosmo said, “Please to give me three minute to explain how the car this Georgian steal for us is reason for every problem!”