Eddie said, "You're not on the outs with the Bronx crew, are you?"

"No, no, I still work for the same people. The Eurobar is a joint venture we have with this Russian businessman."

"A joint venture? With Yuri Borodenko?"

Eddie considered how much he should tell Richie. But if he could get inside, he wouldn't need him. He could find Misha on his own.

"What can I tell you," Costa said, "the guy knows how to make money. We never been prejudiced against making money."

"Keep an eye on the cash flow."

"We ain't stupid, either, Eddie. We got a guy checks the books every night. I go in every so often, count the house, have a pop, then drift back out. I actually like it better out here. You'd be amazed how much these bobos will slip you just to get in this shithole."

"Not to mention the women," Eddie said.

"You wouldn't fucking believe it. Pussy gets thrown in your face out here like it's falling from the sky. Broads, they practically offer to go down on you right here if you'll let them in."

"Sleep all day, score all night. My kinda job."

"Yeah, that would be sweet, but I got a day job now, too. Stock market stuff. Going around with a suit and an attache" case, talking to stockbrokers, persuading them in regards to the merits of certain stocks. My wife thinks I'm Bill Fucking Gates."

Eddie wondered what Richie carried in the attache case. Either a prosciutto and provolone hero or brass knuckles, but he didn't need documents for his end of the investment business. Yuri Borodenko had taken over Lukin's old partnership with the Italians in pump-and-dump schemes on Wall Street. The Russians handled the business end. They touted a certain stock until it became overvalued, then sold their shares, and the bottom fell out. The role of Richie Costa's crew was to "persuade" stockbrokers not to sell a stock the mob wanted only to be bought. Persuasion in one recent case had included a vicious beating right on the floor of the Stock Exchange.

"What brings you out at this hour anyway?" Richie asked. "These broads in here are way, way too young for you. Your fucking heart will explode if you get one of these young broads in the sack."

"Thanks, I'll be careful of that. Actually, I'm just doing a little PI work."

"Nothing to do with wise guys, right?"

"Missing Russian kid," Eddie said. "His parents hired me to find him. He's underage, but if he's in here, I'll keep it quiet for an old friend. Tell them I grabbed him on the street."

"Appreciate it, amigo," Richie said.

"You can't have too many old friends, my old partner used to say. It certainly worked for him. I'm back taking these shit jobs while Paulie is living large in Italy."

Eddie hadn't heard from Paulie in years, but he knew when to drop his name.

"I forgot Paulie was your partner," Richie said. "He's my godfather, you know that? Fucking wild man, Paulie 'the Priest' Caruso. He could make you laugh your ass off."

"Now he thinks he's Marcello Mastroianni. Strutting around the plazas in a white linen suit."

"What a pisser, that guy," Richie said. "Marcello Mastroianni, that's good."

"I could buy and sell both you assholes," the drunken Yuppie yelled, finally getting the point that he was wasting his time. On busy nights, the doormen at the hot clubs always ignored the guys wearing business suits. They figured they'd been drinking since they left the office eight hours earlier and that all they were going to do was puke or fight.

"You want to take a look inside for this kid?" Richie said. "Come on, I'll take care of it."

Eddie decided on asking Richie for no more than entree. He couldn't be trusted with knowledge. He'd tell his boss, and the boss would tell Borodenko. The mafiosi thing would never permit Richie to help an Irish ex-cop. Richie wasn't even a made man, and probably never would be, but he was the type who believed that whole Don Corleone fantasy. He'd bought the myth of mob life: hook, line, and blood oath. Richie Costa was destined to follow in his old man's cement shoes.

The club was cavernous, the ceiling at least twenty feet high. It must have taken up half the block below-ground. The main part of the club was three floors below street level and was broken up into several large rooms. Wide-load Richie led the way down the superwide flight of stairs into the shriek of two hundred drunken voices battling the pumped-up music. On the way in, Eddie heard accents that were clearly Soviet bloc. Much of the crowd appeared to be Mideastern, with a smattering of Asians.

Before he went back to the street, Richie set Eddie up at the best table in the house: a raised booth in a corner opposite the bar, with a reserved sign. Then he told the bartender that Eddie's drinks were on the house. Nobody ever paid for drinks in that booth. Eddie had planned to be less conspicuous, but the view from the wise guys' table might work. From the leather-tufted perch, Eddie could see the bar, the dance floor, and most of a large room set up like a hotel lobby with couches and coffee tables.

Only problem was the lighting. The dance floor was lit by strobes, the faces illuminated in flickering orange or nuclear green. Staring made his stomach flip-flop. The hotel-style lobby area had only dim lighting, and the bar was a cave with shadows swooping across the wall. Eddie sipped club soda and scanned the place, thinking he'd made a mistake not showing Misha's picture to Richie. He'd never find him alone.

But he wasn't alone for long. A young woman appeared, talking as if she were finishing a conversation they'd started earlier.

"Very important gentleman, this must be," she said, sliding into the booth. "Maybe very important gentleman buy Tatiana a cosmopolitan, and she'll tell him a story. Tatiana tells interesting stories."

Tatiana wore a short gold lame dress, and he could only describe her long, straight hair as gunmetal red. Eddie signaled the bartender, wondering if his free ride at the bar included a passenger.

"I bet I can guess the ending," he said.

"Happy ending," she said. "Always happy ending."

But Tatiana told a sad tale of her Russian childhood, saying how her overdeveloped figure had caused the boys to lust after her body, and the other girls to die of jealousy. Too much "problem" for a simple girl who liked simple pleasure, and complicated pleasure as well, darling. This is why she preferred older, very important gentlemen. She talked nonstop, not permitting an interruption until her hand was on his thigh.

The bartender brought Tatiana's drink. Eddie looked for a flash of recognition, but it wasn't there. No eye contact at all. Tatiana was a regular, a pro. The bartender overdid it by not looking at her.

After the story, Tatiana was all questions, no answers. Who was he? What did he do to become a very important gentleman? A famous doctor, or lawyer, no? He figured she was in her late twenties but had already lived forever.

Eddie Dunne had his own well-rehearsed bar act. He introduced himself as Desmond Shanahan of Dublin, an importer of artichokes, on a buying trip in the States.

"You bullshit me, no?" she said.

"Artichokes aren't bullshit."

"Everything is bullshit."

"Everything but money," he said.

"So, Mr. Desmond Shanahan," she said, working her way up his thigh, "tell me. I'm your pupil who wants to learn, so how can Tatiana make some no bullshit money?"

Eddie showed her the picture of Misha. She took her hand off his leg.

"What is reason for this picture?" she said.

"How much would it cost not to give you a reason?"

"Without a reason, five hundred."

"You know who he is?"

"Maybe."

"Now who's bullshitting?"

"Tatiana never bullshits when money is speaking. This one is cute, but broke. He's new person in the club. Last few weeks, frequently he's here. I don't know his name."