"What did you ask him?" Boland said.

"I gave him a chance to help me find my daughter. He told me to go fuck myself. Now the prick is fair game."

Lexy set their drinks down. Small bowls of caraway and sunflower seeds were spread around the bar.

"Lexy Petrov and I used to be friends," Eddie said, speaking a little louder. A few heads at the bar turned his way. "Lexy once told me he has ten occupations. Isn't that interesting, Desmond? Busy, busy man, our Lexy. He told me many things in the days when we drank together as friends."

The tables were half-filled. Eddie recognized most of the customers' faces. He knew the waitress Ludmilla very well.

"I don't know all ten of Lexy's occupations," Eddie said. "I do know he's a part-time leg breaker for a loan shark; plus, he sets up phony car accidents for insurance purposes. Oh, and he acts as a go-between in kidnapping cases. Some gangs in Russia specialize in kidnapping the families of wealthy Russian-Americans. Like the mother of that hockey star a few years ago. Lexy was the go-between. Little work, big profit. Lexy is going to be my go-between and help get my daughter back. And he will not even charge me. He'll do it because he loves me. And if he gets her back safely, I will not kill him."

Boland laughed nervously. "Cool down," he said.

"Cool your ass," Eddie said.

"Show them the sketch you made of the guy who killed Lukin," Boland said.

Eddie ignored him. He'd already realized the sketch was useless. The only way the sketch would work was if they came across a desperate junkie, a scorned woman, or a cop who knew him. The Russians wouldn't turn in one of their own to the police. As far as the Russians were concerned, all the sketch would do was alert the bad guy that someone had seen his face.

"Help me out here, Lexy," Eddie said. "Tell me why someone would kidnap my daughter. I have no big money. It must be something personal. Desmond points out it may have been someone I offended. I don't know. If I offended you, Lexy, how would you handle it?"

"I'd come after you," Lexy said, taking a quick check in the mirror.

"Exactly, that's what a man does. So it must be true what you told me… that Yuri Borodenko is a faggot. We're talking about a faggot here."

"That's subtle," Boland said.

"Viktor," Eddie said, looking down the end of the bar. "Viktor, Lexy says Borodenko is a faggot. You agree? By the way, I was telling my FBI friend about your im-ported-drug business. Lexy explained to me how it works. Incidentally, your girlfriend, outside there, needs a new backpack. Little pills are falling out."

"Let me pay for these drinks, and then we'll hit the bricks," Boland said.

Eddie snatched Boland's money off the bar and shoved it in his shirt pocket.

"We are among friends, Desmond," Eddie said. "We do not pay for anything in here, right, Ludmilla?"

"You're being an asshole," the waitress said. "No wonder someone punched you in the eye."

"Pretty, Ludmilla. Worried about my eye. Ludmilla means 'loved by all,' and she lives up to that name. Lexy told me she is the queen of the bait and switch. Ludmilla puts on her worst clothes and heaviest accent, then goes around to little independent jewelers and tries to get them to buy a necklace she claims was in her family for generations. I don't know where the hell she got it, but it is valuable. She tells them some story about it belonging to Anastasia-remember that movie with Ingrid Bergman? But the jewelers can see that the necklace is valuable, and poor Ludmilla doesn't know its value. She says that she desperately needs the money to get back to Russia. The jewelers are greedy; Ludmilla always laughs about that later. Greedy bastards, serves them right, trying to screw her with their lowball deal. Poor Ludmilla accepts the deal; she has no choice. Always for cash. Then she screws them with an imitation. My friend Lexy Petrov told me all about it."

"Why don't you get the fuck out of here," Lexy said.

"Why don't you throw me out?" Eddie snapped.

"Easy, easy," Boland whispered.

"How's the vodka?" Eddie saidl

"I could have used a triple," Boland said.

"Lexy," Eddie yelled. "Another vodka for Desmond. Another vodka I won't pay for. Hey, speaking of vodka, what's the name of that fat guy who comes in here? You know, you told me he buys grain alcohol from some dis-tiUery in Missouri, then smuggles it into Russia in bottles labeled as witch hazel, and then he relabels it and sells it as vodka. What a great scheme. I'll think of his name later. So many fine entrepreneurs drink in this fine bar."

The fine bar was emptying out quickly. More stools were empty than occupied now. People in the dining area began putting their coats on. Plates of thin potato pancakes, others with Russian herring, and bowls of cold borscht were abandoned. Someone turned the sound system way up.

Eddie put his arm around the man on the stool next to him, a balding young man with a Fu Manchu mustache. "I always forget your name, my friend," Eddie said. "I'm sorry for that. But I would vote you as the top new scam artist on the scene." The young man drained his glass quickly and stood up. "He's being shy, Desmond. Lexy told me all about this young man. He smuggles Russians across the Canadian border into Maine. When someone contacts him, wanting to be brought to this country, he and his pals go into Canada through the woods of Maine. They meet the family, then lead them across the border, through the same woods. But here's the funny part: When they bring the family in, they are armed to the teeth, automatic weapons, extra ammunition, grenades, gas masks. Why such heavy weapons, you ask, when one could sneak across that border armed with nothing more dangerous than a pirogi? That's the point. It's all showbiz. All an act, so they can charge their fellow countryman the high rate-ten thousand dollars apiece-for a stroll through the woods."

The restaurant door opened and closed at a faster rate. Eddie had succeeded in clearing the place out. He turned around and saw the table in the corner had suddenly been abandoned.

"Come over here, Desmond," Eddie said. "Let me show you this beautiful hand-painted mural of Saint Petersburg. Hand-painted when Evesi Volshin owned this restaurant. But see these dark spots here? If you look closely, you'll see they're not windows; they're bullet holes. Bullets that went through Evesi's body when he sat right in this chair. Isn't that right, Lexy?"

"No one cries for Evesi," Lexy said.

"That's right," Eddie said. "Evesi deserved to die. Evesi was a scumbag kidnapper. In fact, the night of the shooting, shell casings were everywhere. People eating their dinner moved their chairs so the shooters could pick them up. Evesi was scum, like Borodenko. Isn't that right, Lexy? You were here that night, Lexy. Or couldn't you see through your mask?"

"Plenty more bullets in the store," Lexy said.

"Is that a threat? Right in front of Desmond Shanahan of the FBI?"

"It is whatever you see in your nightmares."

"What is that, Lexy, an example of Russian mystery? Some inscrutable phrase supposed to strike fear into my heart? Oooh, I see the smoke of the cossack fire."

Eddie walked toward the bar. Lexy stepped back. Eddie stood on the rail, reached over, and pulled a metal club from underneath.

"Eddie," Boland said.

"You're good at telling stories, Lexy. Deliver this message for me. Tell whoever it is to be a man, let my daughter go, and come after me."

Eddie looked carefully at the metal bar. One end was wrapped in black electrical tape. He reached over and smashed the mirror. Shards of glass fell onto the shelves of bottles and on the floor behind the bar.

"I'm taking this with me," Eddie said. "If anything happens to my daughter, our next meeting will be your nightmare."