"Miscellaneous jewelry and electronic devices," Eddie said, gesturing toward the packages in the back.

"From my cousins, for when they return to New York."

They were all cousins. These particular cousins were mobile con men who spent the winter driving through the South, preying on the ignorant and elderly. They posed as housepainters, home repairmen, or driveway blacktop-pers. None of the work was ever done right: a watery coat of paint on a house, or oil sprayed on a driveway to make the old blacktop shine. The point was to grab the money and run: on to the next county, the next state. Eddie knew the boxes in the back of the Parrot's van contained items stolen from the "clients' " homes. Gypsy women were always fainting, needing a glass of water. In the confusion, someone slipped into the bedroom. They mailed the swag north to avoid getting caught holding stolen property.

"You gotta help me," Eddie said. "I don't care what it costs."

"For my friend, I bleed to death, right here," the Parrot said. He grabbed a box cutter from a console tray and held it to his wrist. A thin red line appeared before Eddie could stop him.

"Whatever we say between us," Eddie said, "will never be spoken of again. I haven't seen or heard from you in years."

The Parrot blotted his wrist with a napkin and put his feet up on the dashboard. His shoes were black patent leather. He lit a cigarillo, then dabbed at his wrist.

"Who took your daughter?" Parrot said. "This is our question."

"Borodenko is our answer," Eddie said.

"I thought he was in Russia."

"He is. Who runs the show when he isn't here?"

"Nobody," Parrot said, shrugging.

"Ever hear of a guy named Sergei Zhukov?"

"Crazy Sergei. Breaks heads for Borodenko."

"Tell me what he looks like."

"Shorter than me, but wide, like a truck. Tattoos all over-both hands, on his neck, and on his brain, I think. Also, I hear his girlfriend's name is tattooed on his dick."

"How romantic."

Parrot said the tattoo on Sergei's neck was a spiderweb that appeared to be growing up out of his collar. Eddie knew that was a common Russian prison tattoo for junkies.

Eddie handed him two sketches, his and Kevin's version of the same face.

"You know this guy?" Eddie said.

Parrot bent over, holding the sketch at an angle to catch the beam of a streetlight coming through the windshield. A gust of wind rocked the van. From across the street came the sound of the B, D, or F train screeching to the last stop on the Sixth Avenue line.

"The face looks like it's Arab, or something Mideastern," Parrot said. "You sure it's Russian?"

Eddie knew this wouldn't be easy. The Parrot was a businessman first; he was not going to make this seem easy. "I have the five grand."

"Money is not important here. Important is you get your daughter back. You know my love for all children. Nothing else is more important to me. You know that."

'Ten grand," Eddie said.

"I would like to take your ten grand, but I don't know this guy. The face doesn't look right. I don't think this is a Russian. A Palestinian, a Syrian maybe. Something very different, my friend."

"I can go higher," Eddie said.

"Not higher, please, between old friends. This one kidnapped your daughter. I will work without sleep, without food until I find him."

"He also stole a BMW from a storage garage in Elmsford."

"I don't know Elmsford."

"In Westchester County, near White Plains. It's a hike from Brooklyn. That's why I think not too many people qualify here."

"In the days when I stole cars," Parrot said, "I would never use a closed storage spot."

"You quit stealing cars?"

"Special occasion only," he said.

"This car was a black BMW. Supposed to be delivered to a pier in New Jersey on Monday. That shipment was canceled."

"Postponed one week," Parrot said.

"Was it a special occasion?"

"Mercedes-Benz occasion," Parrot said. Then, changing the subject, he added, "You see, the trouble with closed storage, especially outside the city, is that you risk the added charge of burglary. Besides, it's too much trouble, unless you have someone inside."

"This is the someone inside," Eddie said as he showed him the picture of Misha.

"Here I can help you, my friend. I know this one. Young Latvian boy. Blond hair, six foot, well built. Works for Coney Island Amusements."

"How do I find him?" Eddie said.

"Follow the junkies."

"He's a junkie?"

"Club drugs," Parrot said. "Ecstasy, and like that. When he first got here, no drugs. Then he tried to work more jobs. Four months is short, and they see the money. Money, money, money with the Russian kids. This one started a job in Borodenko's club, as a busboy or dishwasher. Now he rocks around the clock."

"Which club?"

"Not the Brighton Beach clubs," Parrot said. "The Eurobar. Big-money club in Manhattan. Fancy women, ten-dollar drinks."

Eddie took the stack of bills from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to the Parrot. The Gypsy flipped through it and took about half. He returned the other half to Eddie.

"I will take the rest when I find tüis one in the picture," he said. "When I find your daughter, I will take your ten grand."

"Find my daughter and we'll make it twenty," Eddie said.

Wednesday

2:50 A.M.

Car horns blared in the standstill traffic as Eddie Dunne crossed the street in front of the hottest club in Manhattan. The line outside the Eurobar stretched around the corner-club freaks, hustlers, and wanna-bes, all shivering in the damp night air. At the front of the line, a bottle blonde in a red rubber skirt sex-talked a bouncer, scheming to get past the velvet rope, while security boss Richie Costa stood in the doorway, looking for the money people, the ones he whisked right in. Costa was trying to ignore a drunken Yuppie, when he spotted a face he recognized. He yelled to Eddie Dunne and waved him over.

"That's bullshit," the drunken Yuppie yelled. "You let him in. What the hell am I, some putz from Jersey?"

Eddie had been prepared to flash his phony detective shield in the doorman's face, growl "Squad," and walk in like he owned the joint. But he had history with Costa; his presence at the door made that impossible. Eddie stepped over the rope and heard somebody in the crowd whisper the name of an aging movie star.

"That's not Eastwood," the drunken Yuppie said. "I know Eastwood. This guy's nobody."

"Someone is asking for a beating," Eddie said.

"Tell me about it. I want to hit him so bad, my arm is twitching."

"Want me to do it?"

"I don't want him dead right here, Eddie. I've been hit by you, remember?"

"Important thing is you remember," Eddie said.

Costa's father was a bookmaker who used his connections to get Richie under the tutelage of Eddie's former trainer. The kid came into the gym looking like he'd spent his youth in some East Cupcake Jack La Lanne, working on his pecs and lats. But Irish Eddie Dunne's ring years had taught him that rippled muscle had nothing to do with fighting. In fact, most bodybuilders were slow, laboring, one-punch wonders. If they didn't take you out with the first shot, they became human punching bags. All Richie Costa needed was a chain to hang him from the ceiling.

"I'm surprised to find you here," Eddie said. "I thought Russians owned this place."

"Nah, this Jewish guy, Kleinman from Hoboken, owns it."

"Kleinman's a front," Eddie said. "He fronted places for Lukin."

It came back to Eddie, the key to fighting Richie Costa. He always remembered what worked against certain boxers. He could recall knockout punches the way baseball players remembered home runs: the date, time, the pitcher who threw a low slider on a three-and-one count, even the temperature that day. Start this guy off with a short left hook, Eddie thought, snap it into that sixpack midsection. Richie always kept his forearms up, protecting his face. Hit him up high and all you wound up with were sore hands. But one to the gut and his elbows dropped.