Friday

3:00 P.M.

The afternoon turned into one of those warm spring days when you can smell the new grass. Eddie threw his raincoat in the backseat. He'd worn a sports jacket for the FBI meeting. He should have arrived in a ripped T-shirt. That would have been the wardrobe they expected. If Eddie despised one thing in his life, it was bullies. His rules were simple: He hated people who hurt other people. It didn't matter whether it was physically, emotionally, or financially. French Cuffs had used the FBI's muscle in a heartless, cowardly way. At a time when Eddie was desperate, this arrogant bastard had decided to play tough guy. With an innocent woman's life in the balance. There'll come a day, Eddie thought. There'll come a day.

Warm weather had lured the denizens of the Bronx into the streets. Jump ropes snapped, Rollerblades whirred, and boom boxes confirmed that rap now ruled. Eddie parked at a meter in front of the bakery on East 187th Street. He put his S &W in the purple Crown Royal bag and wedged it in the seat springs. Ten minutes later, he came through the door of the Bronx Knights Social Club with both hands raised above his head. He held a flat white box in the air.

"Peace," he yelled to a dozen gun barrels pointed his way.

"Just do a one-eighty, Eddie," Lino Terra said. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

"Cannolis from Ferrara's," Eddie said. "An offer you can't refuse." He put the box on the table and opened it. He stepped back, held his jacket open to show he was unarmed.

"Stick those up your ass," Richie Costa said. Richie's face was half-covered by a white bandage. He looked like the Phantom of the Opera.

"I just left Angelo Caruso," Eddie said. "He said I could talk to Richie for five minutes as long as I behaved myself."

"I don't give a shit about Angelo Caruso," Richie said. "You get your ass outta here, and take your fucking pastries with you."

"Angelo said we're all family men," Eddie said. "His brother and I were family. He said you guys would understand."

"We understood one time," Lino Terra said. "You don't get away with that shit twice."

"I'm not here to hit anyone," Eddie said.

"Good-bye," Lino said.

"Most of you guys have kids," Eddie said. "Lino, back me up here. If someone snatched your beautiful little girl Marissa from Saint Anthony's one morning, you'd understand then, right? A bunch of you guys have kids; I know that. Or maybe I'm wrong here. Maybe you can't know until it happens to you. How helpless you feel, how desperate."

"Is that a threat, you crazy fuck?" Lino said.

"Somebody shoot this mick cocksucker," someone yelled.

"Do something for me," Eddie said. 'This is all I ask. When you tuck your kids in tonight, give them a kiss for me. I would never want any of you guys to feel the pain I'm going through right now. That's from the bottom of my heart."

"You always go too far, Eddie," Lino said.

"How far would you go, Lino? All I'm asking is one simple thing: I want to talk to Richie for five minutes. Come on… you can't give me five minutes?"

The ticking of a ceiling fan was the only noise. The TV above the bar had the sound turned down. They were watching CNBC; the stock market ticker ran across the screen. Like the micks from Yonkers, the bent-nose guys from the Bronx Knights were into their portfolios. Lino Terra patted Eddie down. They gave him five minutes with Richie, out of earshot, but they'd be watching.

"Make this quick, asshole," Richie said.

Eddie gently touched Richie's shoulder. He could feel him trembling.

"You are my last hope," Eddie said softly. "Without you, my daughter dies."

"Don't put that weight on me, you cocksucker. I had nothing to do with it and I don't know what the fuck is going on."

"I need to find Sergei Zhukov."

"Oh, like I know where the Russkies hang out."

"Don't make me beg here, Richie. I'm not good at it. I'm serious. I need you to be serious. Listen to me: If you don't help me here, I will kidnap Lino's daughter. Then I'll get the others. And they'll all know it's because of you, because that's exactly what I'll tell them before I leave here."

"Don't put me in the barrel like this. If I knew anything, I'd tell you. You gotta believe that. Only thing I know is that he lives in Queens. I went drinking with him a coupla times, after we closed the Eurobar."

"He lives in Rego Park. Where did you drink with him?"

"Always Russian clubs. One place in Manhattan, on Fifty-second Street, but mostly Brighton Beach joints. And poker games-the guy is a heavy-duty cardhead. One of the worst degenerate gamblers I ever saw. He'd bet on stupid shit, like two cabs pulling away from a light, old ladies running for a bus. Shit like that."

"Tell me about the card games," Eddie said.

"We hit a little game in one of the clubs, but the guy loves high stakes. He goes for ten, twenty grand without batting an eye. Every Friday night, he goes to this game. I went with him once. But it sucked. All Russian guys talking gibberish. You don't know if they're fucking you or laughing at you, or what."

"Where is the game?"

"You'll never find it. When I played, it was in an apartment on Avenue U. But it moves every week. They got these fucking psycho luggers."

"Where did you meet the luggers?"

"Parking lot on Brighton Eighth, near the beach. You park your car and they have luggers drive you to the game."

"How good are the luggers?"

"In-fucking-credible," Richie said. "Best wheelmen I ever saw. No way can you tail them. It's impossible. They go down one-way streets, make a U-turn, and come back at you. Then they drive down another one-way street the wrong way all the way. Red lights mean nothing. They drive over the sidewalk. The guy we had drove through a fucking park, across the softball field, a fucking city park."

"Better than your dad's luggers?

"Better and way crazier. These mutts don't give a shit about losing their licenses. They just get a new one sent from Russia with a different name, then take it to Motor Vehicles and get another New York license. No problem."

"Who else was at the game?"

"All Russian guys. I couldn't remember even if you tortured me. I went to that one game. Miserable. I remember the food sucked. All this greasy shit, little white fish that looked like that Jewish shit. All kinds of greasy white sauces I never saw in my life. Some guy in a lab coat delivered it. Sergei was bragging about the food. He said they get it catered from some big deli in Brighton Beach."

"M and I International?" Eddie said.

"Could be. Don't hold me to it."

Richie jumped when Eddie went to shake his hand. Richie wasn't accepting apologies. The Bronx Knights were never going to forget that beating, so Eddie grabbed the cannolis, said, "Ciao," and left.