"Why kidnap my daughter?"

"Snafu," the old man said. "My source is having breakfast with this braggart Lexy, who's telling him Borodenko calls him this morning from Russia. Very pissed off, Mr. Borodenko. This snafu made him cancel this important shipment due to leave today. A woman is involved in this snafu. Lexy says that Borodenko gives him strict orders to find Sergei, his man to fix this special problem. Lexy is an errand boy, but he's bragging. Big man. As if Borodenko is asking him to fix this problem."

"This woman is my daughter?"

"This is what I think."

"I know Lexy Petrov, the bartender," Eddie said. "But is he talking about Sergei the Macedonian?"

"No. Sergei Zhukov, a Russian. One of Borodenko's new lunatics. He surrounds himself with people without brains. But how much brains are needed to hit people over the head and say 'Give me your money'?"

"Why would Borodenko's men be searching my house in the first place?"

"Money. What else? There's an old Russian saying, Eddie. In English, it means 'The clock is ticking and the house is burning.' The Russians think you should be making money every second of the day and night."

Lukin offered Eddie a handful of the sunflower seeds that filled his coat pockets.

"Why would Borodenko think I have money?" Eddie said.

"Because you worked for me. Last few months, he's been going after my old friends, some with me from the beginning. In case he finds a loose dollar I'm holding out on him. My fellow Russkie wants everything I have, if I have it or not."

Borodenko made no secret of his ambition to be the most important vor in the United States, then the richest man in the world. A former Soviet army officer, he flaunted his solid connections in the Russian black market, particularly those in the military establishment. Soviet weapons of all types were his advertised specialty.

"I read about Ukraine Nicky and Seidler," Eddie said. "The papers said they were robberies. Cash and jewelry stolen both times."

"Robberies, yes. But torture also. Ukraine Nicky… big thoughts, but harmless, am I right? Yet someone tortures Ukraine Nicky. Then Seidler, the jeweler. Two old men. Tell me, why torture? Because he is looking for my money is why. He believes I am King Midas."

The old man didn't seem to notice the raw breeze off the ocean. Spring was the worst season at the shore. The ocean took all summer to warm up; then September and October registered the warmest water temperatures. The water stayed warmer than the air until mid-December. But once it got cold, forget about it until July.

"Put a cash offer on the street, Anatoly."

"First, I have already sent word that if your daughter should suddenly appear safe and sound, the situation will end there. No retaliation. It won't work, but we'll try this."

"Whatever it costs," Eddie said. "Ten, twenty grand, fifty grand. I'll get it, whatever it costs."

"A life is what it will cost. Our friend learned from his KGB friends. He kills the weak links, those who talk; this is automatic, no exceptions. Dead'men can't enjoy your money. No takers will call."

"Make it worth the chance. Promise more, a million, two million."

"Inhale some ocean air," Lukin said. "Take deep breaths. Calm yourself, or you'll be no good to anyone."

Lukin wore a threadbare cardigan sweater and a dark fur hat he claimed was Russian sable. Whatever he'd done in Russia, Lukin didn't function through violence in America. He was a scam artist, a paper-pusher who preyed on big government and big business. In Eddie's opinion, Lukin was no worse than the Armani-clad conspirators on Wall Street, or the thieves in the ivory towers of most corporations.

"Where should I look for the BMW?" Eddie asked.

"Don't waste the time," Lukin said. "This morning, Mr. Borodenko planned to send a ship with stolen luxury automobiles to Latvia from a dock in New Jersey. Very lucrative operation. They steal automobiles and hide them. When the ship is ready to sail, they put the automobiles inside containers labeled machinery. Customs pays no attention to what is shipped out of the country. He collects two, three times their value."

"The BMW was supposed to be on this ship?"

"Of course. BMW is an expensive automobile. Space on a ship is limited. Expensive automobiles take up the same space as cheap automobiles. Just as easy to steal expensive. Everything is profit margin."

"Do you know what pier, or the ship's name?"

"No, no, no. Don't go running off without your head. Everything was canceled because of this snafu. The car you saw is not on this ship, I am quite sure. That one is probably in the crusher."

"Then who was driving it?"

"My source swears they do not keep such records at his end. All financial arrangements for car thieves are made in Brooklyn. What he tells me is that they were working the last three nights, moving automobiles to the pier. Four BMWs were expected to be delivered to the dock this morning. Only three arrived. The missing automobile was black in color."

Most of the businesses in Coney Island were still closed. Summer businesses were a tough gig. You needed sixteen good weeks to break even, and bad weather killed you. Here and there, a few doors were wedged open, the owners blowing out the musty stink of a seaside winter. One hardy soul slapped mustard-colored paint on his hot dog stand. Only the optimistic entrepreneur who ran the Cockroach Circus had opened for business. The ringmaster stood out front, hawking the attractions inside. Eddie wondered what he was really selling. A precinct cop on a bicycle rumbled over the boards, a female voice squawking in his radio's static.

"See over there," Lukin said, pointing to a clapboard shack with plywood nailed over the windows. "First place I worked in America. Minimum wages." Eddie knew the story, but he believed you should always listen to the stories of old people, no matter how many times they told them. "Sweating my brains out over an outside grill," Lukin said. "Cooking sausage and peppers for sandwiches. Onions, everything smelled like onion. My clothes, my hair. Keep the grill perfect, move the food evenly, that is my secret to grill cooking. Like this, I learned…" The old man demonstrated his grill technique, sliding an imaginary spatula under imaginary food and moving it four times, a quarter turn each. The setting sun spread orange onto the slate blue Atlantic.

"Car thieves are creatures of habit," Eddie said. "They return to places where they're comfortable working. This car was stolen from a gated storage facility in Elmsford. Not every street junkie has the skills to pull that off."

"More than you think," Lukin said. "But I will ask my source to narrow the list. We will find your baby girl safe and sound. Very soon. I have three more days to shake the bushes."

"Three more days?"

"In three days, I am going home," the old man said, the shell of a sunflower seed clinging to his thick lower Up. "I want to be buried in the dirt where I was born."

"Odessa?"

"Not so loud, please. Only you and I can know. Not even my idiot nephew behind us."

"Are you well enough for this?" Eddie asked.

"What is well enough? All I do these days is go to my doctor. Every Tuesday, he says the same thing. 'Eat well, exercise, stop smoking, see you next week, pay cashier, thank you.' It's this Medicare; they keep you going around the revolving door. We should have been doctors. They are the real moschenniki."

"The swindlers," Eddie said.

"Doctors swindle the swindlers."

Eddie offered to drive him to the airport, but Lukin said he'd call a taxi. It would be the first time he'd ever ridden in a taxi. The old man stopped and leaned against the wooden rail. A V squadron of geese flew high above the water, following the coastline north.