“Midnineties, right? Yeah, I remember a lot of drive-bys and shoot-’em-ups back then. Didn’t know it was Dragovic’s work.”

“Not all of them, of course, but he contributed his share. The brothers then tied themselves in with the Russians and used Brighton Beach as a launching pad against the Haitians and Dominicans. Totally ruthless from what I hear.”

“A little local ethnic cleansing, eh?”

“You might say. Then when the Kosovo thing started, Milos and his brother—I can’t remember his name—went back to guns, but the brother got killed in some deal that went sour. Milos came back richer and more powerful.”

“What’s his organization like?”

“He’s a control freak. No lieutenant or right-hand man; micromanages everything himself. Not much of an entourage—thinks that shows weakness—and likes the fast lane.”

“Yeah, he do love to get his picture in the paper.”

“And now a club he’s building, so all the beautiful people will come to him. He took over one of Regine’s defunct places. And what name, do you think?”

“Milos’s Mosh Pit?”

“No. Worse: Belgravy.”

Jack had to laugh. “No!”

“But it won’t open till the fall, so for reservations you still have time.” He looked at Jack over his glasses. “You’re getting involved with this man?”

Jack shrugged. “I’ve found two people in as many weeks with a beef against him.”

“Be careful. He’s a mean one. Not afraid to get his own hands dirty—likes it, I’m told.”

“Dirty as in red and wet?”

“Exactly.”

Jack blew out a breath. “Well, I wasn’t thinking of getting in close.”

“Good thinking. With that man, arm’s length is too close.”

Abe finished his bagel and brushed off his littered shirtfront. The parakeet raced around, gobbling up the cascade of crumbs.

“Look at my Parabellum,” he said. “Better than a Dustbuster, that bird.” He shook his head. “Listen to me. I’m kvelling about a parakeet.”

“You’ve got to get out more, Abe.”

“I should go out like a schnook so I can get roughed up by some middle-aged marauders? Feh! I read the papers.” He waved a pudgy hand at his stack of newspapers; Abe read all the papers every day—the Times, the Daily News, the Post, Newsday, the Village Voice, even the pink-sheeted weekly Observer. “A jungle out there. I’m better off at home watching I Love Lucy reruns.”

“Come on. The city’s so safe lately it’s practically a theme park.”

“So the mayor and his minions say, but I see the shiny mantle slipping. I perceive a contrarian trend. And besides, if the city should be too safe, it could be bad for business.”

“It’s great for business—except maybe yours.”

Abe didn’t sell enough sporting goods to pay the rent, let alone make a living. His real stock was hidden beneath their feet: if it fired a bullet, Abe sold it.

“Sales falling off?”

Abe shrugged. “Falling off, no. Flat, yes. But that’s not bad. It could mean I’m reaching my goal.”

“The polite society?”

Abe nodded. His idea of the ideal society was one where everyone was armed at all times. He truly believed in the Heinlein adage that an armed society is a polite society.