“Mentioned it.” Bailey stared ruminatively at the envelope, seeming to weigh it in his open palm. A few seconds later he grunted and stuffed it into his pocket. “But now that you’ve gone and raised the subject of how I can reciprocate, please feel free to give your suggestions. Bearing in mind I try to be a law-abiding fellow. Whenever possible, that is.”

Lenny nodded, ate the slice of cheesecake, and wiped his lips with his napkin. Then he leaned forward and told Bailey what he wanted.

“I’ll take anything you can get me,” he concluded in a hushed voice. “Cargo manifests, bills of lading, authorization documents—you name it. The more, the better.”

Bailey looked at him. “This Zavtra outfit in Russia ... is it an air or sea carrier?”

“Could be both for all I know. Does it matter?”

“Only insofar as it’d make my life easier. I mean, ninety percent of import and export transactions are filed electronically these days, which makes the info I pull out of my computer practically up-to-the-minute. But there are different systems depending on the method of transport.”

“Don’t they interface?”

“Sure they do. Like I said, it’s no big problem to run a global search. I’m just trying to cut down on the time involved.” Bailey scratched behind his ear. “How soon you need this stuff, by the way?”

“Five minutes ago,” Lenny said. “And that was pushing things to the wire.”

Bailey ballooned his cheeks, slowly let the air whistle out.

“Do you always lay this kind of fucking bullshit on your wife and kids when you give them presents?”

Lenny shook his head.

“The love I’ve got for my family is unconditional,” he said. “I only associate with foul-mouthed sports fans like you out of necessity.”

Bailey grinned.

“Hurry up and ask for the check, asshole,” he said.

“Michael Caine!”

“No, it’s Tom Jones.”

“Tom Jones is a singer. The question was what British actor worked in a coal mine before he was famous.”

“I seen him act in that movie about the Martians attacking, Boch—”

“That was what they call a cameo, which ain’t the same thing. And besides, Tom Jones was a fucking grave digger—”

“No, no, I’m telling you Rod Stewart was a grave digger, Tom Jones ...”

“Look, stunade, I don’t wanna hear no more about Tom Jones, okay? If it wasn’t Michael Caine it’s gotta be Richard Harris ...”

“Who the hell’s Richard Harris?”

“Jesus Christ, what planet you from, anyway? He’s the guy who—”

“Hey, Boch, how you doing?” Lenny Reisenberg interrupted from the entrance to the Quonset.