“Cheers,” Nathan said.

“What? No Russian?”

“Good Lord, no. You know what Russians call Westerners who can speak Russian?”

Danny shook his head.

“Spies.” Nathan poured them a refill and seemed to read Danny’s thoughts. “You know why Louis is an exception?”

“Why?”

“Because he’s Louis. Try the bread. It’s good.”

From the bar, an explosion of Russian, followed by a surprisingly hearty laugh, and then Louis Fraina hung up the phone. He came to the table and poured himself a drink.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Glad you could make it.”

“Evening, Comrade,” Danny said.

“The writer.” Louis Fraina held out his hand.

Danny shook it. Fraina’s grip was firm but not to the point of trying to prove anything. “Pleased to meet you, Comrade.”

Fraina sat and poured himself another vodka. “Let’s dispense with the ‘Comrade’ for now. I’ve read your work, so I don’t doubt your ideological commitment.”

“Okay.”

Fraina smiled. This close, he gave off a warmth that wasn’t even hinted at in his speeches or the few times Danny had seen him holding court at the back of the Sowbelly. “Western Pennsylvania, yes?”

“Yes,” Danny said.

“What brought you all the way to Boston?” He tore a piece of dark bread from the loaf and popped it in his mouth.

“I had an uncle who lived here. By the time I arrived, he was long gone. I’m not sure where.”

“Was he a revolutionary?”

Danny shook his head. “He was a cobbler.”

“So he could run from the fight in good shoes.”

Danny tipped his head to that and smiled.

Fraina leaned back in his chair and waved at the barmaid. She nodded and disappeared into the back.

“Let’s eat,” Fraina said. “We’ll talk revolution after dessert.”

They ate a salad in vinegar and oil that Fraina called svejie ovoshy. That was followed by draniki, a potato dish, and zharkoye, a meal of beef and still more potatoes. Danny’d had no idea what to expect, but it was quite good, far better than the gruel served nightly in the Sowbelly would have led him to believe. Still, throughout dinner, he had trouble concentrating. Some of it was due to the ringing in his ears. He only heard half of what was said and dealt with the other half by smiling or shaking his head where it seemed appropriate. But it wasn’t the hearing loss, ultimately, that pulled his interest away from the table. It was the feeling, all too familiar lately, that his job was the wrong fit for his heart.

He had woken up this morning, and because of that, a man was now dead. Whether the man deserved to die or not—and he did, he did—wasn’t what concerned Danny at the moment. It was that he’d killed him. Two hours ago. He’d stood in the street and shot him like an animal. He could hear those high-pitched yelps. Could see each of the bullets enter Federico Ficara—the first through the knee, the second through the ass, the third into the stomach. All painful, the first and the third, however, exceptionally so.