Yuri gunned the engine of the taxi and roared uptown, weaving in among the traffic, running lights, and intimidating pedestrians.

“Hey!” Harvey shouted. “Slow the hell down! What’s the matter with you?”

Yuri didn’t respond. He hated Harvey’s smug superiority, his expensive clothes, his ostrich briefcase, and most of all his stupid little hat he had pinned to his scraggly, thinning hair.

“Hey,” Harvey yelled. He knocked on the plastic divider. “Slow down or I’m calling the police.”

The warning about the police penetrated Yuri’s fury. The last thing he wanted was a run-in with the authorities. Yuri eased up on the accelerator and took a deep breath to calm himself. “Sorry,” he said. “I was just trying to get you to your meeting on time.”

“I’d prefer to arrive alive,” Harvey snapped.

Yuri kept his speed within the normal limits while he worked his way over to Fifth Avenue. Once there he headed south for less than two blocks. He pulled up in front of the Union Bank, stopped, and turned off the meter.

Harvey lost no time in getting out of the cab. While standing on the sidewalk he counted out the fare to the penny and plopped the cash into Yuri’s waiting hand.

“No tip?” Yuri asked.

“You deserve a tip like I deserve a poke in the eye with a sharp stick,” Harvey said. “You’re lucky I’m paying you at all.” He turned and headed for the revolving door of the fancy granite and glass bank building.

“I didn’t expect a tip from a Zionist pig anyway,” Yuri yelled after him.

Harvey flipped the cab driver the finger before disappearing from sight.

Yuri closed his eyes for a moment. He had to get control of himself before he did something stupid. He hoped to hell that Harvey Bloomburg lived on the Upper East Side because that was the part of the city that Yuri was going to devastate.

The next thing Yuri knew the back door to his cab was pulled open and someone climbed in. Yuri spun around.

“I’m off duty,” he said. “Get out!”

“Your off-duty sign’s not on,” the woman said indignantly. She had a Louis Vuitton briefcase on one side and a leather laptop satchel on the other.

Yuri reached over to the proper switch and flicked it. “It’s on now,” he growled. “Out!”

“Oh, for crissake,” the woman muttered. She grabbed her bags and got out of the cab. As a passive-aggressive gesture, she left the rear door ajar. She stepped out into the street, treated Yuri to a condescending look, then hailed another taxi.

Yuri stuck his hand out the driver’s side window and gave the open door a push. It closed without a problem. He then pulled out into the traffic and headed downtown. For the moment he was in no mood to put up with any more haughty businesspeople, particularly Jewish bankers. Instead he wanted to revel in thinking about his revenge, and to do that he needed corroboration that his agent was as deadly as he imagined. That meant checking up on Jason Papparis.