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for himself, the old guy. My own grandfather told me a lot of stories about him. Grandpa was Alan Anismov . Alan was as American a name as old Pitor could come up with . He wanted his son to be American. He hated Russia. It was cold; it was hard living. America represented something to him. An opportunity.
    Grandpa had two daughters. My mom, he named Rebecca, and her sister was Rose. Rose died when she was only five; I never met her. My mom married a guy named Mike Jones, and they got me, Peter Jones. Doesn’t sound very Russian, and it took me a while to convince Mr. Black that my family came from there. Having Russians, it was important to him.
    I was named after Pitor , but with the American spelling. When he came over, he made money any way he could. I’ve taken that up to . I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of, and a lot of things which could land me in jail, but hey, a job is a job. I keep my head down, steer clear of cops, and make sure the guys I rough up really have it coming to them.
    Mr. Black is a fair guy, believe it or not. He’s big and round, with a bald head and a fat stomach, but he calls it like he sees it, and he plays everyone straight. There’s something honorable about that, really . A criminal who tries to do right by his own ethics and moral code. I’m the same way. I won’t knock over some mom and pop shop unless they’re laundering money for another guy or something like that. My boss is the same way.
    But he works us a lot. I do this; I do that. I’m on call twenty-four seven. That’s why I was looking so forward to that Saturday.
    I slept in, having a weekend day off. I didn’t wake up until after noon. I lounged in bed for a bit, until my stomach was telling me I needed food, and then I got up. I was halfway through my second bowl of Frosted Flakes when my cell rang. I grabbed it and sighed. It was Mr. Black.
    “Peter my boy,” the old man grumbled. “I need you.”
    I knew better than to argue. “What can I do for you, Mr. Black?” I asked.
    He gave me an address and told me I was working security at nine that evening. I hung up and finished my cereal. Nine wasn’t so bad. Of course, if Mr. Black told me nine, he expected me there by eight thirty. I, at least, had the day. I went back to bed.
    By six, I climbed out of bed and slowly got ready after wolfing down a sandwich. By eight twenty I was parking across from the address I had been given . It was a place downtown, in a seedy looking neighborhood. The building was squat and wide, just one story, with no windows that I could see. All gray and closed off. The door was large and metal, and a man in a suit was loitering outside of it.
    I locked my car and made my way across the street. I realized I knew the man standing by the heavy door, and he nodded to me as I got closer. His name was Marco, and he worked for David Zinga , a Mexican arms dealer that Mr. Black was friendly with .
    “Marco,” I said, stopping for a minute to chat with the guy. He was smoking, and he took a long drag on the cigarette he held between two fingers before answering.
    “How goes it, Peter?” He asked, his voice low , like a tiger’s growl. He was a big guy, muscles upon muscles, with a scar running down one cheek.
    “All right. It was my day off,” I complained, and Marco laughed, but his eyes were sympathetic.
    “What’s a day off?” He asked, and it was my turn to laugh. I slapped him on the back and stepped inside. I expected the building to be dark, but it was well lit. There was a small hallway right at the entrance, with a door propped open at the end, and beyond that a large open room. Lights hung from the ceiling, buzzing softly as I passed underneath them. At the far end of the room was a small stage of sorts, a raised section of flooring which came up to my waist. There was a door there, built into the wall on the rear of the stage. A friend of mine stood there, another guy who worked for my boss, someone I had pulled a