Then, amazingly, Cowboy countered with a $5,000 raise of his own. Nordeshenko was stunned.

"Ivan, still with us?" Cowboy tilted back in his chair, clucking unpleasantly.

Nordeshenko reached in his jacket, counted out $5,000 in hundred-dollar bills, and laid them in the center of the table. This was no longer just an amusing diversion.

"Aces and queens." He flipped over his hole cards.

"Oooh." Cowboy blinked, as if stunned.

But then he grinned."This is gonna hurt, Ivan."

He flipped over his hole cards. Two more deuces. The last card had given him three. Nordeshenko felt as if he'd fallen off a cliff. The moron had been pushing the pot the whole way with just a pair of twos.

Cowboy leaped up, ooo-eeing like a donkey, raking in his chips. Nordeshenko thought he'd like to wipe the grin off the fool's face. But just as quickly, the irrational urge subsided.

Not tonight. He had work to do in the morning. Important work. Whatever he had lost tonight was just a fraction of his fee.

"You know what they say, Ivan," Cowboy said, stacking his winnings,"sometimes it's better to be lucky than good. No hard feelings," he said, stretching out his hand.

Nordeshenko stood up and took it. The imbecile was right about one thing: he'd been lucky tonight. Luckier than he would ever know.

The Israeli was going to let him live.

Chapter 7

IT WAS AFTER EIGHT O'CLOCK that night when I finally made it back to Casa Pellisante.

Home for me was the same rent-controlled apartment in the Hell's Kitchen section of Manhattan on Forty-ninth and Ninth I'd lived in for the past twelve years. I had a view of the Empire State Building from my study window and could kick back on the roof after work with a cocktail, looking out on the red sunsets over Jersey City. On weekends, I could step out the front door right into the Feast of St. Ignatius or a West Indian parade, or grab a beer at an Irish bar sitting next to some Westie I once put away.