They were standing next to a dead man dressed in a black suit and a white open-collared shirt and a pair of dull black dress shoes splayed out at the end of his thick legs. To Hood, shoes had come to seem irrelevant on dead men, of whom he had seen more than several in his twenty-eight years. The Racks in al Anbar wore sandals or nothing, so to him death was a shoeless thing.

He looked at the four holes in a diagonal line across the front of the white shirt, automatic fire from the Salvadorans almost for sure. The guy had no gun, apparently. He looked wrong here, like he’d wandered in from another place or time.

Without turning him over, Marlon worried out the man’s wallet and stood. “Barry Cohen,” he said. “ Hollywood. Cohen and Cohen Gemstones in the diamond district, says this business card. What’s a nice Jewish boy doing at this party?”

Hood had been thinking the same thing. “Maybe it was his party,” he said. “Him and the Asians. This is their turf. Maybe the Salvadorans crashed it.”

Marlon nodded but didn’t look away from the bodies. “Him and the Asians doing what?”

“Diamonds come to mind.”

“I wonder. The Asian Boyz wouldn’t pay him a tenth of what they’re worth retail. Barry’s got a fat markup for engagements and anniversaries.”

Hood considered. “How much cash did he have?”

“Eighty… three bucks.”

“Maybe Barry was paying for something with gems instead of money. To a broker, gems are cheaper than cash.”

“Maybe he was. And if tonight was the night he brought payment to the Boyz, then the diamonds are either here in this mess or went out with the winners. Good you sealed off the parking lot, Charlie. There might be some blood out there if one of these guys got away.”

“If he was shot, that would explain leaving the guns.”

Marlon put his hands on his hips and looked down at the bloody heap of dead men. “Looks like Cu Chi.”

“Or Hamdaniya.”

“Ten men. Jesus.”