Devil With a Gun by M. C. Grant Page B

curious one, Eddie. You remind me of Yoda in that last Star Wars movie when he whips off his cloak to fight the bad guy and all of a sudden the old cripple is as spry as a teenager.”
    â€œIf you’re trying to confuse me, you succeeded. I do not know this Yoda. Now do you wish to place a bet?”
    My smile fades. “I want to meet Krasnyi Lebed.”
    Eddie doesn’t even blink. “So why come to me?”
    â€œYou know everyone.”
    â€œI know who’s important to know, nobody else.”
    â€œAnd the Red Swan is important to know.”
    â€œTrue.”
    â€œSo where can I find him?”
    â€œIt is not so difficult, but neither is it advisable.”
    â€œSo I’ve been told.”
    â€œBut still you persist.”
    â€œIt’s my job.”
    â€œCuriosity, they say, is lethal to felines.”
    I recoil again. “Jeez, Eddie. Enough with the doom and gloom. I just want to talk to the guy.”
    He releases a heavy sigh. “I can give you an address, but only on one condition.”
    â€œOK.”
    â€œDo not piss him off and do not mention my name.”
    â€œI can guarantee the latter, but I tend to have some trouble with the former.”
    â€œThat you do.”
    He gives me the address anyway.

    When the taxi arrives at the address, I release such a loud guffaw that it makes the olive-skinned driver with a boastful Seventies-era moustache jump in his beaded seat.
    â€œSorry,” I say as I pay the fare. “Bumped my funny bone.” When he doesn’t smile, I point at the mat of wooden beads he’s sitting on. “Are those comfortable or is it more like flagellation? I’ve always wondered.”
    He chooses to ignore me as he tucks the cash in his money pouch.
    â€œI’ll ask the next driver then,” I say sarcastically. “Obviously, you’ve got places to be.”
    The taxi takes off as soon as I close the door, leaving me standing across the street from The Russian Tea House. Instead of harassing my contacts, I could have just looked in the phonebook under most likely place to find a Russian immigrant in need of an afternoon pick-me-up.
    For a mob boss who likes to keep a low profile, Lebed certainly isn’t hiding.
    I cross the street and push through the front door.
    The interior of the restaurant is first-class all the way: white linen, bone china, polished silver teapots and cutlery. The furnishings are antique dark woods against stark white walls with occasional touches of glittering robin’s-egg blue, pomegranate red, and caterpillar yellow. The chandeliers are glistening crystal and gold, and I have a feeling the menu doesn’t bother listing prices.
    Dixie’s Tips #14: If you need to ask how much something costs, you can’t afford it. To avoid embarrassment, head to the washroom and climb out the window.
    An expertly lit glass tower at the entrance holds four impressively bejeweled Fabergé eggs, although I doubt they’re genuine; last I heard, an original is worth a minimum $10 million. And even if you can afford one, very few ever appear on the private market.
    On the second shelf from the top is the largest egg at just over nine inches tall. It is light blue and held aloft by three golden lions. I’m intrigued by the domesticated elephant that crowns the fragile dome as the royal carriage upon its back reminds me of a scene from the third Lord of the Rings movie.
    I lean forward to see if there are small figures of Frodo and Samwise running around.
    â€œTable for one, madam?”
    I turn to see a handsome ma î tre d’ dressed in an unusual stark white tuxedo with black bowtie and shiny black shoes. Despite the flattering cut of his suit, it’s obvious he likes to hit the gym, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I could scrub my delicates on his stomach on washday. (Which reminds me again of my need to do laundry.) His eyes are deep, dark, and chocolaty, but the