"You know, Jason, the Clarks, Murphy too, they could all be problems down the line. Keep Frank Suarez on a short leash. Murphy has a lot on her plate. The Clark case may disappear in the mists of time. Or not."

"So poetic."

"All Russians have a poetic soul," observed Sergio. "Haven't you read Dr. Zhivago?"

"Can't say I have. I take it you have Russian ancestry, then?"

Pezanowski knew very little about Sergio Battaglia. His patron ignored his question.

"Yeats, Pushkin, Lord Byron, Neruda - there are so many that have ennobled the words of their mother tongues. Poetry takes us beyond our basic instincts, Jason."

"Why would I want to do that? My entertainment tastes go toward breasts and cunt, when I can get them."

"Such are the weaknesses of youth. It's the evolutionary drive to sow our seed. Some men are slaves to their dicks."

Pezanowski laughed and refilled his glass.

"I'm not a slave to it, but if you don't use it, you lose it."

"Enough of your blue collar philosophy. Are we finished?"

"I guess. You asked for the meeting."

"Under the assumption that you would have news for me. But no news is good news, as they say. Of course, all that really means is that bad news travels faster." Jason got up, knowing he was being dismissed. "Don't forget your raincoat. It's nasty out there and Peterson will most assuredly go to bed as soon as you leave. He's getting up in years."