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small “satellite” stages, or near the elevator leading
to the second level, guarded by bouncers. It had the carefully applied ambience
of exclusivity.
    As usual, the main
floor was a hive of activity. Dancers in brightly colored outfits twisted through
the slow-moving men clutching drinks and dollar bills. Waitresses carried trays
laden with glasses and beer bottles high over their heads. Just as Sam was
turning from the railing to return to her perch next to Boise, something caught
her eye at the mouth of the hallway leading to the main entrance. She paused,
making sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her.

 
 
 
    CHAPTER 6
    Fyodor Il’yavitch
Patrushev , or Fedya as he is affectionately known, stood in a cloud
of thick, blue smoke, originating from the pudgy Cuban cigar he always carried.
As the owner of the Pink Pussycat Cabaret, he’d appear from time to time to
entertain business associates or just enjoy himself in the privacy of his own
sanctuary.
    Fedya had proven
himself to be a shrewd businessman. His generosity extended to any number of
charities. Foundations such as AIDS, Make a Wish and ironically, Susan G.
Kommen Breast Cancer — were at the top of his list. His philanthropic
activities placed him on Atlanta’s A-list of darlings sought after for events
and parties. Sam found it interesting that Atlanta’s proper society was able to
not only forgive the Russian for his involvement in the skin industry, but also
embrace him in their culture. He was everyone’s favorite naughty boy, although
nothing particularly naughty was ever linked to him — other than the Pink
Pussycat, of course.
    A bouncer hustled past
Sam, speaking into the microphone on his headset. He was headed for the back
door next to the Skybox. Sam knew one of Fedya’s friends must be using the back entrance. It was common for politicians
and celebrities to slip in through the privacy of the club’s rear door.
    Fedya’s hair was a salt
and pepper tousled mix, finger-combed back into a style that made him look
younger than his years. His clothing was custom-made with the telltale drape
only an expensive tailor could achieve. His shoes, Italian leather loafers,
were polished to a shine without a scuff in sight.
    Sam watched Fedya’s
face melt into a warm, genuine smile as employees approached to pay homage. He
shook hands with the bouncers and gave the dancers innocent hugs as if they
were his own daughters. Sam admired his business sense and always liked that he
was accessible to his employees. He was so different than other club owners who
kept their distance and resented interruptions.
    A customer slipped past
the horde surrounding Fedya. Even though he moved through the shadows, Sam
recognized the shiny, bald head . A few strands of hair
long enough to braid reached across his skull like stringy fingers. Tic . The muscle above her eye jumped as
she looked around for a bouncer. Anyone who could help her catch the greasy intruder. There
was no one. She pushed herself off the rail and trotted toward the staircase.
    A shrill “Aw my Gawd!” rang
out as Pietra Maria Speranza DiFrancesco offered up her mating call. Her eyes
locked on Fedya. She rushed past Sam, plowing through people like a freight
train to reach her beloved. Gio tagged helplessly behind her in an attempt to
derail her efforts.
    “Ma! MA!” Gio shouted
through gritted teeth.
    “Just a minute
Giovanni! I gotta say hello to my dawling Fedya. He
loves me!”
    “Ma. Please. Give the
man a minute. He just got here. Please, stop.”
    Pietra cut through
Fedya’s entourage with the deft maneuvering of a champion quarterback faking a
play. Before he could react, Pietra had cupped her hands around Fedya’s face
and was planting a big, wet kiss square on his lips. Sam wondered if she ever
tried to slip him tongue, feeling her stomach turn for poor Fedya.
    Even from her vantage
point, Sam saw irritation flash across Fedya’s face. Smiling to herself , this quick