I found Don Gustov in the usual place, at his high-end watering house on the East Side. I was roughly ushered into his presence by several of his goons. He looked at me while eating linguini with his bare hands, licking it off his fingers in disgusting fashion.
To say Don Gustov was not a small man was like saying the Titanic was not a sailboat. He was a massive man in richly-tailored clothes, flanked by several large, muscular men in suits that seemed barely large enough to hold their...
