That tiny bit of news I received from the real estate titling company was useful but limited. I needed more. I'd let my lawyer take a look at it. That really was his wheelhouse. It was unlikely, though, that he would get back to me as quickly as had the title people. I hated depending on others for that type of work, but I had little choice. My skills were not limitless.

There still were things I could do.

That night I locked up, left the house, and a few blocks later adopted my Bruja guise. Tonight was going to be one of those nights. It was just a feeling, but I'd learned to listen to my little whispers.

I took a novel path to Mott Haven that evening. Habits were things that were difficult to break for me, and I needed to keep constant vigil that I did not fall into the habit of following the same path or going to the same places with predictable regularity. I did not believe at that point that I had any hidden enemy, no blood drinker who was out to get me, but one never knew.

I reached the river in no time and began to prowl around. There was no particular method that I followed while searching, beyond going where people were gathered and listening to what was being said. I also kept a careful eye out for anything out of the ordinary. The Russian population of the neighborhood was not huge, perhaps a few thousand recent arrivals, but they did stand out.

It took several hours, but eventually I identified a few Russian clubs and gathering places that I'd overlooked in my first trip to Mott Haven. The most lively of those was located just off 3rd Avenue. I hunkered down near there and watched.

The place was booming, and the coming and going was interesting. The clientele, as one would predict was mostly, but not entirely, Russian. My understanding was that the Russian community in that part of the city was only a few years old, so it was surprising that they'd developed their own nightlife so quickly. But, I suppose, no one loves a party quite like a Russian does.

I was just beginning to feel that I was wasting my time when a car pulled up in front of the establishment, and five younger gentlemen emerged. The gold chains and slightly shiny suits told me that they were not every day working Joes. Despite a long line to get in, the men entered the place without waiting and without a single word from the doorman.

Something about the proprietary way in which the men sauntered in suggested they were more than just guests. Local mobsters often opened restaurants and nightclubs as an easy way to justify their earnings and to launder the money from their illicit businesses. Such joints also were a welcoming place to gather, one over which they exerted a great control. That was Crime 101. It then dawned on me why the Russian-oriented nightlife had popped up so quickly in that part of the Bronx.

All of my waiting and watching suddenly wearied me. I dropped to the ground among some shadows and moved across the street. I gave a careful look around this time. Spying not a single camera, I cut to the front of the line, shoved the doorman aside, and passed through the curtains that divided the inside of the nightclub from the rest of the world.

The inside of the place took me somewhat by surprise. It was much nicer and more posh than I would have guessed. The only thing that felt déclassé was the attire of most of the men, who had arrayed themselves in some silly brand of Chez Gangster attire.

The music boomed, the lights throbbed, and the clothing of the patrons didn't seem all that important. Still, it was such a true shame. The Russians are an attractive people, the women beautiful and the men strong and handsome. And yet the men at that place had all the style and fashion sense of a Belgian pimp.

I moved out into the throng of people. The place was far larger than I first had estimated, and I had to resist the allure of the music. The surroundings were agreeable and the music just as I liked it.

Most of the folk were dancing, though some had staked out spots on the dance floor and huddled, glasses in hand and arms over shoulders, chatting, flirting, drinking, and laughing. There was none of that for me, no matter how appealing. I was looking for the five mobsters who had just come in.

After a few minutes of wandering, rubbing against folk, and fighting against the riptide of the music, I perceived my way. The crowd parted, and I found my quarry ahead of me. But they weren't alone.

It was one of those booth-style tables that formed a broad semicircle that 7 or more people comfortably could sit at. There were only five people there now. Four of those were among the gangsters who I had followed into the club. The fifth, a person I never had seen in my life, was one of my folk.

It was a blood drinker who sat there in the middle of them.