Chapter Eight
The club was called MaloMalo—it was in a series of huge warehouse rooms in Greenpoint, above Williamsburg, not too far from the bridge. I could not have found it; the streets twisted and turned and held you with their own sense of foreboding. Finally Niko stopped on a dark narrow back street, all garbage cans, cobble stones, feral cats; filled with thuggish-looking guys who never stopped eyeing us—“They keep your car safe,” Niko assured me as he locked up and we walked out among the other cars on the narrow pavement. “They’re brothers.” I nodded my head, but still wondered what he meant. A phalanx of dark young men in big baggy pants, all popping elastic bands of white undershorts at the tops—hot muscular brooding guys, way too serious for me, I thought—nodded at us. “Buyin
