The band had played its final set; they were packing up their bazoukis and a brace of slotted microphones the size of bread loaves. The velvet sound of a smuggled Mel Tormé tape came from the speakers. Most of the Party bigwigs were already gone; there were a dozen tired teenage Armenian hookers, dance girls, sitting in a line of folding chairs. At the sight of Khoklov’s air force jacket, and Starlitz’s bogus Red Army get-up, they started chattering and elbowing each other.