"We eat by black market, Jim. Live by black market! Even big people, like daughter of Brezhnev. Boris the Gypsy was her boyfriend, smuggle diamonds, paintings, everything." Irene seemed to think it was funny. Some kind of Russian black humor, as if she’d slipped to the depths of the gutter—and was glad of it, because at least now she knew where she stood. "I know I would meet Yankee gypsy, some day. American Mafia Gangster!"