She was singing Madonna’s “Take a Bow” in a throaty contralto, stage lights gliding across her body, and she almost had you going, except that she was a man. “Razve chto Ruslan?” Scorpion asked the waiter in Russian. Is that Ruslan? “On nazyvaet sebya Svetlana,” the waiter said. He calls himself Svetlana. “Can you bring her over?” Scorpion asked, holding out two one-hundred hryven bills. “Konechno.” Sure. “You got good taste,” the waiter said, taking the money. Scorpion was sitting in the shadows, in an alcove with a plush sofa and a view of the stage. The club was chrome and black, cigarette smoke spiraling in colored lights, and filled with gay men and a few lesbian couples. A few minutes after her set, the waiter, smirking, brought Svetlana over to his table. She looked at Scorpion, smiled, and sat next to him, motioning for the waiter to stay.
