Odessa, now there's a city for you. Everyone's a crook. Little crooks take from who they can. Nobodies stealing from nobodies. Then the middleman. Hmm. How many nobodies does it take to feed him? Seven? 10? The middleman is always hungry, always worried. Because from the middle, it's easier to fall down than to climb up. But the big crooks-- the machers in Odessa-- the big crook does nothing. Drink kvass, eat roast chicken and fish soup, stroll with some cute little tsatske along Deribasovskaya street, everybody tips their hat. The big crook in Odessa, he's somebody. I wake up sometimes and I think I'm still there-- 12 years old, my whole life ahead of me. But then I realize I'm in America, that world is gone and you have to make the best of it.

You? You would be nothing in Odessa.