Page 121 of Near Miss

“It’s my job to be sure. Feel free to hire someone else to check it out if you want, but the answer is not going to be any different.”

“Dammit,” the Sarge spat. “All right. I’ll have the second half of your payment wired to your account.”

“Pleasure doing business with you.”

Chapter 60

That evening, in New York City, the family council gathered at the restaurant in Little Italy, in the room that had until recently been Alexei Gromyko’s office.

Asimov arrived first, and purposely took the seat at the head of the table.

When Igor Krupin walked in several minutes later, he was not pleased. As the eldest, the position of chairing the meeting should have been his. “I believe you are in my seat.”

“Your beliefs are not important to me,” Asimov said.

Krupin’s gaze hardened. “Move.”

“I like it here, thank you.” Asimov motioned at the other chairs. “There are plenty of other places for you to choose from.” He turned away, ending the conversation.

The rest began filing in. Those who weren’t part of Asimov’s cabal looked askance at Asimov’s place at the head of the table,but none challenged him. On the other hand, his friends smiled in approval as they filled the chairs nearest him. The only one who looked neither happy nor appalled was the Bean Counter. He was his usual calm, unreadable self, and took a chair midway down the table, right between Asimov’s friends and foes.

“I am sure you have all heard the news,” Asimov said, after everyone had settled, “but in case some haven’t, Egon Pentkovsky—or, as he preferred, Peter Greco—is dead. I know none of us expected to be discussing leadership of the family so soon after we just did, but here we are.”

“Do we know who did it?” one man asked.

“It has to be the same person who had Alexei killed,” another said.

“The lawyer? But I heard Greco was found in Barrington’s office,” a third man said. “Barrington isn’t stupid enough to have killed him there, is he?”

Everyone started talking over each other, asking questions, throwing out theories, and shouting suggestions for retaliation.

Asimov let it go on for a minute, and then slammed his hand on the table. “Enough.”

The room quieted.

“I already have people looking into the circumstances of his death,” Asimov said. “Have no doubt, when the perpetrator is discovered, he will be dealt with in no uncertain terms.”

“Need I remind you how he is dealt with is not your decision to make?” Krupin said. “It is that of the new head of the family.”

Asimov smiled, menacingly. “So it is. Then we should decide who will make that decision.”

“By rights, it should go to Igor,” one of Krupin’s allies said. “He is the senior among us.”

“Is that the will of everyone?” Asimov asked.

A few heads nodded, but from the crease in Krupin’s brow, their number was not as large as he had expected.

A few seats away from Asimov, one of his friends cleared his throat. “I think the job should be yours, Dmitri,” he said, looking at Asimov. “You are a man of action, and that is what’s needed now.”

Several others voiced their agreement. More, Asimov noted, than had for Krupin.

“I’m flattered you think that,” Asimov said.

“We should put it to a vote,” the man said.

“Is there anyone else we should consider?” Asimov asked, wanting to sound egalitarian, when he was anything but.

He looked around the table. The only other name that might be thrown out would be that of the Bean Counter, but the man apparently had no plans to nominate himself, nor did anyone else speak up.

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