Page 89 of Near Miss

“Me, too,” Dino agreed.

“That obvious, am I?” Stone said. “I have indeed been thinking. Perhaps a trip to Maine is in order.”

“The last time I was there, people were shooting at us,” Carly said.

“The idea would be that going there would prevent that from happening again, here.”

“When are you thinking of leaving?” Dino asked.

“I have a meeting tomorrow morning I can’t get out of, but I’d like to be on my way by the afternoon.”

“Making yourself scarce right after the funeral is not a bad idea,” Viv said.

“I think you all should come with me.”

“The whole if-you’re-not-around-they’ll-come-after-your-friends thing?” Carly asked.

“In a nutshell.”

“I’m in. I can work remotely this week.”

“I’ll have to rearrange a few things,” Viv said, “but it’s doable.”

“Then count us in, too,” Dino said.

“Great,” Stone said. “Let’s plan for wheels up from Teterboro at onepm.”

Chapter 44

Peter Greco sat in a row of chairs in a thick forest of headstones in a Queens cemetery and listened to a priest drone on in Russian, which he understood only poorly. The Greek’s wife, Olga, who was twenty-odd years the junior of her late husband, sat at Peter’s elbow and made snuffling noises while clutching his arm. Peter was conscious of the breast pressed against him and of her cleavage, which looked good in black.

He had not planned on attending the Greek’s funeral. He had assumed he and his family would have been preparing to move across the country, where they would be under the protection of the FBI. But yesterday he had received a call from the Bean Counter, who had asked him as a personal favor to attend and had guaranteed his safety. So, with some reluctance, he had come.

The service ended, and Olga turned to him. “I would like you to come to my house for a glass of tea,” she said, “and there are those of our community who wish to speak to you.”

“I’ve already attended one funeral this week,” he said. “I would rather not star in another.”

“No one wants you dead. Quite the opposite.”

Intrigued, he followed her to a black limousine and took note of her shapely buttocks as she bent to enter the car. When he seated himself, he was surprised that she occupied her seat in such a way as to keep herself thigh-to-thigh with him.

“Who wishes to speak to me?” he asked her.

“People,” she replied, then spoke no more for the remainder of the ride. They entered the old, but well-kept house, and she pointed to the dining room door. “In there,” she said. “I will wait for you upstairs.”

Peter opened the door and peered into the room. A group of men rose as he entered, then settled themselves in the chairs around the table.

“Shall we speak Russian?” an elderly man asked him.

“Please, no. I haven’t spoken it since I was very young. Just English.” What the hell was this about?

“Very well,” the man said. “We are here to remind you of your duties.”

“My duties?” Peter asked. “What duties?”

“The first is revenge,” the man said, and there was a positive rumble from the group.

“Revenge toward whom?” Peter asked.

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