Aleksander Buda waited in the parking lot of the Swiss House Inn for Fatos to arrive. It was a standing joke among the crew that the thinnest guy they knew was Fatos, although no one ever said it to his face more than once. Fatos was slender and wiry as a greyhound, with quick hands that made him very proficient with a knife. He was rarely seen without his baseball hat, worn jauntily backward like a hip-hop devotee. When Buda wanted backup like he wanted that evening, he always called Fatos.

As dependable as ever, five minutes after Buda arrived, Fatos pulled his black Cadillac sedan into an empty space next to Buda’s. Both cars were off by themselves at the back of the lot. Neither man got out. Buda barely acknowledged Fatos with a nod. They didn’t need to talk a lot.

Buda’s eyes swept around the half-full parking lot. A guy he thought might be Burim was sitting in a new Chevy Camaro in a slot facing out no more than twenty yards to his right. The driver sitting behind the wheel fastidiously ignored Buda. Then another car drove up, an Escalade, and Buda recognized Drilon riding high at the wheel. Drilon flashed his lights at the Camaro.

“Gang’s all here,” Buda said to himself.

Drilon parked, and first Burim, then Buda, then the other two men got out of their cars, met in the middle, and exchanged greetings.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Buda said. “I’m starved.”

The restaurant and bar was situated in a rather ordinary-looking two-story wood-frame house painted a deep green with white trim. Except for the lighted sign announcing SWISS HOUSE INN in front of the building next to the road, the structure didn’t look much like a restaurant, more like another house along the road only in better shape. The parking lot was fairly full, so it was obviously a popular place on a Friday night. Burim walked in the door first and the lady at the door made a fuss of him, asking after his health and saying his table was ready. Buda guessed he’d called ahead and was a frequent patron. Other diners who had been waiting to be seated took one look at the group and to a man and woman decided not to make an issue with the men who jumped the line. They were all in oversized leather jackets, the accepted attire of the Albanian mafia.

In the back of the busy restaurant was a single booth situated partway between the kitchen and the main room. The only traffic was from staff coming out of the kitchen, several of whom made a point of saying hello to Burim.

“So they know you in here,” Buda said. He was mildly disappointed. If he’d known Burim was a regular, he wouldn’t have agreed to the location.

“I’m a big tipper,” Burim said, winking at Drilon across the table.