“You’re still here,” said Burim Graziani, née Grazdani, surprising George, who hadn’t noticed him walk in. He was accompanied by another man with whom he could have been related. Burim was just as George remembered him. A slight man of medium height, seemingly in his fifties, dark-complected in all respects, with piercing eyes as black as coal. His mouth pulled up slightly in the left corner in a kind of sneer from a scar. In George’s eyes he was the stereotypical hoodlum with a demeanor that suggested he was incapable of remorse. He was dressed in an ill-fitting black leather jacket and black turtleneck. He sat down, keeping both hands under the table. George imagined he was armed. The other, larger man stood where he was with his arms folded, eyeing George like a cat might eye a motionless mouse.

“Of course, I’m still here,” George croaked. He cleared his throat. “I wanted to see you.”

“I can’t say the same. We met before but it was a waste of my time. I asked for you to help me, but you fucked up and made it worse. I saved my daughter’s ass almost two years ago and all I asked for my trouble was some kind of . . .” He struggled for the right word.

“Détente?” George suggested.

“Don’t be a smart-ass,” Burim snapped and regarded George for a moment with narrowed eyes. “But, yeah, something like that. All I wanted to do was get to know her a little bit, but she’s too high and mighty to have anything to do with me, being a doctor and all.”

“She’s in terrible danger.”

“That’s how it’s to be, huh? Every time she’s in danger I have to see you?”

“Listen, her boss in Colorado—”

Burim held up his hand.

“Stop right there. You need to go with my guy here. He has to search you.”

“Search me why?”

“You don’t like it, our conversation is over. You understand what I’m saying?”

George did as he was told. The thuggish-looking man with Burim took George outside and into the back of a blue panel van. Another man patted George down roughly and very thoroughly. As he ran his fingers through George’s hair for some reason, he winked. Was this the uncle Pia had told him about? When he got back to the table, George didn’t ask. Burim had finished his soda.

“Okay, college boy. Tell me the story.” He pointed to the chair George had vacated.