“One of ’em had a shaved head and a face like a boxer.” Paulie flattened his nose with his index finger so it resembled the nose of a fighter who’d taken too many punches to the face. “And they had funny accents.”

Paulie lived in a part of the world where even the minority who grew up speaking American did so with an easily identified and often ridiculed accent. Ted let himself smile. Just a touch.

“Anything else you can add?” Duran asked.

“That’s the story.”

“Thanks, Paulie,” Ted said. “I’m going to tell Lili to put one—and one only—beer a day for you on my tab all this week.”

“Thanks, Johnny. You’re all white.”

Ted chose to have misheard. “And you’re all right, too, Paulie. Let me know if they come around again. Don’t talk to them if you can help it, but if they ask, you haven’t seen me.”

“You can depend on me, Johnny.” Yawing erratically, Paulie shuffled toward the bar.

Duran snorted a laugh. “You do travel in elite circles. First Nicky Greco and now Popov and Jackoff, the Russian tag team.”

“So?” Ted said, facing Duran. “Can we agree that there are evil forces out there meaning to do me and my friends some serious harm?” He was being hunted. His apartment had been torn to shreds; two people hospitalized, one in a coma. Bribery, fraud, assault, and worse. What more did Duran need?

“Get me that witness,” Duran said.

-57-

-57-

The weather had turned overnight, and a mini squall buffeted the car as they raced down Cross Bay Boulevard. Jamaica Bay was covered in whitecaps, and the rain didn’t so much fall as explode from one horizon to the other, hitting the window on Lester’s side like shrapnel. Lester flinched constantly. He looked rested and clear-eyed, though his mood matched the weather. Mohammed’s driving didn’t help.

Lester kept one hand gripped on the door handle in case he needed to bail out. “This trip is like fishing for eels. They’re a bitch to catch, and once you’ve landed one, you wish you hadn’t.”

“Duran needs a witness,” Ted said. “We have to find out if Barbara Miller is capable of making a coherent statement on her own behalf.”

“If you’d care to make a wager on our success—”

Ted cut Lester off. “I know it’s a long shot, but we don’t have a lot of options.”

“Amen to that.” The car slammed through a pothole. The bag on Lester’s lap clinked, and he hugged it to his chest. He had skipped his dose of liquid medication that morning but had brought the bag with him.

“Are you always this nervous a passenger?” Ted asked, enjoying a little the other man’s discomfort.

“This guy learned to drive dodging terrorists in Beirut.”

“Beirut’s in Lebanon. Mohammed’s from Yemen.”