“Might have to use your thumb.”

He guffawed and waved me inside.

CHAPTER THREE

We sat at a wooden table. Rude, concave, and stained like a sacrificial altar. He poured two glasses of single malt and shoved one my way. We clinked glasses and drank. He poured again. I surveyed his abode. Not much to see. Exposed timber and plank, a scuffed throw rug, barrel stove, and a loft. Fly rods and bear-paw snowshoes in the corner, a faded tapestry of the Catskills on the far wall. Nothing of a personal nature—no photographs or postcards. Spartan to the bone.

“Elkhorn Lake?” I said.

“Used to be lousy with elk. Ages ago. Conservationists tried to reintroduce them in the early twentieth century. Didn’t take.”

“Might’ve worked if sport hunters would stop shooting everything that moves for five minutes,” I said.

“Uh-huh. How do you like your steak? Rare? Don’t feel too sorry for Mama Nature. She gets her own. White Elk Preserve is over yonder hill. Summer or two back, a wildlife photographer ventured in there and recorded a deer licking salt excretions from the mummified remains of some local hermit. Nobody realized the hermit had gone missing until the authorities carted him to the morgue. You’re in the boonies, friend. Unfriendly, remorseless. Remind you of home sweet home?”

“It’s pleasant not to have icicles hanging from my nose.”

“Must befuddle the wiseguys, you going legit. The Italians are taking the long view. Otherwise, enemies keep piling up.”

“Great men have detractors.”

“So do assholes.” He splashed another generous shot of scotch into my glass. “No offense, big fella. I wanted to take your temperature. Done and done. You’ll do. You’ll do fine.”

I donned my poker face and waited for him to divulge his secrets.

He pulled aside the drapes a smidge and peered into the yard. More a bank-robber-on-the-lam move than that of a salt-of-the-earth cop enjoying his well-deserved retirement. One acquires certain habits when one forges nefarious associations.

“The SDNY wants to clamp my family jewels in a vise before they take another shot at the Redlick Group. Immunity if I testify; a boatload of felony charges if I decline. Ha! I’m not gonna sing.”

“Too bad Redlick won’t believe that. Or the Russians. Or anybody.”

He actually preened.

“Gerry does. He knows I’m stand-up.”

“You’re hard as nails, I totally get it,” I said. “Rock on with your bad self, et cetera. You don’t owe Redlick, though. Testify and go loaf someplace warm under a brand-new identity. Why risk having polonium-210 sprinkled on your toilet seat?”

“The FSB? Those weasels aren’t involved. Rent-a-thugs sent by one of the Russian oligarchs Redlick was in bed with, yeah, possibly. It isn’t beneath Redlick’s cronies either. Fuck ’em. I don’t care.”

“Hiding in the woods, scanning the perimeter for Russian mobsters? Marvelous retirement plan.”

“The game was over in August,” he said. “It was over when the DA brought charges. I’m running out the clock on my own terms. Farmers’ Almanac says everything north of Kingston can expect a deep freeze by Christmas. Bailing for Florida tomorrow. Any bastards want to arrest me, or whack me, I’ll be beachside, sipping margaritas, my arm around a cabana girl.”