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ONE HUNDRED TWO

Jimmy

HE DOESN’T CALL JANE for a couple of days. She doesn’t call him. Longest they’ve gone since she was in Switzerland.

Jimmy does get a call from Detective Craig Jackson a couple of nights later, almost two in the morning, Jackson knowing how little Jimmy sleeps. He’s calling because he’s still trying to help Jimmy out. And because Craig Jackson didn’t let shit go, either.

“I think I got a lead on who Champi and Licata were answering to,” Jackson says.

Jimmy can hear the excitement in his voice, like he’s giving off sparks at his end.

“Don’t tell me. It was Salvatore.”

“Bigger.”

The next morning Jimmy is sitting with Lieutenant Paul Harrington, the kind of boss he wished he had with the cops, at the Sip ’N Soda in Southampton, just down from Town Hall. It’s a place out of the past, including Jimmy’s, 1960s or earlier, with its old-fashioned counter and fountains and homemade ice cream and tiled floor. They’re at a small table outside, facing 27A. Harrington has apologized to Jimmy for not meeting him earlier, but one of the perks of retirement is being a late sleeper for the first time in his life.

“You’re telling me that Jackson told you that Sonny Blum himself was running these guys?” Harrington asks.

“Word for word, practically.”

Harrington laughs. “Have you seen any of the videos of the poor bastard from a few years ago? One time they found him wandering one of the streets near that fortress he lives in, over there in Garden City, wearing what looked like one of Vincent the Chin’s old bathrobes. Remember that poor bastard? Mr. Vincent Gigante himself. Brother of a priest. Not that it helped him much when his brain turned to oatmeal.”

Harrington is having an honest-to-Christ egg cream because they still serve them at Sip ’N Soda. For the life of him, Jimmy can’t remember the last time he saw somebody with an egg cream in front of them.

“My opinion?” Harrington says. “Just thinking out loud here? I think somebody is trying to send you down a rabbit hole.”

Jimmy’s quiet now, watching the light traffic pass by in front of them. Maybe he should have gone for an egg cream. He used to love them as a kid, sitting in places like this on the Grand Concourse.

“Maybe you’re right,” Jimmy says. “Maybe Salvatore and Licata got stupid at the end the way Champi did and pissed off the wrong people.”

Harrington takes out the straw and licks the end of it. “You know what they say, detective. The jails aren’t full of smart people.”

“Maybe I should have looked harder at Blum before this,” Jimmy says. “His name did keep popping up.”

“Maybe so. We always suspected Sonny had to own cops to stay clear of the cops, even if he was out in Long Island. Maybe he owned some of ours, too.”

“You mentioned the Chin before,” Jimmy says, as he waves off Harrington’s attempt to grab the check. “He only got by with faking he was crazy until they finally nailed his ass on racketeering and conspiracy once and for all.”

“Died in prison.”

“Maybe I can arrange for Sonny to do the same,” Jimmy says.

They’re quiet again. Two old cops, a long way from the big city, both of them still not ready to let go. Both of them still wanting to get the bad guys.

“You’re really going after him?” Harrington asks.

“Hard.”

“Even if it gets you killed?”

“Maybe I’m the crazy one,” Jimmy says.

“Whatever you need from me,” Harrington says. “You remember that. If Blum was buying cops, I want a piece of that old man, too.”