Page 13

THIRTEEN

Jimmy

CRAIG JACKSON WALKS OUTSIDE to 55th Street, saying he was going to make some calls to see if Edmund McKenzie might be in town and making his usual round of clubs.

While Jimmy waits for him to come back, he looks around and remembers the days when a little guy named Frankie Ribondo ran the back room like a small country; when some nights you had to wait for the men’s room, with its old stand-up urinals, because two of Sinatra’s guys were posted outside while he was inside.

It takes less than ten minutes for Jackson to announce he has managed to locate Edmund McKenzie, reminding Jimmy for the second time tonight what a world-class detective he is.

“Swear to God, a reporter from Page Six who I help out sometimes tracks him on her phone, so she’s got a better sense of where the stupid might break out on a given night. It hasn’t yet tonight, but McKenzie is currently pregaming at Bemelmans.”

The Bemelmans Bar at the Carlyle.

Jane took Jimmy there a couple of times when they were celebrating big wins in court, back when Jane still thought she would keep winning forever, maybe at everything except staying married.

In the cab uptown Jimmy finds a couple of pictures of Mc-Kenzie on his phone, from Page Six, appropriately enough. And spots him right away at a small corner table facing the piano, checking his phone, highball glass in front of him, full.

McKenzie gives Jimmy a bored look when Jimmy sits down across from him. Calmly puts his phone down before taking a big pull on his drink.

“I’m saving that seat for my date.”

“Good to know. But what you need to know is that I’m a cop and there are matters we need to discuss.”

“Care to show me your badge?”

“Care to empty your pockets?”

McKenzie’s eyes widen, in mock fear. “Oh no. Am I about to be arrested for possession, officer? What year do you think this is?”

McKenzie takes another sip of his drink. “So, what’s got you all worked up? My old parking tickets?”

“I’m taking another look at the day your buddy Rob’s old man died and took that kid Carey Watson with him,” Jimmy says. “And what I’m wondering is if you were really gone from the town house before the shooting started.”

“Who says I was there?”

“I say.”

“And all this time later, you’re here because of that shit?” McKenzie said. “You lose a bet?”

The piano player has just eased into “Stardust.” Jimmy idly wonders how many times he’s played it in bars like this, with hardly anybody really listening, or caring.

“You should be talking to your client, tough guy. Hear the guy’s a real killer.”

“My client?” Jimmy grins. “So you know who I am. Tough guy.”

“I’ve got cable and everything.”

“I’m told you and Rob were close once.”

“ Were being the operative word. You want to know how close we are now? Fuck him, that’s how close.”

“What happened to a beautiful friendship?”

McKenzie checks his phone again. “Long story.”

Jimmy leans forward, grinning at him. “Actually, Eddie, I just now learned the story. Or at least the good parts about how he got you in a frame for a rape you say he committed. Do I have that right?”

“As rain.” He drinks. “What other interesting things have you heard about me?”

“That you were going to get him back even if it took the rest of your life.”

McKenzie brightens. “Like framing him for a triple homicide, or even two? Well, wouldn’t that be a dream? Listen, I was actually kind of a hot-shit science whiz when I was still at Princeton. But that was before I went back to my two real majors: drinking and girls.”

“What really did happen that day at Jacobson’s place when that girl died, along with Jacobson’s old man?”

“You mean what do I think might have happened after I was long gone? I think Rob went crazy and killed them both and then the scene got staged by a cop who went on his payroll that day and didn’t get off till he was the one who got shot to death by that lawyer you work for.” He grins. “Whew, a mouthful like that makes me thirsty.”

He drinks.

He’s no longer grinning when he puts his glass back down.

“You think you know so much about me, Cunniff. You don’t know jack shit. Or who I know. Or what happens if I make a call about you thinking you can come here and jam me up like this.”

Before Jimmy can respond, a young woman about half Mc-Kenzie’s age, if that, appears at the table, wearing something Jimmy would call a dress if there were more of it.

“Amber,” McKenzie says.

“Eddie,” she whines. “I would have been here already if you sent the car like you promised.”

McKenzie acts as if he hasn’t heard and stands. So does Jimmy.

“Now beat it,” McKenzie says to him. “Before I make that call.”

Jimmy thinks about grabbing him by the lapels of the skinny, too-short blazer he’s wearing and bouncing him into the wall. But there’s no point, at least not tonight. Jimmy doesn’t want to be the one on Page Six tomorrow morning for busting up Edmund McKenzie and the Bemelmans Bar.

He’s on his way out the door when McKenzie calls out to him. “Hey, Cunniff.”

Jimmy makes a half turn.

“How many times are the two of you going to let him get away with murder? Asking for a friend.”