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FORTY-TWO

Jimmy

JIMMY FOLLOWS DAVE WOLK when he leaves the bar.

He offered to call the guy an Uber, not sure how many tequilas Wolk had downed. If Wolk has some kind of accident between Jimmy’s bar and his next stop, Jimmy will face the consequences, but Wolk says screw Uber, it takes a lot more Patrón than he’s thrown down tonight to get him shit-faced.

Jimmy wants to know more about Dave Wolk, how his activities relate to Nick Morelli and Jacobson’s kid. In the morning, he plans to put in a call to Organized Crime, see what they know about Bobby Salvatore’s crime-family tree. In Jimmy’s distant memory, he heard that Salvatore had come up in Sonny Blum’s outfit on Long Island before branching out. But he can’t remember the details.

He doesn’t like not remembering. But then who the hell does?

Wolk parked in back. Before he left the bar, Jimmy got Wolk’s number and put it into his own phone, telling him he’d be in touch. The last thing he asks Wolk is where he’s spending most of his time these days.

“Wherever the best waves are out here, brother,” Wolk says.

“Hang ten,” Jimmy says sarcastically, and then watches the beat-up Corolla pull out onto Bay Street.

Wolk said something about a crash pad in Napeague. Maybe he’s heading there right now. Jimmy doesn’t care. He’s got nothing but time, so he puts a car in between him and Wolk as the Corolla bears left off Division and onto 114. Wolk is taking it slow, probably worried about getting pulled over no matter how well he thinks he handles his booze. They all think they have it under control once they walk out of the bar, until they don’t.

When he gets to East Hampton, he doesn’t go through town, makes his way around it instead, to Town Lane and then Abraham’s Path, not far from Jane’s house, and then a left to put him on Route 27 eastbound.

No cars between Jimmy and the Corolla now.

Wolk has picked up a little speed.

They go past the Lobster Roll on the ocean side of 27, where they once filmed some TV show about Hamptons couples screwing around on each other. Jimmy has never watched the show, the only reason he even knows the thing exists is because he once dated a woman who worked on it before she dumped him for the lighting director.

Maybe it was the assistant director.

Jimmy can’t remember that either.

Eventually they’re moving up on the place where 27 forks, and Old Montauk Highway takes you to Gurney’s Inn.

Wolk bears right. Maybe Wolk’s headed there, Jimmy’s aware that there’s always a good bar scene at Gurney’s, older than the drunk-stupid teenage crowd in Montauk village.

Before they get to Gurney’s, Wolk makes a left, heading up into one of the neighborhoods on the north side of Old Montauk, not on the ocean, but close enough.

Jimmy stops at the corner of Fir Lane and Elm, watches Wolk pull up in front of a house on Elm.

Jimmy can’t see the number. He can come back in the morning and find out later, and find out who owns it, if it matters. Maybe this is the crash pad if Jimmy needs to find Wolk again.

Wolk doesn’t even get out of the car, just waits on the street for a small woman to get into the passenger side of the Corolla.

The woman with the guy Jimmy is sure was Licata was small.

Wolk turns around in the driveway. Jimmy has already pulled into the driveway closest to him, shutting off the engine and lights of his sporty new Jetta convertible.

Wolk goes right past him. By the time he makes the turn onto Old Montauk, heading west, Jimmy is behind him, at a decent distance, keeping his headlights off for the time being.

Wolk floors it.

I’ve been made, Jimmy thinks. By a tequila-swigging, Jesus-looking beach bum.

Then Wolk is back on the highway, but not for long, making a hard right onto a dirt road into the dunes, just before what Jimmy knows is the turn for Napeague Harbor.

Fuck it.

The beach bum has officially annoyed him.

Jimmy follows him into the dunes, opening his glove compartment as he does, pulling out the Glock 9 he keeps in there.

Now he sees the Corolla’s headlights go off as Wolk slows to a crawl and heads deeper into the dunes.

Jimmy thinks: I’ve come this far.

He is about to get out of the car and follow them on foot when he sees headlights back on, lighting up the sky, Wolk having turned back around toward the highway. Maybe they got lost. Maybe Wolk thought this was the road leading to the harbor. Or got stood up.

Wolk isn’t heading for the highway.

He stops his car about fifty yards from Jimmy’s. Then Jimmy—too late to get out of the Jetta or turn it back on and throw it into reverse—sees the small woman get out and leave the front passenger door open.

She disappears behind it.

Not for long.

When she straightens up, Jimmy sees the gun in her hand.

He is throwing himself across the front seat as the bullet hits the windshield.