Page 57

FIFTY-SEVEN

Jimmy

AFTER THE SHOOTOUT AT Napeague Harbor, Jimmy’s Jetta should have been tagged do-not-resuscitate. Miraculously, he’ll be picking it up from the shop in a couple of days. For now he drives out from the trauma center in his rented Hyundai, toward Montauk.

He retraces the route he took the night he was following that prick Dave Wolk, takes the same right on Old Montauk, pulls up in front of the house on Elm where Wolk had picked up the woman. No lights on inside. No car in the driveway. No sign of life. When he gets out of the Hyundai, he discovers there’s no mail in the box. The front door is locked. Same with the sliding doors in back. And all the windows.

It just means that the beating he owes Wolk, the Big Kahuna, will have to wait.

He drives home and gets undressed and carefully lowers himself into bed, where he can only sleep if he keeps pillows on both sides to keep him from rolling over on his ribs.

In the morning, he is at the East Hampton Town Hall, first customer in the Town Clerk’s office. An old girlfriend who works there will know how to sift through public records and find out who owns the house on Elm Lane. Jimmy was very good at most cop things. Paperwork was never one of his strong suits.

“Long time no see,” he says to Carole Gavin.

“Only if you count three and a half years as a long time.”

“You look good, Carole.”

She presses hand to heart. “Oh, thank you, Lord,” she says sarcastically. “He still thinks I look good.”

They eyeball each other silently, and awkwardly, until she relents and asks why he’s there.

“I need a favor.”

“Then you’ve unfortunately been directed to the wrong desk.”

“I need to know who owns a particular house in Montauk, because the other night somebody came out of it and then tried to kill me.”

“And sadly didn’t succeed.”

He knows he is just going to wear this. The bad ending between them was his fault. But then endings to his relationships usually were.

“Please, Carole,” Jimmy says. “It’s not just me who’s in danger. It’s Jane.”

Jane always got along with Carole, much better than with Jimmy’s ex-wives.

“I’m more worried about her than me,” he continues.

“Same,” Carole Gavin says. “And I don’t even know what the issue is.”

He gives her the address. She disappears into another office. Jimmy remains standing. It would hurt too much to lower himself into a chair and then have to lift himself out of it. It’s fast reaching the point where he’s convinced that his ribs are never going to heal.

When she comes back, she wordlessly hands him an official East Hampton Town Clerk envelope.

“You’re welcome,” she says, and walks away without another word.

He waits until he’s outside to open the envelope and look at the property and tax records inside.

He gently leans against the side of the rented car and whistles at the name he sees at the bottom of the printout.

“Well, I’ll be a sonofabitch,” he says.

The property owner is Anthony Licata.

Joe Champi’s old partner.

Speaking of sons of bitches.