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NINETY-ONE

JIMMY AND DANNY ESPOSITO are waiting for me at the Coast Guard station in Montauk. Chief Larry Calabrese from the East Hampton police is there. The Coast Guard has search-and-rescue boats out in the water already. So does Montauk Marine Patrol.

I see one television truck in the parking lot, from Channel 12, the Long Island station, along with a handful of other reporters, one of whom I recognize from the East Hampton Star. They’re waiting for Calabrese and Coast Guard senior chief petty officer Robbie MacDonald to hold a briefing.

Jimmy has just finished telling me why he thinks the other passenger on the boat was Anthony Licata.

“We checked with the harbor master over at Watch Hill,” Jimmy says.

“Rhode Island,” Esposito adds.

“I know where Watch Hill is, hotshot. What you probably don’t know is that Taylor Swift has a place over there.”

“I keep forgetting the real hotshot is you,” Esposito says.

“The harbor master happened to be on the dock when Salvatore was ready to leave,” Jimmy continues. “Salvatore has a place over there, too, Rhode Island still being a goombah hotspot. Anyway, Salvatore is with another guy. He introduces him as his buddy Anthony. Big guy, the harbor master says. Older. Kind of a raspy voice, he says.” Jimmy grins. “Wearing a Rangers cap.”

“Salvatore likes to pilot his own boat,” Esposito says. “Forty-five footer. A Hinckley. He must’ve been on his way to Reese’s party. Then kaboom . The search-and-rescuers are out there looking to pick up the pieces. Literally.”

“No stops between Watch Hill and here?” I ask them.

“There’s this thing called AIS ship tracking, for boats,” Jimmy says. “Salvatore’s boat was hooked up to it, for when he’d make the trip alone, which he’d do sometimes. If you look at a map, it was pretty much a straight shot from Block Island Sound to kaboom .”

I’m looking out at the water and thinking about the time Nick Morelli’s fishing boat was found without him. Salvatore’s nephew. Who’d staged his own death on the water. Maybe it ran in the family.

But how could Salvatore and Licata—or just one of them—stage something like this without having to swim for it out on the ocean?

“There must’ve been a lifeboat attached, right?” I ask.

“Larry Calabrese says one of the first search-and-rescue boats had some engine trouble and came back,” Jimmy says. “From Montauk Marine Patrol. Guy said that they found part of the lifeboat still attached to the hull.”

Jimmy takes his phone out of his pocket and reads. “Organized crime figure presumed dead in boat explosion off Montauk.” He puts the phone away. “Good news travels faster than ever these days.”

“And not a wet eye in the place,” Danny Esposito adds.

“I really really wanted Salvatore to be the big boss of the whole thing,” I say.

“And I still want a flat belly,” Jimmy says.

“But unless he and Licata turn out to be world-class swimmers…” I grin at Jimmy and Esposito and say, “They’re sleeping with the fishes.”

I shrug and put up my hands in surrender. “Low-hanging fruit.”

We’re standing on the dock in front of the station. All of us looking out at the water now. We can’t see the search boats. But they’re out there somewhere, presumably with the remains of Bobby Salvatore and Anthony Licata, who first crossed paths when Salvatore was sixteen.

“What did Salvatore say to you that day at the horse show?” Jimmy asks me.

“He said, and I’m quoting here, ‘It’s not me.’”

“Maybe he was telling the truth for once in his miserable life,” Jimmy says.