Page 39

Robby spared Anthony Licata that day by telling him to get off the boat once it was out on the water because the hit was coming.

By then Robby knew that Licata, who had stopped being useful to Sonny Blum, had about the same life expectancy as a container of milk left out in the sun.

What he didn’t know is that it would be the lawyer who got it done with Licata in Montauk.

That was the night when Robby realized what a worthy adversary Jane Smith was and why, when the time came, he wanted her to know that he was the one getting it done with her.

Unless her cancer became even more aggressive and spoiled all his fun.

As always, Robby is dressed in business formal, even on a long outdoor walk like this.

Dark suit, one of many that look exactly like this, white shirt with just the right amount of starch, dark tie.

The only concession he has made to being on the path used for walking and biking and jogging is his pair of black Cole Haan oxfords, with the air soles that make them feel as soft as sneakers while still looking very sharp.

But in almost all matters, Robby Sassoon is a practical man.

The kid Bernstein looks as if he’s just come from his one o’clock class.

But Robby knows, just off the time he’s spent with Jeb Bernstein and the research he’s done on him, that the kid is a natural for this world, and the kind of work he’s doing, and the man for whom he’s doing it.

Bernstein, just by the way he dresses, is far more concerned with appearances than a thug like Salvatore was. But every bit as much of a killer.

“What did you think of Cunniff?” Robby asks.

“He’d bother me more if I knew he was going to be around longer than he actually is,” Bernstein says.

In the distance, Robby can make out the RFK Bridge, even if he still refuses to call it that, one of those who won’t give up calling it the Triboro, the way New Yorkers won’t give in and call the 59th Street Bridge the Ed Koch.

The renaming of the bridges is one more thing in the modern world that offends Robby Sassoon’s sense of order.

Soon they’d be coming for the Brooklyn Bridge, too, wait and see.

“Trust me,” Robby says. “Cunniff isn’t to be underestimated any more than the lawyer is.”

He hears Bernstein chuckle. “Nor are we, of course.”

Like we’re a team, Robby thinks. Like we’re Jane Smith and Jimmy Cunniff.

Until we’re not.

Traffic on the FDR is backed up both ways.

It is another reason why Robby Sassoon does as much walking as he does when he’s in the city, always giving himself time to get from one place to another.

Or one job to another. He doesn’t need the stress of Midtown traffic, the unpredictability of it, the jarring sound of car horns.

All he wants is order in his life, and in his work.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Bernstein says finally. “How did your meeting with Martin Elian go?”

Robby smiles to himself as he recalls the look on Elian’s face that night at his restaurant. He looked so scared when he realized who Robby was and who had sent him that it was as if Robby had picked up a steak knife and put it to his throat.

“We now have his full attention in regard to his payment responsibilities,” Robby says, “and, more importantly, his payment schedule.”

They walk a few yards in silence before Robby asks, “I’m genuinely curious: Why do people continue to avail themselves of your services when they have all those legal options now?”

“That’s a very good question,” Bernstein says.

“For one thing, and unless you fuck around the way somebody like Martin Elian has, bets with us are settled on a weekly basis, or monthly, or whatever we’ve worked out.

For another, you don’t have to navigate those systems advertised incessantly on TV that seem to grow more complicated by the hour.

And finally, we, as bookmakers, believe we offer a better and far less taxed product, at the same time we allow our customers to float debt.

” He chuckles again. “Until they abuse that privilege, or think we’ve somehow forgotten them. ”

“I’m told that the big juice for the online places is crazy,” Robby says.

“It is,” Bernstein says. “But you want to know what’s really the best part, at least on our end? We’ve now got the same cops and even judges who used to try to bust our chops laying down action with us left and right. If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em.”

“Some world,” Robby says.

“Isn’t it, though,” Bernstein says. “And you’re talking to a guy who used to work at a place, the NFL, that used to try to act like gambling was the devil.”

“You ready to head back?” Robby says.

“Sure,” Bernstein says, and then tells Robby why he wanted to take this walk. He has a new job for him, a request from Mr. Blum that they both know isn’t a request at all.

“You know why we understand each other?” Robby says. “It’s because we’re both gentlemen. Bobby Salvatore was a lowlife and a scumbag, one who refused to keep up with the times.”

“So you can take care of this matter with her?” Bernstein says.

“I might even buy flowers first.”

“How soon?”

“Today.”

“Seriously?” Jeb Bernstein asks.

“Why put off until tomorrow when you can kill today?” Robby Sassoon says.

Bernstein probably thinks it is a gesture of camaraderie, or even friendship, when Robby reaches over and pats him on the head. He has no idea that it’s Robby’s calling card, but then no one does, until it’s too late.