Page 5

Jimmy

NO MATTER HOW MANY times Jimmy has told Jane that Jacobson isn’t worth it, he can’t break through.

And without confronting her, he can’t for the life of him figure why she’d risk whatever time she might have left, because of the fucking cancer, on the likes of this guy, whether he’s innocent or not.

Jimmy shouldn’t have NYPD plates. But he does.

He used to go out with a cute young woman from the Manhattan DMV, and she still takes care of him, this being one of his few relationships with women that didn’t end in a dumpster fire.

So he parks directly in front of Jacobson’s Upper West Side town house and walks up the steps and rings the doorbell, jabbing it hard enough to drive it right through the wall.

A girl in a tight T-shirt lettered TALENTLESS and even tighter black exercise pants answers the door. She’s barefoot. It’s the middle of the day but the kid has what looks to be a glass of white wine in her hand.

“Can I help you?” she asks.

“Sure,” Jimmy says. “We can start with you telling me how old you are.”

“How old are you?”

Jimmy nods, ignores the question. “Dalton or Spence?”

Two Manhattan schools for snots like this.

“What are you,” she asks, “the truant officer?”

She starts to shut the door. Jimmy holds it open.

“I’ll do you one better,” Jimmy says, pulling out his wallet and flashing one of his fake badges. “I’m a police officer.”

“Shit,” she says, then whips her head around and yells, “Rob, there’s a cop here to see you.”

While she’s still looking up toward the second floor, Jimmy walks past her and into the foyer. A few seconds later, he sees Rob Jacobson making his way down the stairs as the girl runs past him the other way, spilling some of her wine as she does.

Jacobson is only wearing baggy gym shorts. He’s got chicken legs, but surprises Jimmy with what are clearly trainer abs.

“Well, if it isn’t fake detective Cunniff,” Jacobson says pleasantly, and salutes.

But as soon as he reaches the landing, Jimmy quickly crosses the distance between them, grabs a fistful of the front of the shorts, and gives him a good squeeze.

Rob Jacobson makes a sound like a chew toy.

“I know,” Jimmy says, still holding on. “I’m excited to see you, too.”

Jimmy nearly knocks Jacobson down as he shoves him ahead and to the left into the living room, one that looks almost as big as the bar Jimmy owns in Sag Harbor, finally shoving him into the first soft piece of furniture they come to.

The bracelet, Jimmy sees, is still attached to Jacobson’s ankle. The light on it is blinking, which means it’s running out of battery power.

No shit, Jimmy thinks.

“You know being here violates your parole, right?” Jimmy says. “And can land you back in a jail cell for the duration of the trial. You know that, too, don’t you?”

Jacobson gives a little shrug to his shoulders, and grins, trying to look as cocky as ever.

It continues to make Jimmy Cunniff feel as if his own balls are being squeezed, practically on a daily basis, that he’s working for the kind of lowlife he used to happily put away.

The only difference with this one is his bank account.

“I just needed to get away for a few hours and blow off some steam,” Jacobson says. “Have a little fun.”

“With another high school girl?” Jimmy asks him. “She is in high school, isn’t she?”

Jacobson grins. “They both are, as a matter of fact,” he says. “But, hey, they’re both going to graduate with honors.”

“Maybe they can finally nail you on nailing underage girls once and for all,” Jimmy says.

“They’re both eighteen,” Jacobson says. He grins again. “Unless they used a fake ID with me.”

“What a guy,” Jimmy says.

He resists the urge, and not for the first time, to slap the smirk right off his face, and permanently.

They both know he won’t fire him if he does, or Jane.

Jane slapped him one time and she’s still here.

The reason is simple enough: Rob Jacobson needs both of them, whether he likes it or not.

By now, you could write that in the stars.

“How’d you get around the bracelet?” Jimmy asks.

“I know a hacker,” Jacobson says.

“Of course you do.”

“He’s not cheap, I can tell you that,” Jacobson says. “But worth every penny. He got into the county system that creates the geofence. What he was doing was only stopgap, but for a day, he could expand my travel area for a hundred miles or so without a notification pinging somewhere.”

“What a guy,” Jimmy says again.

“The hacker guy?”

“No, you,” Jimmy says. “Jane keeps laying it on the line for you, which happens to include even laying her life on the line. She gets you bail when nobody thought that was even remotely possible. And this is the thanks you give her.”

“Hey, I love Janie. I even said so on the radio a little while ago.”

Jimmy stands. “Go get some clothes on. I’ll drive you back out east myself.”

“Somehow you seem to keep forgetting that you work for me and not the other way around,” Jacobson says.

Jimmy walks over to the couch and leans down, close enough that his nose is practically touching Rob Jacobson’s perfect nose.

“Do I have to greet you all over again?” he says in a quiet voice. “Just nod if you’re hearing me.”

Jacobson nods.

“And before we leave,” Jimmy says, still right on top of him, “I need you to do me a favor with those girls upstairs.”

“And what might that be?”

“Try not to kill them,” Jimmy says.

They’re just through the Midtown Tunnel when there’s an incoming call on Jimmy’s phone. He sees on his dashboard screen that it’s from Jane.

But when he answers he hears a woman’s voice saying, “This is Norma Banks.”

“You’re the jury consultant,” Jimmy says. “But why are you calling me on Jane’s phone?”

“She told me to call you,” she says. “We just got to the hospital.”