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THAT SAME MORNING, AROUND the same time, Robby Sassoon is standing in Allen Reese’s kitchen when Reese comes walking in there from his backyard.

The view of the ocean, Robby thinks, even from here is something, well, to die for .

“What the fuck is this?” Reese snaps when he sees Robby standing there.

Reese is tall, wide, bald, tanned, and clearly scared shitless at this intruder in an otherwise empty house, even if the intruder is dressed as impeccably as Robby is and, Reese has to see, is as good-looking as he is, the sunlight streaming through nearly a wall of kitchen windows glinting off Robby’s earring.

Robby has even added a little extra bronzer today, though his color isn’t nearly as deep or brown as Reese’s.

“A powerful real estate mogul like yourself should have a better alarm system, Allen,” Robby says.

Robby watches Reese’s attitude change now, can see it even in a setting like this, Reese still desperate to come across as a big guy. It’s something they all fall back on, that pose, even when they’re scared little boys.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Reese says. “Who are you and what are you doing in my fucking house?”

“Well, if you put some thought to it, Allen, you can probably figure out what I’m doing here, even if who I am is irrelevant to that particular discussion.”

And, just like that, Robby can see some of the rope go out of Allen Reese, along with some air, almost like exhaust. He’s wearing a faded blue Giants T-shirt and cargo shorts.

He seems to be in pretty good shape, all in all.

The stubble of his beard is white, making him likely older than he looks at first glance.

The face, Robby sees as he studies it more closely, is too unlined. Either filler or Botox.

Or both.

“Sonny sent you,” Reese says.

“You’ve been a bad boy,” Robby says.

“I was just surprised because you don’t look …”

“You mean, look the part?” Robby chuckles. “Quite the contrary. This is a part I was born to play.”

Robby takes another look around. The kitchen is big enough to serve as a three-car garage, the morning sun really like a spotlight in here. Or like high beams fixed squarely on Allen Reese, real estate agent to the rich and the famous.

“Listen, maybe you know this and maybe you don’t,” Reese says. “But Bobby Salvatore and I had an understanding, because he knew that in the end I was always good for the money, even when I was a little late.”

“Until, sad to say, Bobby was the one who was a bad boy,” Robby says. “May he now rest in God’s heavenly embrace.”

“Hold on,” Reese says nervously. “It was Sonny who had that done?”

“That’s another discussion for another day,” Robby says. “And besides, I’m not here to talk about Mr. Salvatore. I’m here to talk about money you owe to Mr. Blum that is long past due.”

“I know you don’t want to hear this and Sonny probably doesn’t either,” Reese says.

“But it was a slower summer than usual out here. On top of that, I’m still digging myself out from a divorce.

And on top of that, I had a very bad first month of the pro football season. And that you probably do know.”

“Fascinating,” Robby says. “But where’s our money?”

Before Reese can answer, Robby moves quickly across the kitchen until they’re on opposite sides of a granite-topped counter.

The huge stove is to Reese’s left. He must have been preparing to make himself breakfast before he went outside.

There’s a frying pan on the stove, the eggs are out, a container of milk.

Cooking spray. Salt and pepper shakers. American cheese.

Even an onion. Doing it up big himself. Man of the people.

Reese is wary now that Robby has closed the distance between them, his senses suddenly on high alert.

“You’re obviously aware of the sum of money that has brought me here today,” Robby says.

“Million,” Reese mumbles.

“Actually, Allen, that was last week’s number,” Robby says. “Now it’s two.”

“What … no !” Reese says, as if in pain.

“It’s like they say in the commercials,” Robby says. “Late fees do apply in this case.”

“Sonny just up and doubled it without telling me?”

“Cost of doing business,” Robby says. “This isn’t Draft-Kings. And so you know? I’m the one telling you.”

“Just give me a couple more days, and I’ll have it,” Reese says.

“End of this day,” Robby says. “Or the number will double again.” Robby’s shoulders casually rise and fall. “Funny world, right?”

“When you’re gone I’ll start making some calls,” Reese says.

“You’ve got a bad habit, Allen,” Robby says, almost soothingly, “to go along with a big ego and a big mouth. That is a very difficult combination, in Mr. Blum’s eyes.”

Reese tries to laugh, but the sound that comes out of his throat makes it sound as if he’s choking.

“Sonny’s not going to kill me,” he says. “You don’t kill a golden goose.”

“Or a bronzed one, in your case,” Robby says.

“Whatever.”

“Think of it another way,” Robby says. “He won’t kill you yet. ”

Then before Allen Reese can move, Robby grabs the frying pan and smashes it down violently on Reese’s left hand.

Reese screams in pain, shocked at what’s just happened to him, but before he can move back, Robby holds down his arm and smashes the hand again.

Then Robby calmly places the pan back on the stove as Reese stares down at his hand, shaking there on the counter.

“I mean, Allen, who the hell is betting on the fucking Giants this season?” Robby asks.

Reese, still staring at his hand, somehow responds as if Robby has just asked a serious question.

“The points were just too good to pass up …”

Robby puts a finger to his lips.

“Stop talking now, before I break your other hand,” Robby says.

Then he reaches over, pats Allen Reese on his bald head, and leaves.