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Robby has called ahead to tell Bernstein he’s coming, on his way back from Southampton and the visit he paid to Allen Reese.

“Making a list?” Robby asks as he sits down across the desk from Bernstein.

“And checking it twice,” Bernstein says.

Robby enjoys working with Jed Bernstein, even knowing he may have to kill him down the road. He just doesn’t know yet how far down the road.

It has lately become clear to them both that Sonny Blum has been methodically tying up loose ends—apart from the ones he’s had Robby eliminate entirely—in his business.

No one in Sonny’s orbit has come right out and said it, and certainly not Sonny himself, but Robby feels as if the old man is dying. And, if that’s really the case, he’s clearly made the determination that he’s not going to leave this world being owed money. By anyone.

This, Robby knows, is not his immediate concern, because what he is more concerned with presently is a much bigger picture:

Being the one to take over the business when Blum is gone.

Blum has no children. His two brothers are long since dead. There was a time when the people around Sonny thought that he treated Bobby Salvatore like a son, until Salvatore was viewed as a loose end, and then eliminated.

Robby feels himself smiling now, with a panoramic view of the big picture inside his head.

Why not me?

It’s something he’s been thinking more and more frequently.

Why not now?

To Robby, the entire drama, the way it’s playing out, reminds him at least a little bit of King Lear . Robby just doesn’t see it as a tragedy in the end, certainly not from his point of view, not if he plays things right.

“What’s on that list?” he asks. “Or should I say, who?”

Bernstein puts down his pencil. Robby really does like the way Jed Bernstein takes pride in his appearance, the way he presents himself, even if Bernstein is far too prepped out for Robby’s tastes, cashmere sweater and white shirt underneath.

There’s even a faint whiff of cologne between them in the office.

If Robby doesn’t miss his guess, and he’s rarely wrong about these things, it’s Frédéric Malle.

One of his own favorites. Over three hundred a bottle.

Another thing over which they can bond.

Just not for long.

“What I have here in front of me,” Bernstein says, “are Bobby Salvatore’s debtors.

” He makes a tsk tsk sound, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in disapproval.

“Having taken a deep dive into Bobby’s finances, it appears as if Mr. Salvatore was as late collecting as many of his clients were paying up. ”

“Unless they had paid in a timely fashion,” Robby says, “and it wasn’t reflected in Bobby’s bookkeeping.”

He smiles. “Perhaps ‘skimming’ should have been listed as his cause of death.”

Bernstein gets up now, walks over to his liquor cabinet, picks up a bottle of Hennessy Paradis, and pours them both a glass.

They clink glasses.

“To the good life,” Jed says.

“Or death,” Robby says, “as the case may be.”

When Bernstein sits back down, he asks, “How did it go with Reese?”

Robby flicks an imaginary piece of lint off the lapel of his black suit.

“I may have gotten a little overemotional,” he says.

Bernstein grins. “How overemotional?”

“Well,” Robby says, “in the short run it’s a good thing that Allen isn’t left-handed.”

Bernstein toasts him with his glass. “I’m just messing with you. I’m aware of what happened and so is Mr. Blum. Reese actually called and told me what you did to his hand. And by the way? I respect a man who takes pride in his work.” He pauses. “These people need to pay their debts.”

They drink to that and sit in silence for a few moments. Somewhere, maybe from the floor below, Robby can make out classical music playing.

“Do you ever think about what happens to this operation when Sonny is gone?” Bernstein asks finally.

“Often.”

“Do you think our employer has a successor in mind?” Bernstein asks. “Or does he want to just keep it all when he dies?”

“Good question,” Robby says, trying to sound as noncommittal as possible. “Sonny’s current circumstances remind me of King Lear .”

“You’re not going to believe this, but I saw Glenda Jackson of all people play the part at the Cort Theater a few years ago,” Bernstein says.

“Then I don’t have to tell you that Lear’s daughters didn’t get along too well.”

“Greedy bitches,” Bernstein says. Then grins. “But you and I get along extremely well.”

“Maybe it’s because we know where all the bodies are buried,” Robby Sassoon says.

Bernstein makes a small snorting noise. “You’ve buried enough of them.”

When their glasses are empty, Bernstein gets up, brings the bottle over, refills them.

“You ever wonder why Mr. Blum hasn’t just taken out Rob Jacobson?” he asks.

“Often,” Robby says again.

“He still acts as if he needs Jacobson, for some bizarre reason,” Bernstein says. “Or maybe even owes him. I’ve never had the balls to ask why.”

“Fortunately, I don’t owe Jacobson a thing,” Robby says.

“Nor do I,” Bernstein says.

Jed Bernstein throws down the last of his drink and stands.

“It’s going to be good being king,” he says.

For me, Robby thinks.