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ROBBY SASSOON HAS DECIDED to treat himself to a night at the Topping Rose House in Bridgehampton, and a meal at the Jean-Georges restaurant there.

The high-end inn, serving farm-to-table food, was originally owned by a famous New York City chef named Tom Colicchio. Though Colicchio sold the place a few years ago, Robby knows from experience that the quality remains at the superb level he requires when celebrating a job well done.

Now, before heading downstairs to dinner, he sits in his suite, following the reports about Allen Reese, well-known Hamptons real estate tycoon, shot to death in his own home, the lurid coverage making anybody reading it think that an oceanfront home in Southampton is suddenly less safe than if Reese had lived in the old South Bronx.

Robby was in no mood for any further lying from Reese today, or even tedious begging for his life once Reese realized why Robby had returned.

Robby had been watching the house for several hours and had determined that Reese was alone.

Finally, Robby came in through the unlocked patio door, found Reese in his study watching CNBC, put the first bullet in his forehead, then another in the chest.

He then used Reese’s own phone—a nice touch, he thinks, almost whimsical—to call the Southampton police. Now he’s smiling as he moves from website to website, pleased with how they all quoted him correctly.

Pity that no one will ever know who the clever bastard really is.

His cell phone, turned up loud, is playing “No Good Deed,” from Wicked, one of his favorite shows, when Sonny Blum calls, forcing him to pause the song.

“The assbird try to give you some bullshit about the money?” Blum asks.

“He didn’t get the chance,” Robby says. “We both know that once he got this far behind, he wasn’t going to pay. He could’ve put his hands on the money, but he elected not to. He’s supposed to have been such a smart businessman and didn’t understand the cost of doing business with us.”

“I gotta admit, I got a kick out of you calling it in,” Blum says.

“You have to keep things fresh in my line of work,” he says, “so you don’t get stale.”

Blum chuckles. “You really are a funny bastard.”

There’s a pause.

“I forgot to ask you,” Robby says. “How’d your meet with Cunniff go?”

“I’ll know if I got through to him when I see if he and the lawyer are still trying to fuck with me.”

“And if they continue to do that?”

“ You’ll know what to do.”

Robby feels a smile slowly crossing his lips. “Send me into the game, coach,” he says.

When Blum ends the call, Robby hits Play, and now he’s singing along.

“One more disaster, I can add to my generous supply …”

Robby opens up the menu they’ve left in the room, just to see if they’ve added anything since the last time he was here, when he spent the night after Bobby Salvatore’s unfortunate and untimely demise.

He is smiling again when he sees that the butternut minestrone is still listed with the appetizers, he’s been thinking about it almost since he put the second bullet into Allen Reese.

Then his voice is rising suddenly, like he’s playing to the balcony at the Gershwin, almost like he’s singing for his supper.

“Let his blood leave no stain …”

Well, Robby thinks, impossible to have everything .

He walks over to the minibar now and pours himself a glass of Scotch.

Mr. Reese had an accident.

And people keep saying irony is dead.