One Hundred Six Jimmy

ONE HUNDRED SIX

Jimmy

SONNY BLUM'S NAME KEEPS coming up, here and there, has from the beginning. Jimmy Cunniff knows why and knows maybe he should have red-flagged it sooner. Bobby Salvatore worked for Blum before going out on his own, if not with Sonny's approval, at least with his consent. Gambling was never a big part of Sonny's operation.

Loan sharking sure was, though, and bad girls, and extortion, and forcing his way into legitimate businesses, and all-around racketeering, and the ever-popular waste management companies. Maybe Sonny didn't view Salvatore as a competitor, or threat, until maybe he did.

Jimmy was so fixed on Champi, and then Licata, the immediate threats, that he never paid enough attention to Blum over there on the edges of this thing, maybe because he bought into the notion that the old man was supposed to be drooling on himself.

None of the mob cops could pinpoint the time when Bobby Salvatore went off on his own. Maybe Salvatore was allowed to go off on his own because Sonny Blum was getting a cut of his profits, was a partner to him the way Salvatore was with somebody like Allen Reese. Maybe they were all in bed together, in one big landfill-type pile.

The last time there were any pictures of Blum, or any video, was when he was seen walking down Seventh Street in Garden City in his bathrobe, mumbling to himself, a few miles from a mansion that the guys from Organized Crime Control said was as well guarded as the White House.

But maybe Detective Craig Jackson's intel was wrong about Sonny Blum being the one behind the curtain. Maybe Blum's mind really has turned to oatmeal, and he isn't capable of masterminding anything these days beyond trips to the bathroom.

But there are still all these connections.

"Lot of pearls," Mickey Dunne used to say when they'd be working a case that threatened to turn their brains to mush. "Our job is to make a necklace out of them."

It's Jimmy's job now, because he isn't going to let Mickey Dunne's murder stay in Open Unsolved forever. So Jimmy has been working the phones hard the past few days. Gone back to the city for face-to-face time with some of his OCC contacts. Because Sonny Blum is from the Island, Danny Esposito has been working with his Organized Crime task force.

The Jewish Don, they called Sonny Blum in a Times piece a few years ago. In the photographs they ran of the old man, he looks like a taller Mel Brooks.

Jimmy has turned the bar into his office tonight, laptop set up under the television set at his corner. He tried to call Jane a few hours ago but got sent straight to voicemail. Probably on a date with Ben Kalinsky.

"How ya doin'?" Jimmy hears now to his left.

He turns. A guy in a dark navy suit, white shirt, no tie, has taken the open stool next to him. Maybe in his forties, maybe a little older. Nice tan. That kind of beard stubble that somehow has been turned into a modern art form. Hair short on the side, a little bit of a fade on top, some gray in it. Small smile for Jimmy, from dark blue eyes that seem to match the suit.

"Do I know you?" Jimmy asks.

"Nah."

"How can I help you then?" He points at the laptop. "Kind of working here."

"I'm actually here to help you."

The guy's still smiling. Lot of teeth. He turns to Kenny Stanton and orders a Crown Royal, neat. When Kenny sets the glass down in front of him, he takes a small sip of it right away.

"Help me with what?" Jimmy says. "Or maybe I should ask, with who?"

"Sonny."