Thirty-Nine

THIRTY-NINE

THE BAR IS CROWDED because it's one of Jimmy's happy hours, drinks half price for the after-work crowd until six o'clock, even though it always seems to be a soft deadline once he gets to the top of the hour. Jimmy and his guest are at Jimmy's normal post, far end of the bar. There is some kind of late-afternoon ball game going on. Not the Yankees. But in Jimmy's view, any baseball is better than none.

"This is Dave Wolk," Jimmy says when I get to them.

I grin.

"Are you by any chance related to the son of God?"

He grins. "Not even by virgin birth."

"Actually, Dave's a thief," Jimmy says.

"Reformed," Wolk corrects him.

"There's an old football coach who used to say you are what your record says you are," Jimmy tells him.

Wolk grins again. "Well, then I'm not an adult thief, put it that way."

There's a distinct laid-back, surfer-dude vibe to him. Long hair, beard, deep tan. Dark eyes. Tall even sitting down. In his twenties, I'm guessing. MAIN BEACH T-shirt, cargo shorts, sandals.

"I'm Jane," I say, and put out my hand.

"Nice to meet you, Jane." Before I can do anything about it, he slides off his stool, ignores my outstretched hand, and hugs me.

"Dave a friend of yours?" I ask Jimmy.

"Call it a relationship that's suddenly evolving," Jimmy says. "It has come to my attention that Dave here broke into Elise Parsons's house a few months ago, even if he didn't get pinched for it."

"Allegedly broke in," Wolk says. He shrugs. "And none of the missing jewelry was ever found, if that makes you feel any better."

"You just said you were reformed," I tell him.

"I might've had a slip." Another grin. "Allegedly," he adds.

"Fascinating," I say.

Jimmy asks if I want that shot. I tell him I'll wait. I'm interested to hear why Jimmy wanted me to meet this guy.

"As it turns out," Jimmy says, "Dave seems to have had a history of B&Es when he was still trying to find himself as a teenager."

Wolk smiles at me now. Full wattage. Young and good-looking and cool and clearly proud of it. He reaches for his shot glass and empties it. Smacks his lips. "First of the day."

"I hate to interrupt," I say. "But would either of you care to explain what we're all doing here?"

"We are all of us here," Jimmy says, "because one of my many drinking buddies from the East Hampton cops told me about the alleged break-in, even though they couldn't pin it on him. And then my friend further tells me that the reason they wanted to talk to Dave was because him and a couple of his thrill-seeker pals used to do a lot of B&Es when they weren't surfing in the summer and chasing hardbodies in bikinis up and down the beach."

Wolk holds up his glass and gestures with it toward Emmett, who usually works days behind Jimmy's bar. Emmett pours more Patrón.

"I'm sure there's a point to all this, because I have to get home and start dinner."

"Almost there," Jimmy says, "I promise."

He loves it when he knows something that I don't. And he clearly does now.

"It was just fun," Wolk says. "Screwing with rich people for the pure, 200 proof fun of screwing with them. Taking a few of their toys. We had a way to fence a lot of shit, and so we were making decent money, which beat cutting fucking lawns. But getting in and getting out? I swear, it was a better rush than getting high. Until I was the one who got caught and ended up at juvie in Westbury for what was supposed to be my senior year."

"Your accomplices got away?"

"Let's just say that when the shit finally hit the fan, my boys didn't exactly embrace the concept of no smash-grabber left behind," Wolk says.

I turn to Jimmy. "Again, this all sounds fascinating. Truly. But what does it have to do with me? Or us?"

"Glad you asked. You need to ask him who his accomplices were on his teenage crime spree."

"Who'd you work with, Dave?"

"Well, Nick Morelli was the boss of us," Wolk says. "So I guess that technically I worked for him."

Boom.

"You know who he is, right?"

"I know who he is," I say. "Used to be dead, but apparently got over it."

"Wish he'd stayed dead," Wolk says, suddenly serious, verging on angry, no laid-back vibe now.

"No longer a fan?" I ask him.

"I used to think Nick was good crazy. He's not. He's just crazy. And dangerous."

"A danger to you?"

"To everybody."

We all let that settle. I have more questions about Morelli, but it's clear there's more to the story. You cross-examine enough witnesses in your life, you know better than to interrupt once they pick up a head of steam.

"Now tell her who the third musketeer was," Jimmy says to Wolk.

"Eric Jacobson," he says. I stare at him again. Speechless for the second time in a few minutes.

First Morelli. Now this.

"Rob Jacobson's son," I say.

"One and the same," Dave Wolk says.

"Jesus Christ," I say.