Forty-Eight

FORTY-EIGHT

JIMMY'S CAR HAS BEEN towed by a friend of theirs, Lenny Morrell, who owns a gas station on Springs Fireplace Road. By now I've driven Jimmy—at his request—to the office of Dr. Ben Kalinsky, who has X-rayed Jimmy and taped up his three cracked ribs, cleaned and bandaged the worst cuts to his forehead, and told him it's a miracle he doesn't need stitches.

When Ben tells Jimmy he's really going to need to take it easy for a few days, they both hear me snort.

"I'm sure you both have your reasons for not calling the police," Ben says.

"I don't want them to be the ones who find the guy driving the car," Jimmy says, "or Annie Oakley."

I grin at Ben. "He's always been very inner-directed."

"And extremely inner banged up," Ben says.

"I've already filed a report with a cop," Jimmy says. "Me."

I drive us back to my house, after Ben points out once again what a full and interesting life I'm leading. The sun is up by now. I tell Jimmy I have some pain pills he can borrow. I've been hoarding my own for a while. He says it only hurts when he laughs, and since none of this seems particularly funny, he'll be fine.

What I do give him is coffee enhanced by a healthy shot of the Kentucky Owl Straight Bourbon I keep in the house for him. It's not as pricey as Pappy Van Winkle. But not cheap, either.

Jimmy drinks some of his bourbon-laced coffee. He picks the mug up with his left hand and then gently places it back on the table, making sure to take care with even the smallest moves. I've been there. I broke two ribs playing college hockey and for the next month was worried about taking deep breaths and became more afraid of coughs and sneezes than I was of snakes.

Jimmy has awakened Detective Craig Jackson, asking him to find out anything and everything he can about Anthony Licata, and if he might have a female partner now that Joe Champi is among the departed.

Jimmy has the call on speaker.

"Anything else you need?" Jackson asks.

"You've always been a giver," Jimmy says, and ends the call.

Jimmy carefully raises his mug to his lips and drinks.

"I like your triple shot better than the kind you get at Starbucks," he says.

"Breakfast of former Golden Glove champions."

We sit in silence. I've told him I'll drive him home when he's ready. He says not yet.

He coughs now, nothing he can do to stop it, and bends over in pain, which I can see only makes things worse.

"You're supposed to be the sick one," he says when he straightens up. "You know that, right?"

"You're the one who keeps getting shot at."

"Trying to quit," he says. "But at least now I know I owe this woman, whoever the hell she is, a good slap."

Before I can respond, he grins. "Sorry, I know that sounds politically incorrect," Jimmy says. "Actually, I meant two slaps."

"A lot of bad people out there, JC. Circling us like buzzards."

"And multiplying like rabbits," he says.

I tell him that it must be the bourbon making him mix his metaphors. Then ask how he's going to get around after I drop him in North Haven, since I know the last thing he's going to do is take it easy. He says he's going to try to sleep for a couple of hours, then call a buddy who runs the Hertz place at the little East Hampton Airport and rent a car, and put it on Rob Jacobson's tab.

"Then what?" I ask after helping him up and into the Prius, giving him a pillow to put between him and the door.

"Then you don't want to know."

"Try me," I say.

"I'm about to get woke, or die trying," he says. "W-O-L-K."

"Even with broken ribs."

"It will make it more of a fair fight when I catch up with him."

"What if that woman is with him?"

"All the better," Jimmy says.