Fifty-Four

FIFTY-FOUR

IN EAST HAMPTON, ALLEN Reese, who is big and fit and brown and bald, greets me at the door as if he's been expecting me, even though I didn't call first.

I'm feeling more than a little salty today.

"I've actually been wanting to meet you," Reese says as he walks me through a living room that opens into a sunroom and finally a back patio, the two of us having passed what feels like a Met's worth of art. And not the New York Mets.

Some Hamptons homes have private beaches. Allen Reese somehow seems to have arranged a private ocean.

"I'm actually not all that interesting," I tell him.

"To me you are," he says. "Put me down as one more person out here wondering why in the world you'd defend a prick like Rob Jacobson."

"But my client speaks so highly of you."

"Well, yeah, but from behind bars," Reese says.

Reese makes a gesture now that takes in the back lawn, the dunes, the water, everything from heaven on down. "It's not much, but we call it home," he says, and then laughs, as if he's just amused the hell out of himself. I suspect it happens a lot.

We both sit in expensive deck chairs. There is a setup for iced tea, with two glasses. Maybe he doesn't want to get caught short when it's time to play host.

"My ex-husband cooked for you here the other night."

"Marty? Yeah, he told me the two of you had been married."

Never until this moment had I heard him called Marty. The nickname is, I'm sure, a way for Reese to make him sound like the help.

"After the first or second course of all that cutesy-poo food," Reese continues, "I wanted to point at the grill and ask him for a couple of well-done burgers with bacon and cheese."

"I'm curious," I say. "Whose idea was it to have him come out?"

"My wife's, who do you think?"

He pours us both iced tea without asking what I want in mine, puts my tall glass in front of me, drinks down half of his and smacks his lips.

"So, I finally get to meet the great Jane Smith," he says.

He finishes his iced tea in another swallow. "So, what can I do for you?"

"You can tell me about your relationship with Bobby Salvatore, for starters."

He doesn't change expression, just pours himself more iced tea, drinks some. Smiles. Salesman at heart.

"Not much to tell. He's just one of my many and rather colorful acquaintances. I collect interesting people at this house."

"Lucky you," I say.

"An old baseball guy once said that luck is the residue of design."

"Branch Rickey," I say.

"I'm impressed."

I let that go.

"I'll try to bumper-sticker this for you, Allen. Bobby Salvatore keeps wandering in and out of my case. Which really means in and out of my life, and uninvited. You call him colorful. I call him a criminal. Which may or not make you a criminal as well, at least by association."

He nods. "I've heard about what a mouth you have on you."

I angle my chair so I'm facing him now, tearing myself away from the spectacular view.

"Bobby Salvatore was the bookie for Hank Carson, whom your friend Rob Jacobson is accused of murdering, along with Hank's wife and daughter. He was the bookie for Carl Parsons, also deceased, husband and father to the two Elises. Also dead. In addition, he is uncle to another criminal and world-class punk named Nick Morelli."

I reach for my iced tea and drink. It's very good. I always forget to add mint. "How am I doing?"

"Are we getting to the place where this has anything to do with me?"

"We are, as a matter of fact."

"Thank God you're not billing me," he says. "Christ, you lawyers talk the way fish swim."

I move my chair a little closer to his. "Here's what I know about you and Mr. Salvatore, without talking too much. I know that you were on your way to being the king of real estate out here way back in 2008, a time when you were attached at the hip to Bear Stearns." I shake my head sadly. "Also deceased. But then everything came crashing down on you and a whole country full of big guys like you. I know that when the mortgage crisis hit, your problems suddenly became their problems. And when the shylocks at Bear Stearns realized you couldn't cover your sudden and impressive debt, they told you that your business was about to become their business."

Danny Esposito did some digging and discovered that Allen Reese and Bobby Salvatore have been business partners for quite some time. He shared his intel with Jimmy, who immediately called to share it with me.

As I tell Reese, I see something change in his eyes, the way Rob Jacobson's eyes always change when he doesn't like something he's hearing from me. The look is fairly reptilian. Guys like this can only shed so much of their skin, no matter how rich they are.

"Is that all of it?"

"Not quite," I say. "When you couldn't find a bank to bail you out, Bobby Salvatore, ever impervious to market fluctuations, did."

Reese stands now, so he's suddenly towering above me. His face has reddened. He is breathing hard.

"Before I show you out," he says, "explain to me what any of this has to do with your prick client?"

It hurts my neck staring up at him. So I stand, too, moving back out of his air space, toward the railing behind me.

"I keep asking myself who benefits the most when Rob Jacobson's business craters the way it has. Everybody knows that his former friend Gus Hennessy has benefited mightily with his own real estate firm. But not nearly as mightily as you have."

"Okay, now we really are done here."

"Rob keeps saying he was set up," I say. "You know who could handle something like that no problem? Your friend, Bobby Salvatore."

"I told you he was an acquaintance, nothing more."

"Sure. Go with that."

He briskly leads me back toward the front door, to the point where I'm nearly jogging my way back through the living room to keep up with him.

But when I reach to open the door, he holds it shut.

"You are messing with the wrong people," Reese says. "All in the name of somebody who's getting exactly what he deserves."

He's still holding the door shut.

"I am going to give you a piece of free advice, even though I hate to give anything away," Reese says. "If I were you, I'd be careful about saying any of this bullshit about me to anybody else. Or have it get back to me. Or to Bobby Salvatore."

The look is even more feral now.

"Is that a threat?" I ask when he finally does open the door.

"Call it an appraisal contingency," Allen Reese says before he slams the big door behind me.