Seventy-Three Jimmy

SEVENTY-THREE

Jimmy

JIMMY IS OUT OF Thomas McKenzie's office downtown by noon, and out east a little after four o'clock, having stopped to pick up Jane before heading over to Rob Jacobson's rental house.

"I could've handled this myself," Jimmy says as he pulls into Jacobson's driveway.

"Just think of me as being here for quality control," Jane says.

"Heavy on the control, I gather."

"What was your first clue?" Jane asks.

When Jacobson opens the door, he's smiling as if Jimmy and Jane are the first to arrive at the party.

"Look at us!" he says. "The band is back together!"

Jimmy steps past Jane and shoves Jacobson hard, two hands to the chest, knocking him back toward the living room and nearly on his ass.

"Jimmy," Jane says quietly. "You promised."

"I lied."

Jacobson collects himself, but backs away from Jimmy, hands out in front of him, just in case Jimmy charges him again.

"Hey," he says. "Hey, Cunniff. Take a chill pill, okay? What's this all about?"

"Anthony Licata. Joe Champi. Edmund McKenzie. Everything you've held back on them and freaking held back on the day your father and a young girl, who clearly had shit taste in men, died at your fancy digs on Central Park West. That seems to be the day that people maybe started cleaning up for you. From what I can tell, they never stopped until the cleaner-uppers were Jane and me."

Jane puts a hand on Jimmy's arm. He ignores it and keeps moving toward Jacobson, who keeps backing up, seemingly willing in the moment to back all the way to the ocean if it means getting out of Jimmy's reach.

"That pretty much sets the table," Jimmy says to Rob Jacobson. "I think we can throw it open to questions now."