Seventy-Eight

SEVENTY-EIGHT

HIS EYES OPEN BEFORE I have a chance to call 911, or Dr. Ben Kalinsky.

It means his eyes open before I kick him awake, which I am briefly and sorely tempted to do.

But one thing between us hasn't changed:

I'm better than he is.

So what I do instead is get him to his feet. Groggy as he is, he realizes it's me, and though I'm not in top shape I'm still strong enough to get him into the living room and finally half lower, half drop him onto the couch.

Rip watches the whole thing, low-growling at him from the kitchen door. Clearly, Rip has a much better sense of my ex than I once did.

"Thank you," Martin manages, his voice thick.

He rubs the back of his neck then, blinks his eyes a few times.

"They drugged me," he says.

It's happened to Jimmy twice. Once at Gregg McCall's house and once at Jimmy's own house.

" Who drugged you?"

"Friends of a friend, I guess you could say." He weakly offers a hand shrug.

"Sent by your friend Anthony Licata?"

Martin opens his mouth but then closes it just as quickly, suddenly seeming far more alert at the mention of Licata's name.

"I saw you with him outside your newest restaurant, Martin. I saw you ride off with him. I know who he is and I know what he does. And what I think he's done. Along with a growing sense of what he's capable of."

He shakes his head. "I can't talk about him."

He sounds just like Rob Jacobson.

"Can't or won't?"

"Perhaps a little bit of both."

"Oh, don't be an ass," I snap at him. "You think it's one of those crazy coincidences that they dumped you on my doorstep? Leave a note on your body that says ‘Undivided.' Wake the fuck up, Martin."

He seems stunned by the outburst, even though he heard worse language from me in the old days.

"Before we continue, might I have a drink? Whiskey if you have it."

"Sure," I say. "It comes with the turndown service."

I go into the kitchen, get the bottle of Jameson back out, pour a decent amount into a shot glass, and put the glass in front of him on the coffee table.

I don't pour one for myself.

Rip has finally stopped growling. I reserve the right to start growling again myself if Martin Elian tries to feed me a line of bullshit, always one of his specialties.

"Anthony called and said he needed to talk to me, and that he'd send a car. Two men I'd never met before came with the car. They didn't introduce themselves. Or make much conversation. I asked where we were going and the driver said we were going to see the boss. Out east, he said. Then he told me to sit back and enjoy the ride because it was going to take a while. Before long we were on the LIE. Anthony had mentioned a place out here, Montauk maybe, or the town right before it."

"Napeague."

"Yes, I think that's it."

"I don't need a house tour, Martin. What I need to know is what you're doing in business with somebody like Licata in the first place. Or is he just one more poor choice you've made in your life."

"Oh, don't be na?ve, Jane," Martin says, a little snap in his own voice. "Unless you're somehow confusing the restaurant business in New York City with church."

In this moment, it is like the old days, and we're about to start swinging away in the center of the ring. You hang around with Jimmy Cunniff long enough, you end up making a lot of boxing analogies. Just about all of them generally apply.

I smile and shake my head, sadly. "I've always loved it, Martin, when people from out of town think they need to explain the city to me. So you're going to have to be more specific about how you ended up connected enough to Licata that you'd agree to take a ride like that."

"It started when I needed money," he says.

And drinks.

"And all the banks were closed at the time? What are the odds?"

He puts his glass down, leans back, rubs his eyes. "It was during COVID. I had already started the process of opening the sister restaurant when the world slammed shut. I tried to keep everything going by doing takeout at Café Elian. It was my way of furloughing as few people as possible."

I idly notice how faint his French accent sounds. But little need for him to turn on the charm for me.

"Like a lot of other restaurant owners in the city, no matter what I did, I was still drowning."

"And Licata popped out of a bottle like a genie?"

"Sarcasm never suited you."

"Still working on that."

"More sarcasm."

"Why didn't you ask one of your rich customers for help?"

"Because, chérie, none of those customers got rich backing failing restaurants during a pandemic."

Now that he's talking, I think about going back for the bottle and just leaving it on the table, not wanting to slow his roll.

"But," he continues, "one of my rich customers did suggest there might be someone who could throw me a life preserver, at least in the short run. He described him as a broker for people in situations like mine."

"You care to tell me the customer's name?"

"Edmund McKenzie."

And I think: If my world gets any smaller, I'll be able to fit it inside Martin's empty shot glass.

"Even though I got my money," Martin Elian says, "I have been paying ever since."

"With interest."

He nods. "He never called himself a silent partner. Referred to himself instead as a member of my board. With what he said were full voting privileges."

"Do you think Licata was the one calling the shots?"

He shakes his head. "I never thought so. It had to be someone doing the actual bankrolling. But the one time I asked, he grinned and said that if he told me, he might have to kill me."

He holds up his empty glass. I go get the bottle and leave it in front of him.

"Everything was fine until the last couple of months, because the new restaurant, after an excellent beginning, began to underproduce. So I reached out to Anthony for more money. Which he gave me."

"Have you paid him back?"

"That's the thing," he says. "I paid him back everything I owed him the night you saw me with him. With all the interest. In cash. So, while I was surprised that he wanted to see me tonight, I never considered saying no."

"Neither borrow nor a lender be, at least not with the First National Bank of Anthony Licata," I say. "Polonius said that, by the way, in Hamlet. "

He closes his eyes. "Of course he did."

"Sorry, sometimes I can't help myself," I say. "Please continue."

"Thank you so much," Jimmy says. But he grins. "We were just passing through East Hampton when the man sitting next to me in the back seat reached around and I felt the jab. The next thing I know, I'm here."

"They never told you why he wanted to see you?"

"They did not."

It's past two in the morning and I'm tired, more than somewhat. Maybe exhausted suddenly that my ex-husband's problems have become my problems. Or that mine have become his. Either way. And that one of the connecting lines on my grease board now runs right through Martin Elian.

Maybe this is Licata's last warning for me to stay out of his business.

Martin leans forward now. "How much trouble do you think I'm in?"

"How did he leave it with you the other night, when you thought your business with him had concluded?"

"He just told me that I'd hear from him if he was the one who ever needed a favor."

Now I nod.

"He's not after you, Martin. He's after me, for reasons I don't fully understand. At least not yet."

"So what do I do now?"

"Do you still need his money?"

"I no longer want his money."

"Then maybe you're done with him."

"And if I'm not?"

"I'm not sure what to tell you. Other than this is what happens when you lie down with dogs."

I turn toward mine. "Sorry, Rip."

Martin says, "You mean dogs like your current client."

I smile quite genuinely now. "Touché," I say. "That's French, by the way."

"What are you going to do about Licata? You obviously know that he's dangerous."

"So am I, Martin. You should know that as well as anyone."

I stand.

"Mind if I take the couch for the night?" Martin asks.

I get out of my chair and walk over to him and lean down, gently kissing his cheek. His scent, even now, is one I remember, vividly.

"I used to love you so much, Martin," I whisper.

He looks up at me, the affection in his eyes quite real.

"I love you, mon ange, " he says.

My angel. Blast from the past.

He starts to reach up to pull me closer to him.

I back away.

"Call an Uber," I tell him.