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Eighty-Four
Jimmy
MICKEY WOULD ALWAYS SAY,every single time they thought they had a case rolled up, “Anything?”
Meaning, was anything still bothering Jimmy?
Maybe saying that it had been too easy. Or that they were still missing something.
That maybe they had the wrong guy.
That they hadn’t finished the job.
On the drive home after he says good night to Jane, Jimmy keeps asking himself the same question about what Jacobson told them tonight, about Jacobson’s history with Champi, pretty much since Jacobson’s old man had taken himself out:
What is still bothering him?
A lot, is what.
Say Champiisdead, this time for real. That can only mean there has to be a second hitter out there, unless Nick Morelli and Pat Palmer made themselves disappear, and Jacobson, even from jail, has somebody new making problems go away.
Jimmy had been so sure that it was Champi after Gregg McCall got gone without a trace. But what if thereissomebody else?
I need another drink,Jimmy thinks,with Mickey Dunne sitting next to me, listening while I talk things through, and seeing if he thinks I missed anything.
Jimmy doesn’t want to turn around and go back to the bar. But he doesn’t need to, either, because he’s brought the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle; it’s sitting right there on the seat next to him.
He doesn’t know if any bottle of bourbon should be worth so much.
“But I am,” he says as he pulls into his driveway.
The bullet hits him before he’s all the way out of the car.
Eighty-Five
I AM SITTING INthe living room with Rip the dog, who, to be fair, seems to be in better shape than I am these days.
There is still a police car stationed in front of my house each night. I keep telling Jimmy that I don’t need it, and he keeps telling me to leave it right where it is.
I know I should be tired, but I’m not. Maybe too much stimulation today, way too much going on, Palmer’s car ending up at the bottom of the cliffs, the trial, our jailhouse meeting with Rob Jacobson, with Jacobson telling us he had Champi taken out.
All prefaced the night before by Jimmy’s former partner being shot to death.
“Rip,” I say, “what a challenging and exciting life I lead. I am truly blessed.”
He looks at me expectantly the way he always does when I address him directly, as if I’ve just offered to go find him a bone, or a piece of meat.
I know myself well enough to know I’m not sleeping anytime soon. So I make myself a cup of an English decaf tea from Fortnum & Mason that Brigid gifted me last Christmas—my sister being a major tea nerd—back when she still liked me.
Brigid.
Still no word from her. I hope she’s getting better. Iprayshe’s getting better.
While I’m in the kitchen, I do get some treats for Rip, who really does look to be feeling better than he did when I took him in. But the last time Dr. Ben Kalinsky was over, he was the one giving Rip some treats, and pointed out that the dog’s eyes showed the early stages of cataracts.
“What can I do about that?” I asked.
“Don’t let him drive at night,” he said, cracking himself up. “I never get tired of that one. Kills me every time.”
