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I can’t lose my voice.
Not yet.
“The pictures you’re going to take today, what do you want them to show?”
“No growth of the biggest tumor on your neck,” she says.
“And this will please you.”
“To no end.”
“Hey,” I say, “maybe I can be the one to kick cancer’s ass.”
“This isn’t a game,” Sam says.
“You sure about that?”
An hour later, I am out of my hospital gown and in my suit and on my way back to Riverhead when the clerk of the court, Johnny Angelini, the man I call Johnny Angel, calls.
“It’s about your witness,” he says. “The one we found for you and served like you asked.”
It had taken some doing, by the court and by Jimmy Cunniff. But we had, as Jimmy likes to say, got ’er done.
“What about her?”
“She has just informed Mr. Ahearn and Judge Prentice that upon further review, like the football refs say, she has decided to ignore your subpoena.”
“I assume that you have all pointed out to her that subpoenas aren’t like Evites to which you can RSVP no.”
“Where are you right now?” he says.
“Water Mill.”
“Then you can tell her yourself when you get here.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
If I couldn’t kick cancer’s ass today, I could at least kick somebody’s.
“You sound almost happy,” the clerk of the court says.
“What can I tell you? Life is good.”
Seventy-Five
Jimmy
HE KNEW THE BIGcop was Champi before he showed the super the picture. Two detectives would have shown up here if the investigation was legit, not one.
Champi probably kept his own badge when he faked his death. Or had a replica made that looked real enough. Who knows? What Jimmy does know is that if Champi came here, he was looking for something. Maybe something that would help Jimmy tie him to Mickey’s death.
Something else that makes Jimmy smile today: a cop who’s supposed to be dead looking for something that will connect him to the cop he might’ve just killed. Jimmy tells Jane the same thing, all the time, about almost everything:
You can’t make this shit up.
Jimmy’s shocked to see a treadmill in a corner of the living room once he’s inside, wondering how many miles Mickey actually put on it. Mickey kept talking about getting a gym membership, all the years Jimmy knew him, but never did. Maybe the treadmill is as close as he ever came.
What fits the room much better is the half full bottle of Jameson on the coffee table. Empty glass next to it. Yesterday’sDaily Newsnext to that. A pizza box on the counter in the kitchen. Jimmy makes a quick tour—it’s actually smaller than he expected. Not that big an apartment for what Mickey was probably paying for the address. Bed not made. Jeans slung over a chair in the bedroom.
