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He even considers tossing it.
He hasn’t been checking for a tail since he left Jane’s. And good luck to anybody who might have been following him in a car. He’s taken back roads to Southampton to stay away from the afternoon westward grind of people who work out here but can’t afford to live out here.
Only now he gets this alert.
To him it means somebody is trying to tail him, just not in a car.
Once the phone is turned off, it feels the way it did in the old days when Jimmy was running down a lead with just a gun and badge. Sometimes the only person who knew where he might be headed was Mickey Dunne, and sometimes not even Mickey, when Jimmy needed to be on the move.
He makes the turn onto Gin Lane and is approaching Mc-Kenzie’s house when he sees the automatic gate at the end of thedriveway pull back and a black Tesla spraying gravel in all directions as it ramps up from zero to sixty.
As the car flies past him, he spots Edmund McKenzie behind the wheel.
Jimmy turns around in the closest driveway and follows the fancy car when it makes its first turn away from the ocean. Something else from the old days.
Follow that car.
Jesus, those really were the days, no matter how old he feels missing them the way he does and thinking about them as often as he does.
But when he looks in the rearview mirror, he’s smiling back at himself.
He makes the same turns heading for the village, from a distance, that the Tesla does.
Hell, yeah.
Follow that car.
Old school.
Even if he’s chasing an electric car.
EIGHTY-FIVE
DANNY ESPOSITO AND I are at Jimmy’s bar.
Still no word from him.
“I can call the boys back at our office and see if they can try to track him off the cell towers out here, when you can find a goddamn tower,” Esposito says. “Maybe have them do that triangulation thing they do.”
“I just keep telling myself that there must be a reason why he doesn’t want to be located,” I say, “and why he hasn’t reached out.”
We’re at the end of the bar, my usual seat when it’s Jimmy and me. The Yankee game is on the TV closest to us. Esposito tells me that he’s not much for baseball, he’s more of a hockey guy.
“I knew eventually there had to be something about you I’d find appealing,” I tell him.
He drinks some of his beer, licks foam off his upper lip, and grins. “I’m getting this feeling—you must be getting the same one—that there’s a bond starting to form here.”
“Fight it.”
While we sip our beers, I catch him up on Licata, McKenzie, Eric Jacobson. My ex. Even my brief trip to the hospital.
“You lead a very rich and full life,” Esposito says.
“Full of what?”
He runs a hand through his wavy hair. “How motivated might McKenzie and the Jacobson kid be to jam up your client if they got the chance?”
“Very.”
