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“Which means that old man Parsons was doing business with the mob, too,” Jimmy says.
“Small world, isn’t it?” Esposito says.
Jimmy tells Esposito that his beer is most definitely on the house now, as he finally does get around to clinking his glass against Danny Esposito’s.
Finally, and with a flourish, Esposito takes a folded-up piece of paper out of his wallet and smooths it out on the bar in front of Jimmy.
“What’s this?”
“This, my friend, is Artie’s old client list,” Esposito says. “Or at least as much of it as we could put together after the fact.”
There’s one other name on it besides Carl Parsons that Jimmy recognizes.
Jumps right off the page, like they say.
Edmund McKenzie.
THIRTY-FIVE
BRIGID INFORMS ME THAT she is flying back to Switzerland, to the Meier Clinic, tonight.
If I wasn’t so scared and angry at her truly awful news, I’d ask her if she’s looked into the two of us signing up on their family plan.
But Iamscared and angry.
For both of us.
So, I don’t make any jokes because there is nothing funny about this.
It’s an aggressive form of non-Hodgkins lymphoma for Brigid, by the way.
“The official name, in my current circumstances, is refractory lymphoma,” she says.
“I know what they call it, Brigid. I’ve done as much research on your cancer as I have my own. If this is a course in cancer, I’m passing with flying colors.”
I smile at her. It’s taken a while, but we’ve both finally stopped crying.
If only for now.
“It’s also known as relapsed lymphoma, when it comes back,” I continue.
“Look at you,” Brigid says. “And Dad always called me the smart one.”
Brigid is separated from Chris, who used to be the principal at Pierson High and is now a headmaster at some fancy prep school in Connecticut. They separated during Rob Jacobson’s first trial once he found out about the affair between Brigid and Rob. Brigid says she called Chris last night to tell him about her return visit to Meier. He offered to go with her. As hurt as he is—he’s told me how she hurt him—he still loves her.
People love Brigid even when they don’t.
“Mom’s cancer killed both her and Pop in the end, like they both got hit with the same bullet,” I say now. “That’s not going to happen to us, sis.”
She smiles back at me, but it’s a forced smile made out of hardly anything at all. It’s still enough to make me remember why she wasn’t just the smart one, but also the pretty one, when we were growing up.
The pretty one even now, as thin as she is.
“I’ll drink to that,” she says.
Inside the house, I open a bottle of white wine, because I can’t think of one good reason not to.
We both drink. Rip is next to Brigid on the couch. She’s stroking his neck. He looks blissful. Rip loves her, too.
