Page 17 of Hard to Kill

Jackson smiles again. “Somehow it managed to magically disappear.”

“Seems like there was a lot of that going around.”

“Ya think?”

“You’re telling me that McKenzie might have had a fixer in the department, too?” Jimmy asks.

“Or maybe Sonny Blum did, if he still had his hooks into McKenzie’s old man.”

“They didn’t used to call it Fun City for nothing,” Jimmy says to Craig Jackson.

THIRTEEN

Jimmy

CRAIG JACKSON WALKS OUTSIDE to 55th Street, saying he was going to make some calls to see if Edmund McKenzie might be in town and making his usual round of clubs.

While Jimmy waits for him to come back, he looks around and remembers the days when a little guy named Frankie Ribondo ran the back room like a small country; when some nights you had to wait for the men’s room, with its old stand-up urinals, because two of Sinatra’s guys were posted outside while he was inside.

It takes less than ten minutes for Jackson to announce he has managed to locate Edmund McKenzie, reminding Jimmy for the second time tonight what a world-class detective he is.

“Swear to God, a reporter from Page Six who I help out sometimes tracks him on her phone, so she’s got a better sense of where the stupid might break out on a given night. It hasn’t yet tonight, but McKenzie is currently pregaming at Bemelmans.”

The Bemelmans Bar at the Carlyle.

Jane took Jimmy there a couple of times when they were celebrating big wins in court, back when Jane still thought she would keep winning forever, maybe at everything except staying married.

In the cab uptown Jimmy finds a couple of pictures of Mc-Kenzie on his phone, from Page Six, appropriately enough. And spots him right away at a small corner table facing the piano, checking his phone, highball glass in front of him, full.

McKenzie gives Jimmy a bored look when Jimmy sits down across from him. Calmly puts his phone down before taking a big pull on his drink.

“I’m saving that seat for my date.”

“Good to know. But what you need to know is that I’m a cop and there are matters we need to discuss.”

“Care to show me your badge?”

“Care to empty your pockets?”

McKenzie’s eyes widen, in mock fear. “Oh no. Am I about to be arrested for possession, officer? What year do you think this is?”

McKenzie takes another sip of his drink. “So, what’s got you all worked up? My old parking tickets?”

“I’m taking another look at the day your buddy Rob’s old man died and took that kid Carey Watson with him,” Jimmy says. “And what I’m wondering is if you were really gone from the town house before the shooting started.”

“Who says I was there?”

“I say.”

“And all this time later, you’re here because ofthatshit?” McKenzie said. “You lose a bet?”

The piano player has just eased into “Stardust.” Jimmy idly wonders how many times he’s played it in bars like this, with hardly anybody really listening, or caring.

“You should be talking to your client, tough guy. Hear the guy’s a real killer.”

“My client?” Jimmy grins. “So you know who I am. Tough guy.”

“I’ve got cable and everything.”

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