Page 68 of Hard to Kill

But a normal person would be doing what Brigid is doing, concentrating on my recovery, letting someone else defend Rob Jacobson, and taking myself and Jimmy out of the line of fire.

Fight for my life and not his.

I push off the wall and walk over to the mirror and smile into it.

“That’s what a normal person absolutely would do,” I say in the empty room. “But you’re not.”

FIFTY-FOUR

IN EAST HAMPTON, ALLEN Reese, who is big and fit and brown and bald, greets me at the door as if he’s been expecting me, even though I didn’t call first.

I’m feeling more than a little salty today.

“I’ve actually been wanting to meet you,” Reese says as he walks me through a living room that opens into a sunroom and finally a back patio, the two of us having passed what feels like a Met’s worth of art. And not the New York Mets.

Some Hamptons homes have private beaches. Allen Reese somehow seems to have arranged a private ocean.

“I’m actually not all that interesting,” I tell him.

“To me you are,” he says. “Put me down as one more person out here wondering why in the world you’d defend a prick like Rob Jacobson.”

“But my client speaks so highly of you.”

“Well, yeah, but from behind bars,” Reese says.

Reese makes a gesture now that takes in the back lawn, the dunes, the water, everything from heaven on down. “It’s not much, but we call it home,” he says, and then laughs, as if he’s just amused the hell out of himself. I suspect it happens a lot.

We both sit in expensive deck chairs. There is a setup foriced tea, with two glasses. Maybe he doesn’t want to get caught short when it’s time to play host.

“My ex-husband cooked for you here the other night.”

“Marty? Yeah, he told me the two of you had been married.”

Never until this moment had I heard him called Marty. The nickname is, I’m sure, a way for Reese to make him sound like the help.

“After the first or second course of all that cutesy-poo food,” Reese continues, “I wanted to point at the grill and ask him for a couple of well-done burgers with bacon and cheese.”

“I’m curious,” I say. “Whose idea was it to have him come out?”

“My wife’s, who do you think?”

He pours us both iced tea without asking what I want in mine, puts my tall glass in front of me, drinks down half of his and smacks his lips.

“So, I finally get to meet the great Jane Smith,” he says.

He finishes his iced tea in another swallow. “So, what can I do for you?”

“You can tell me about your relationship with Bobby Salvatore, for starters.”

He doesn’t change expression, just pours himself more iced tea, drinks some. Smiles. Salesman at heart.

“Not much to tell. He’s just one of my many and rather colorful acquaintances. I collect interesting people at this house.”

“Lucky you,” I say.

“An old baseball guy once said that luck is the residue of design.”

“Branch Rickey,” I say.

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