“And now,” he says, “I have worked my way back to the big, bad city.”
Bernstein is slowly working on a Virgin Mary that has a lot going on in it, huge celery stalk and olives and even a jalapeño, salt and pepper around the rim of the glass. Jimmy is sipping black coffee.
“Whydidyou agree to meet with me?” Jimmy asks him.
“I like famous people,” he says. “And, boy, are you and Jane Smith famous now. When you reached out to me, I thought, ‘Wow, a chance to sit down with a real celebrity.’”
“Cut the shit,” Jimmy says.
“You first,” Jeb Bernstein says.
Jimmy looks around the room. It’s a good New York room. He remembers seeing the actor Liam Neeson here a couple of times. Back in the old days, somebody’d told him, Neeson had a place in the neighborhood.
“I have a source,” Jimmy says, “and a pretty good one, who swears that despite your denials, you are now moving up fast in Sonny Blum’s organization.”
“Who’s Sonny Blum?” Bernstein asks innocently.
Jimmy nods. “The last guy who tried to fade me with a line like that ended up getting his house shot up like it was the toll booth inThe Godfather.” Jimmy grins at him. “Since we are speaking of godfather types.”
“You need better sources, Jimmy.”
There’s something about the way he says his name that makes Jimmy want to reach across the table and give him a good smack.
“I’m in real estate,” Bernstein says.
“For what,” Jimmy says, “burial plots?”
“Yours or mine?” Bernstein asks, not missing a beat.
“I wasn’t aware that Sonny Blum’s interests ranged to real estate,” Jimmy says.
“That sounds like something you should take up with Mr. Blum.”
“I would,” Jimmy says. “But he’s a hard man to get a hold of.”
“You seem to know more about him, and his interests, than I do,” Bernstein says.
“Maybe you should google him,” Jimmy says.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, or if I’ve wasted yourtime,” Bernstein says. “But it sounds as if you should really be talking to Mr. Blum, and not me.”
“I will eventually,” Jimmy says.
“You sure about that?” Bernstein asks.
“Very.”
Jimmy stands.
“Wait,” Bernstein says. “You’re not staying for lunch? I hear the cheeseburger here is practically, well, to die for.”
Jimmy leans down now, both palms flat on the table, his face close to Bernstein’s. He can hear and feel the area around them suddenly get much quieter, as if someone in Café Luxembourg has hit a mute button.
“Kid,” Jimmy says, “you’re not going to last a year with Sonny Blum.”
Bernstein doesn’t lean back, or flinch even slightly, just keeps his eyes (almost more black than blue) locked on Jimmy’s.
“Wanna bet?” Bernstein says.
