“Or death,” Robby says, “as the case may be.”
When Bernstein sits back down, he asks, “How did it go with Reese?”
Robby flicks an imaginary piece of lint off the lapel of his black suit.
“I may have gotten a little overemotional,” he says.
Bernstein grins. “How overemotional?”
“Well,” Robby says, “in the short run it’s a good thing that Allen isn’t left-handed.”
Bernstein toasts him with his glass. “I’m just messing with you. I’m aware of what happened and so is Mr. Blum. Reese actually called and told me what you did to his hand. And by the way? I respect a man who takes pride in his work.” He pauses. “These people need to pay their debts.”
They drink to that and sit in silence for a few moments. Somewhere, maybe from the floor below, Robby can make out classical music playing.
“Do you ever think about what happens to this operation when Sonny is gone?” Bernstein asks finally.
“Often.”
“Do you think our employer has a successor in mind?” Bernstein asks. “Or does he want to just keep it all when he dies?”
“Good question,” Robby says, trying to sound as noncommittal as possible. “Sonny’s current circumstances remind me ofKing Lear.”
“You’re not going to believe this, but I saw Glenda Jackson of all people play the part at the Cort Theater a few years ago,” Bernstein says.
“Then I don’t have to tell you that Lear’s daughters didn’t get along too well.”
“Greedy bitches,” Bernstein says. Then grins. “But you and I get along extremely well.”
“Maybe it’s because we know where all the bodies are buried,” Robby Sassoon says.
Bernstein makes a small snorting noise. “You’ve buried enough of them.”
When their glasses are empty, Bernstein gets up, brings the bottle over, refills them.
“You ever wonder why Mr. Blum hasn’t just taken out Rob Jacobson?” he asks.
“Often,” Robby says again.
“He still acts as if he needs Jacobson, for some bizarre reason,” Bernstein says. “Or maybe even owes him. I’ve never had the balls to ask why.”
“Fortunately, I don’t owe Jacobson a thing,” Robby says.
“Nor do I,” Bernstein says.
Jed Bernstein throws down the last of his drink and stands.
“It’s going to be good being king,” he says.
For me,Robby thinks.
SIXTY-EIGHT
BEN ASKS WHAT HE can do to make me feel better, somehow find a way to end a shitty day on a positive note.
“Cure world hunger and cancer?” I say. “Not in that order, of course.”
“Absent that.”
