Streb wasn’t happy. It was almost like his forehead had grown more wrinkles during this meeting. Taking out a ledger from his desk, he wrote out a check, signed with a flourish that belied his mood. He tore it from the ledger, threw it at Jimmy.
It was blood money. But Jimmy had earned it.
He tucked the check into his pocket, rose from his chair.
“Our association is done,” he said.
As Jimmy approached the door, he heard Streb call him back.
“I didn’t kill her,” he said.
“I hope so,” Jimmy stated, and then, his voice emphatic, added, “That narrows the field down to three.”
“See, you still want to know who did it.”
Jimmy shook his head, then left. The rarified air felt better when he reached the street. The real New York he knew.
* * * *
Well, now what?
First, he deposited the che
