It was approaching summer, but this was cold, blustery, off-season food. It was exactly what I needed. After three cups of black coffee, I pushed my chair from the table and announced that I was going to talk to Volpi.
"You want me to come with you?"
"No, thanks, Mack."
"Well, don't do anything stupid. Keep your head. You hear me, Jack?"
"Listen to him," said my father, "the bleeding voice of reason."
For a second, I almost thought he was going to smile.
Chapter 11
SOMEONE MUST HAVE DRIVEN Peter's motorcycle to the house during the night. It sat in the driveway like a giant lizard warming itself in the sun. It was typical of Peter to go into hock for a rolling sculpture. Even if we got a fair price for it, we'd owe the bank a couple of thousand. But I had to admit, it was a thing of beauty, and the license plate got a smile out of me: 4NIC8. Yep, that was Peter.
I climbed into the old black pickup with mullen construction painted on the door and drove to the small brick building on 27 that houses the East Hampton Police Department. I parked next to Frank Volpi's black Jeep.
Tommy Harrison was the sergeant at the desk. He shook my hand and told me how sorry he was about Peter. "I liked your brother a lot, Jack."
"That's what I'm here to talk to Volpi about."
Harrison went back to get Volpi, then returned a couple of minutes later with a sheepish expression.
"The detective is a lot busier than I thought. He thinks he'll be tied up all afternoon."
"If it's okay, Tommy, I'll wait. It's important."
Forty minutes later the desk sergeant told me the same thing. I walked outside. Then I entered the headquarters of the East Hampton Police Department one more time. Through the back door.