“Marie,” says Clarence, “you got to get Dante to give Tom a call. Tom used to be a heck of a ballplayer. Now he’s a heck of a lawyer. But he can’t help Dante if Dante won’t let him.”
Marie stares at me, her face not revealing a thing. “This neighborhood is full of folks who used to be great ballplayers,” she says.
Chapter 22. Loco
ON A SLEEPY midweek afternoon in the teeming metropolis that is downtown Montauk, Hugo Lindgren sits at the counter of John’s Pancake House, killing time like only a cop can, turning a free cup of coffee into a two-hour paid vacation.
Since Lindgren’s all alone at the counter-the only “customer” in the whole place, in fact-I do the sociable thing and take the stool beside him. Now, how many other drug dealers would make a gesture like that?
“Loco,” he mutters.
As I sit, luminously green-eyed Erin Case comes over bearing a nearly empty pot of coffee.
“Good afternoon, darlin’,” says Erin in her still-strong Ulster brogue. “What can I get you?”
“I’d love a double-vanilla latte decaf, if it’s not any trouble.”
“No trouble at all, darlin’. Got it right here,” says Erin, filling my mug with the dregs of the pot in her right hand. “You said double-vanilla latte decaf, right?”
“Must be my lucky day.”
“Every day’s your lucky day, darlin’!”
Pancake John is getting ready to close up shop and flip the sign, so when Erin excuses herself to wipe the maple syrup off the red Naugahyde booths, me and Lindgren shyly return to our so-called coffee. And when Erin stoops under a table to pick up a fallen menu, I slide him my Newsday.