Allen Grimes was the man behind “Grimes on Crimes,” the long-standing and exceedingly popular column in the New York Gazette that chronicled everything in the city that helped keep Mace purchases, gun-permit applications, and criminal defense attorney fees at all-time highs.

We’d first met through Elizabeth. Fittingly, her initial description of Grimes remains the best I’ve heard. “His driver’s license says he’s fifty, his libido thinks he’s twenty, and his liver is convinced he’s Keith Richards.”

Way to nail it, Lizzie.

I followed Grimes to the back of the bar and an empty table out of earshot that wobbled despite a collection of sugar packets and a matchbook wedged under one leg.

“So how have you been?” I asked.

“You can skip the foreplay,” he said. “What do you need?”

Fair enough. “An introduction.”

“To who?”

“Frank Brunetti,” I said.

Grimes laughed from his gut. “You’re joking, right? You give me way too much credit.”

“Do I?”

“I’ve interviewed the guy a couple of times,” he said. “We’re hardly friends.”

“He trusts you, though.”

“Brunetti doesn’t trust anyone.”

“You know what I mean,” I said. “You’re the only press he’s ever spoken to. The word for that is respect.”

Grimes finished what was left of his whiskey. He pushed the glass aside, folding his arms on the table. “Now you want me to risk that respect on your behalf?”

“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

“I’m sure it is,” he said. “I’m sure it’s very, very important.”

He stared at me. I stared back. This was the part where I was supposed to explain why I needed a sit-down, as it were, with the head of the five families, the pope of New York. Only I wasn’t saying anything.

“I can’t tell you why. Not yet,” I said finally. “Except this. You’d also be doing Brunetti a favor.”

“How’s that?”

“Again, I can’t tell you.”

“You’re not exactly winning me over, Reinhart.”

“I know. But you’ll understand why soon. And one way or another you’re going to have the jump on one hell of a story.”

That perked him up a bit. “Why did you bury the lede?”

“I didn’t want you to think I was playing you.”

“You’re still playing me,” he said.

“What can I say? I’m not good at subtle.”

Grimes looked down at his empty glass, smiling. “You know, three more whiskeys from now you would’ve had much better odds.”

He wasn’t saying yes, but he hadn’t told me no. “In that case, the next rounds are on me,” I said.