NEXT DAY, Jimmy suffers a massive coronary almost massive enough to kill him. He’s put in intensive care. Gabby and I travel the six miles from my place to Mount Sinai Brooklyn in record time. We find Jimmy in critical condition. He’s conscious but sinking like a sunset. At his bedside, he takes my hand. Feeling self-conscious, I return the gesture.
“On the bright side, you take early retirement,” I say.
“Planned it this way.” His voice travels on a puff of dry, stale air.
Jimmy releases my hand. With nothing more to say, I distract myself with the tubes and displays that monitor his condition.
Jimmy turns to Gabby. “Keep him in line, hon,” he says as if issuing a command. “Always getting in his own way.”
“Can’t help himself.”
“If ever a man needed saving…” he says, as if it’s a joke between them.
Gabby bends to give Jimmy a peck on the forehead. I do no such thing. “Be back as soon as we can. Rest, recover, return.”
“Rest and recover I can manage. Return? Not a chance. Now fuck-off, the both of you.”
In the corridor outside the ICU, we run into Jimmy's wife and eldest daughter. Eyes red-rimmed indicate to me they’ve been crying. Three years working under Jimmy, I’ve met Mrs. O’Neill only once before. The daughter, never.
By contrast, they hug Gabby as if she’s next-of-kin. They spill more tears. According to the doctors, Jimmy will survive. How well he recovers is TBD. Gabby says we’ll be back soon, as if we’re a couple. On the drive into Manhattan, we speak not a word.