AFTER DISCONNECTING with Upton, I loiter in Hell’s Kitchen Park. At ten forty-five, I J-Walk through the intersection toward Bumpers Tavern and Bar. An outdoor seating area is full to overflowing with singles and couples drinking pitchers of beer and mix-drinks: Margaritas, Mojitos, Mimosas, MadJacks, Appletinis, Bellinis, and Long Island Iced Tea. It’s a gorgeous evening; inside the dining room is only a quarter-full. At the bar, a man and a woman canoodle. Two bartenders rush about mixing and setting up drink orders called out by busy female servers. I don’t see Simon.
At the bar, I order a double Jack, neat. When it arrives, I take it down in one gulp. I pay cash, leave a generous tip. The Jack steadies my jittery nerves. It’s not fear, but adrenalin that has me jonesing. Like a character in a Quentin Tarantino crime-flick, I finger my weapons.
At precisely eleven o’clock a telephone rings behind the bar. A server passes behind the counter to answer. With the receiver to her ear, she turns.
Staring at me, she says, “You Fortune?”
I nod.
“It’s for you.”
“Of course, it is.”