Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(65)

“Don’t rush me, old man. And Bess and I aren’t meant to be. I don’t think I’m meant to be with anyone. I can’t go through it all again.”

Henry makes an impatient noise. “If I’m still here a year from now, I’m gonna ask you again. I bet you’ll be singing a different tune.”

“You go ahead and ask me. In fact, I’ll set a reminder in my phone,” I say, because I can’t bear the thought of Henry dying. “But my answer will be the same. Bess wants a marriage and a family, and I can’t give that to her.”

“That’s bullshit, Tank.” He folds his hands over his belly. “I bet you didn’t even tell her why your marriage to Jordanna fell apart.”

“It fell apart for the same reason all marriages fall apart—a lot of disappointment and not enough love.” I will never get over the sound of my wife crying night after night in the bathroom, where she thought I couldn’t hear her.

It wrecks a guy.

“That’s oversimplifying things,” Henry scolds me. “You got to bring the dark stuff out into the sunlight, or it won’t ever go away. You want someone to spend your life with? There’s no reason you shouldn’t have that. You’re healthy. You’re still rich, thanks to the prenup this old man made you sign. You’re not bad looking. And your new team is just about to figure out how to use your best skills on the ice. Any second now.”

I snicker. “Sure they are.”

“And most importantly…” He reaches over and lays a hand on my elbow. “You’re a good man, Tank. I have always thought so. And I always will.”

Fuck me. My eyes get hot. “Thank you, Henry. And right back at you.”

“I have one more document for you. But this one you have to sign.” He reaches for the bedside table again and grabs another folder, opening it and handing it to me.

“What’s this?” There are only a few lines of text on the page.



Dear Henry Kassman,

You are hereby fired as my agent.

Although the stated terms of our original contract do not require an explanation, only a waiting period of thirty days, and a settling of accounts pursuant to a very boring paragraph on page four, I feel the need to explain myself. I have already heard your best jokes, and I am tired of steak dinners and red wine. So let’s just end this thing amicably.

Sincerely,

Mark Tankiewicz

P.S. I still regret the million dollars you got me for shooting those underwear ads.



Slapping a hand over my mouth, I laugh. But, damn it, my throat is tight. I don’t want to sign this paper. Ever. And it kills me that his last professional act for me was making the fucking thing funny, so I wouldn’t feel so guilty that I’m living and he’s…

I inhale carefully through my nose, controlling myself. “Why do we need this?”

“So nobody has to second guess Bess and Eric’s right to represent you.” Henry hands me a pen. “This is really for them. That’s why you have to sign.”

I quickly scribble my name on the line and hand it back to him. My throat is a desert, and my sinuses feel prickly.

A nurse comes into the room, announcing that Henry needs medication and a bath. So—after extracting a promise from him that I can come back next week—I show myself out.

It isn’t until I’m taking deep, cleansing breaths in the elevator that I realize something. Signing that document to separate my business from Henry’s hurt me a hell of a lot worse than taking delivery of my divorce decree.

“It’s a rebuilding year,” I say to nobody as I leave the building and head for the ferry.





I’m crossing the East River toward Brooklyn when my phone rings again. The caller ID says BERINGER & ASSOCIATES, and my stupid heart gives a kick just seeing Bess’s name. But the caller is Eric. Of course it is.

“Hey, Tank,” he says. “Are you nearby, perchance?”

“On the ferry back to Brooklyn. Why?”

“We’ve got to get you out of that hotel. Last week I slipped a C-note to the concierge at 220 Water, and asked him to tip me off if any apartments came up for lease or sale.”

I give a low whistle. “Smart man.”

“I’m feeling pretty smart already, because Miguel just called me to say there’s a Corcoran realtor showing a two-bedroom right now. So I speed-dialed another realtor at Corcoran, and got him to find the listing in their system. It isn’t even on the website yet. But if you jog over here…”

“Yeah! Dude. Thank you. Give me fifteen minutes.”

The second the ferry docks, I don’t stop running until I arrive in front of the Million Dollar Dorm, as the guys refer to it. Hell, it doesn’t even matter if the apartment is a wreck. I’ll buy it anyway, before the other buyer gets a chance.

Eric waves me into the lobby, introducing me to a young broker named Wilson. Then he high-fives the concierge and ushers me toward the elevator banks.

“Sorry to hustle you,” Eric says as the elevator doors open. “But things in this building tend to move fast.”

“Don’t apologize. If the price isn’t egregious, I could move fast, too.”

Wilson grins like a guy who’s just won the lottery. He’s about to earn a fat commission for fifteen minutes’ work. “It’s a second-floor unit,” the kid says. “But this building has great windows, and I’m sure the light will still be adequate.”