Chapter Two

 

He slept alone and woke alone, with only his thoughts and his dreams keeping him company over how badly things ended last night with Frisano. He’d left before the shower nozzle was turned off, and he hadn’t left a note, nor had he heard from the man whom he’d made hungry love to. Not a call, not a text exchanged. Their relationship in yet another state of flux. It had happened before. Communication, or the lack thereof, once again the usual culprit. Jim and Frank might be amazing in bed together, but the formalized Jimmy McSwain and Francis X. Frisano had their share of complications.

He would deal with those issues later.

Jimmy was already showered and dressed. He’d downed that first cup of coffee. It was not yet eight o’clock on this Tuesday morning, so not even his mother was up and about, not Meaghan either. There was something comforting about having the kitchen to himself, quietly sitting at the table and sipping hot coffee on a cold February day.

He was ready to find out what the day would bring. He was in between formal cases, except his mind tried to convince him he was on the clock anyway. No one had hired him in the last couple of weeks, so there was no paycheck in the offing. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a crime for him to investigate. Such as digging into the mysterious case of Officer Luke, though if he did get involved his questions would only increase the already tense situation between himself and Frisano. But it had to be done. He didn’t like when cops got killed. Eternal truth won out over temporary passion.

Jimmy got up from the chair, washed his cup in the sink. A quiet chirping sound caught his ear over the rushing water in the sink. He turned and saw that his phone was ringing. He dashed over but failed to recognize the number. As a private investigator, you are taught to always answer the phone. Seldom did a stranger call with good news. A case could be in the offing.

“McSwain,” he said, his voice sounding more urgent than he intended.

“I’m sorry…is this Jimmy McSwain?”

A woman’s voice. Concern laced in it. “Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Edna Enders. I’m an administrator at Brooklyn Hospital Center.”

“An administrator? I don’t understand. Are you a bill collector?”

“No, I reach out to next of kin, or in your case, an emergency contact.”

Fear hit Jimmy’s gut, churning the coffee. “Ralphie?”

“He’s fine, now, resting comfortably,” she said. “But he’s asking for you.”

Ralphie Henderson was Jimmy’s father’s ex-partner, a retired NYPD detective and a man Jimmy often sought counsel from. He was a man who knew where many of the bodies were buried, whose investigative instincts were as sharp today as they had been during his thirty years on the force. Except, maybe they weren’t now. Jimmy saw in his mind the old, hobbled black man with the bad knees, usually just sitting inside a booth at Lou Limerick’s pub enjoying a beer or more. Today didn’t sound like that would be happening. He hadn’t seen Ralphie since the holidays.

“What happened?”

“Doctors are still examining him. But they are thinking he had a minor stroke.”

Jimmy’s heart raced. “So he can speak. He asked for me. I can come see him?”

“That’s why I’m calling. Yes.”

Jimmy said he’d be there as soon as he could, and quickly he set out. He wasn’t even sure where Brooklyn Hospital Center was, but he’d figure that out along the way. He had to imagine it was somewhere in Downtown Brooklyn, not far from the Heights where Ralphie lived. Ignoring the people texting and standing around on street corners, Jimmy walked at such a determined pace it could have been an Olympic sport, finally reaching the Times Square subway station. He swiped his MetroCard through the turnstile and went downstairs, where he impatiently waited five minutes for either a 2 or 3, either was fine. It was the 2 that arrived first, and the express train would take him to Nevins Street, a stop that would leave him centrally located near Downtown Brooklyn. He tried to access the Internet on his phone but such service was spotty. So he boarded the train still without a clear direction.

During the ride he thought about Ralphie. He felt guilty for not having seen him in the new year, but he’d been avoiding not just him but the concerns that consumed him. Subjects he wasn’t yet ready to bring to the surface, but he knew he would have to eventually, as certain as he’d have to return aboveground. This past winter during the Guardian Angel case, Jimmy’s neighborhood nemesis Mickey Dean had returned, causing hell—death and destruction before meeting his own demise—but not before he’d left some lasting damage. Mickey died with a blistering accusation on his tongue about Joseph McSwain, and it was one that ate at Jimmy’s soul with a mix of denial and shock. One Mickey could never take back, one Joseph was unable to defend himself against. Two dead men with differing stories.

Jimmy had said nothing to his mother, nothing to Frisano. He’d let it fester within himself until he knew how to process it. If he did anything at all.

Jimmy McSwain was afraid to learn that his sainted father might not have been so anointed.

He was jarred from his thoughts when the conductor announced his stop. He made it out the doors just before they closed, clipping past an annoyed passenger who was boarding the train. Jimmy tried to apologize but the young guy’s middle finger offered up its own response. Welcome to Brooklyn.

He navigated the platform, found an exit, and once topside he dug out his phone again and put a search of the hospital into his maps app. His instincts had been right, as the hospital was just a few blocks over on DeKalb Avenue in the Fort Greene section. Walking distance. Barring a drop off at a small lab that ran tests for him on the sly, he only ever really came to Brooklyn to see Ralphie. Suddenly Jimmy was filled with regret that the reason he was here now was because his friend was ill. A minor stroke. Just how minor? Stroke was never a good word.

He found the towering structure that was the Brooklyn Hospital Center, going through the revolving doors to a small reception area. Security guards were on duty. Weren’t they everywhere in this city? A sign of the times, threats were ever-present. Jimmy checked in at the desk, secured a visitor’s badge, and was told by the helpful clerk that Ralphie Henderson was on the fourth floor. Part of him had expected to be sent to the emergency area. But it seemed his friend was already settled inside a private room, and if that were the case, he wondered how long he’d been here? Just the idea that he had been here for a few days made Jimmy walk faster. He caught an elevator door just as it was about to close, hopped on and soon was stepping off on the fourth floor, a busy nurse’s station his destination.

“Hi, my friend is on this floor. Mr. Henderson.” He paused. “He asked for me.”

A smiling Hispanic woman in blue scrubs said, “Oh, that old coot. Room 414. He’s fine.”

Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief. If Ralphie was well enough to flirt with the nurses…

He found the room, knocked quietly on the closed door. No response. He wondered if his friend was asleep.

Jimmy took a chance and entered the room, where he immediately saw a frail man lying in the bed, slightly propped up by an array of pillows. Yes, his eyes were closed, hands folded across his torso. Jimmy thought he looked corpse-like, and a sense of dread filled him. Was he really not fine? Had he gotten here too late? He eased over to the bed, looked down at Ralphie. He noticed the right side of his face had a droop to it, like the skin had loosened. A slight downward turn of his lip, a spittle of drool at the corner.

He was unsure what to do. Leave the room, wake him, call a nurse, or wait out his friend’s nap in the nearby chair. By the time he’d considered all of the possibilities Ralphie’s eyes fluttered, and then they opened. Jimmy stepped closer to the edge of the bed.

“Ralphie, can you hear me?”

His voice was rough, gravelly. Slightly slurred. But it was still Ralphie. “Can see you, too.”

“How are you?”

He didn’t answer the question directly. Instead he asked his own. “Still like boys?”

The fact he asked his usual question brought a wide grin to Jimmy’s lips. Good old Ralphie, not even a minor stroke could erase his twisted sense of humor. It was his standard approach with Jimmy, a private joke. Not that he had a problem with Jimmy’s sexuality. But he liked to poke fun anyway. It was his way, and right now it was a source of comfort. Jimmy eased onto the edge of the bed, took hold of the man’s hand and rubbed it with sympathy.

“That answer your question?”

Ralphie didn’t pull back. Jimmy felt a spread of warmth coming from him, the gentle pulse of life. “Good to see you, my boy.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“Just felt a numbness hit me the other morning…didn’t feel normal.”

“How many mornings ago?”

“Four, I’m guessing. Could be five. More than three.”

Jimmy felt a weight on his heart. “And I’m only hearing about this now?”

“First two days, I had trouble…communicating.”

“Talking? Or more?”

“Doc said I was kind of catatonic. But whatever hit me, it seems to have luckily passed. I was able to ask the nurses to contact you.”

“Ralphie, I’m sorry…I wish I’d known sooner…”

“Jimmy, life happens at its own pace. We’re just along for the ride. I’m an old man, not in the best of health to begin with. My body just decided to give me a wake-up call. Guess it had to shut down for a bit. But know this, I’m fine now. The numbness has subsided; the doctors expect a full recovery.” He paused for air after what must have been his lengthiest string of words he’d spoken in days. “Could have been worse.”

“What can I do?”

“You’re already doing it. Tell me what’s going on?”

“Oh, I don’t want to tax you. You need your rest.”

“What I need is to keep my mind engaged. Jimmy, my boy, a man’s only alive when he’s active. Now, since they’re not going to release me anytime soon, doesn’t mean I can’t play the role of the armchair detective. Or in this case, the hospital-bed detective. I can see the fire in your eyes, something’s afoot.”

“Okay, Sherlock, if you’re sure.”

“Jimmy McSwain. You’re as transparent as plastic wrap. Talk.”

Jimmy steeled himself, cautious about raising Ralphie’s stress level with conversation of crime, of murder and conspiracy. He stared into the man’s distant eyes, searching for any sign of weakness or that he was pushing too hard. All he saw was eagerness to get his life back, a reason to be engaged. Jimmy knew this man lived for justice, he’d spent his entire life and career in search of it and in service to it. Denying him now would be like removing his oxygen tube.

“A cop was murdered. Single shot to the forehead. East side piers. Last week.”

Ralphie nodded. He knew. Of course he knew. He might live in Brooklyn, but the bridge that linked both boroughs wasn’t just a physical structure. It was like a pipeline, information going to and fro like a subway through a tunnel under the river. He knew all about the murder of Officer Denson Luke, and given the light that now lit his eyes, he’d no doubt been waiting for Jimmy to broach the subject. Such clandestine talk might have happened days ago, if not for the stroke which had incapacitated his friend, if not for Jimmy’s uncertainty about what it all meant. He’d wondered what Ralphie had thought of, not just the murder, but its method. He supposed he was about to find out.

“You think he was on the take?

“The way he was killed, it makes you think. Think bad things.”

Ralphie shifted in his bed, like he was trying to rise to the occasion. “Like Mickey Dean.”

“You saw the connection, too. I should have come to you sooner. You know too well that I don’t like coincidences,” Jimmy said. “Mickey’s brother, Larry, is a detective with the 10th in Chelsea. A detective who made grade without merit. Larry Dean got the promotion because his father holds a powerful position at One Police Plaza and pulled strings. Gives him better standing in the NYPD, especially considering his other son was a nasty, career criminal. Mickey Dean came back to town this past winter, and he raised hell in a very short amount of time. He wanted trouble, revenge. He killed my cousin. He ran a chop shop. He got cocky though. And then he got killed.”

Jimmy paused, remembering the scene on the docks last December, when he and Mickey finally gave way to their anger, pummeling each other until one was the victor. But really, even as Jimmy left the vile man tied to a lamppost, awaiting the arrival of the cops thanks to an anonymous call he placed, could he truly consider himself champion? Mickey had left him with a devastating piece of news, his legacy as evil as the life he’d led.

“What does your boyfriend say?”

Only the ornery Ralphie could be so blunt. Except Jimmy wasn’t sure of the status between himself and Frisano. They’d never discussed labeling their relationship, and certainly wouldn’t be doing so after the bad ending from last night. Ralphie could read Jimmy’s body language, the way he shifted on the edge of the bed.

“Trouble again?”

“It’s always something. I pushed too far, I think. But he should know…how important the Forever Haunt is to me.”

“Seems to me, with relationships, they only thrive when you focus on the future, not on the past.”

Jimmy got up off the bed, walked over to the window. The sky was a clear blue, appropriate for a cold winter day, and he could see the thin branches of trees waving in the wind. They were bare, an indication that spring was still a bit away. Which meant the days still got dark early, and almost as if agreeing with him, the sun dipped behind a cloud and the room grew shadows. Jimmy remained looking out the window, thinking about the complex world out there.

“So how do you manage all of this? The murder, your boyfriend? The cold case?”

“That’s what I have to figure out. Just trying to figure out where to start.”

“Where do you think it begins?”

Jimmy turned around. “Working backwards. With the most recent murder. If Officer Luke was crooked, then he might have been involved in the corruption surrounding the mysterious Blue Death organization. I’ll have to start with talking to his widow, which I’m hesitant to do since she only buried her husband yesterday. Last thing I want is to appear insensitive, because I’m more attuned to her loss than she might ever know. But Ralphie, hasn’t this gone on long enough? How many other police officers are going to be murdered, and in the name of what? Whether they got involved in something unsavory or just were in the wrong place at the wrong time and discovered something they shouldn’t, no kid…” He paused, a lump caught in his throat. “No kid should grow up without a father.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

Jimmy thought about his own deceased father, and he thought again about the accusation Mickey Dean had lodged against him. Was this the time to talk to Ralphie about it? Opening this can of worms would lead to a larger discussion and he doubted either of them was up for delving into it. A yawn stretching over Ralphie’s mouth gave Jimmy the clue he needed, and so he tabled the subject until another time. He crossed over to the bed, held Ralphie’s hand.

“Something else on your mind?” the frail man asked.

Yes, Jimmy thought. But what he said was the opposite. An emphatic, “No.”

Silence followed, then an acquiescence. “Okay, I’ll let it go. But something’s bugging you.”

“Another time, Ralphie. Get some rest. I’ll visit you again. Soon.”

“Hopefully I’ll be released in the next day or so.”

“Don’t push it. I need you, Ralphie. In my life.”

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere. Devil’s not ready for this old coot just yet.”

“Hardly,” Jimmy said.

They two exchanged a conspiratorial smile. Then Ralphie nodded, closed his eyes, and was asleep in seconds.

Jimmy continued to hold his hand, remembering how much this man had helped him, what a good friend he’d been to his father, a partner who would have done anything for him. A chilling revelation hit Jimmy. All these years spent investigating his father’s murder, the game had changed drastically in the last year. Clues had revealed themselves, only to disappear into the ether. He had to use his smarts to bridge all the disparate pieces he’d unearthed. His breath constricted inside his lungs. His body locked in place, almost as though it had suffered its own stroke. He recovered, and at last the words he dared utter finally came out. Words that needed to be spoken aloud. “The man I need to investigate is my father.”

§ § § §

On the way back to Manhattan after grabbing lunch, congestion in the tunnels kept the subway moving slowly. Which allowed Jimmy’s thoughts to turn to how everything in life always swung back to family connections. And for Jimmy McSwain, those connections boiled down to fathers and their sons. From Joseph and Jimmy himself, to Lawrence Dean and his two boys, the angry Mickey and the slow-witted Larry, Jr. To Salvatore Frisano and his ambitious son, Frank. Always, it came down to the bond, the expectation.

But ultimately, did whatever was truly going on with the case he’d dubbed the Forever Haunt begin with a young troubled girl? Such was Mickey’s accusation. The Dean family had lost their daughter, Cassiopeia, when she was just fourteen. She’d leapt from the top floor fire escape of their building on 47th Street between Ninth and 10th Avenues one dark morning. Labeled a tragic suicide. Maureen, the matriarch of the Dean family, had seemingly never accepted it, failing to recover from the loss. She opened a psychic shop in the neighborhood, renamed herself Madame Mo and offered advice to the willingly susceptible. Jimmy thought the only person she ever really helped was herself. Her small storefront was really just a shrine to the little angel she’d lost. These were the conflicting ideas that swirled inside Jimmy’s mind as he finally arrived at his stop.

Off the subway and back on the familiar turf that was Hell’s Kitchen, he approached his childhood home with sudden trepidation. A westerly wind had picked up off the nearby Hudson River, ratcheting up the cold air along open canyons. He zipped up his leather jacket, and he tucked his hands inside the side pockets. He rarely worried about gloves.

The time was four in the afternoon and the sun was waning in the sky, not quite ready to give way to the encroaching night. He wondered what he would do for dinner, since his mother was working the late shift at the Calloway, which meant she rarely cooked a meal on those nights. Meaghan would be home but of course of no help, pregnant or not. He might just pick up some take-out, Chinese or Thai. It was then he saw the young boy sitting on the steps of the entrance to the building, alone but for a juice box in his hand. The straw stuck out at an angle.

“Hi. Sonny, right?”

The boy withdrew into himself. He said nothing. Sought safety in his drink, a long sip.

“I’m Jimmy, remember?”

“Momma said not to talk to strangers.”

“That’s great advice. But I helped you move in, sort of. I carried a box.”

“She said you were nice. I don’t know.”

Jimmy offered up a friendly smile. Glad that he’d earned the approval of Carmen. Her son, he was a different story. Still, he took a chance and sat beside the wide-eyed boy on the low-lying step. The physical difference was stark, but an aura surrounding them suggested two inner children. An unspoken bond.

“What flavor?

“Apple,” Sonny said, looking at the juice box as though to confirm.

“I always liked grape.”

“I like that too,” the boy said. Progress, the two of them on the same page.

“You like your new home?” Jimmy asked.

Sonny shrugged. “Guess so. Not as noisy as the last place.”

“Where was that?”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know, really. I think Harlem, and there were a lot of us.”

“What do you mean, a lot of us? Many people living in the same apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“So this is nice. Just you and your Momma?”

“And sometimes Nana. Like now.”

“Nana? Is that your Mom’s mother?”

“No, my Dad’s. Aubelita is in Puerto Rico.”

Jimmy decided to cease with the nosy questions, and instead concentrate on whatever Sonny volunteered. Given that he called one grandmother by the traditional Spanish name, the other by a more colloquial name, it made him think that Sonny was of mixed race. Carmen obviously was of Hispanic heritage; but given the boy’s light mocha skin, he wondered what other influences he carried in his genes. The boy was quiet, sipping at his juice box. Jimmy heard him reach the bottom, a last ditch slurp. He wondered if their conversation had reached its natural end, too.

“Is your Momma home now?”

“No. She’s at work. Like I said, Nana helps out. But she’s asleep inside. She’s old.”

“So who’s watching you?”

“I can take care of myself,” Sonny said, his voice a mix of resignation and determination.

“I’m only a few floors away. If you ever need anything, you can knock on the door.”

Sonny said nothing, staring forward. But then he turned to Jimmy, looked up. “Thanks.”

“Everyone needs someone to talk to.”

“Even you?”

Jimmy laughed. “Especially me. Life can be tough. It gets easier when you have a friend.”

“Is that what you are, a friend?”

“If you want. I’d like that.”

Sonny smiled, the first sign that Jimmy had gotten through to him. Jimmy felt a warmth in his soul. He thought of the tenuousness of life, that of an old man like Ralphie Henderson, with his health crisis perhaps indicating time was running out for him. And then of this young boy, he who had his entire future waiting for him. Life was a series of decisions. Fate could dictate where you went in this world, or you could fight its charted path, override it and pave your own. Because as powerful as fate could be, there was equal strength found in determination. Jimmy had battled both for as long as he knew. Talking with young Sonny, it had given him a renewed sense of hope. He reminded himself he, too, had a future. It was out there for the grabbing. You couldn’t always rely on the past, a place that liked it secrets too much. Jimmy knew one day he’d have to let them go.

“What about your Dad? Is he around?”

Sonny hesitated. He tried to drink from his juice box. Came up empty. “He’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Your Dad?”

“He died. Many years ago. I was older than you, fourteen. But I still miss him.”

“My Dad, he’s in trouble. I heard Momma say that’s why he’s gone. He ran.”

Jimmy nodded. Didn’t say anything because to do so would interrupt the boy’s confession. “But he didn’t do anything wrong. He’s my hero.”

Jimmy smiled down at the boy. “That’s how it should be. A father is always a hero.”

“Are you sad?” Sonny asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. Seems you need to talk to me more than I need to talk to you.”

“You’re a very smart kid, Sonny.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a clearing of a throat behind them. Jimmy looked up to see a woman standing in the doorframe. She was closer in age to his own mother, over sixty. A mop held in her aged hands. Her gray hair was stringy, lying flat against her scalp. Like she either didn’t care about her appearance, or maybe the deep cleaning of the new apartment had rendered her sweaty and in need of a shower. He had to assume this was Nana. So much for her napping.

“Who are you?’ she asked.

Jimmy stood. “Jimmy McSwain. I live on the top floor. I met your grandson and his mother last night. I helped with a couple of boxes. I was just making sure Sonny here was okay, you know, in his new home. Change is not easy at any age.”

“Sonny is fine.” Her eyes turned to her grandson. “Go inside and wash up.”

“It’s not dinner time yet…”

Nana hit the wooden stem of the mop against the cement step. It was a command. Sonny got up, and without another word walked back into the building. Jimmy heard the door of the rear apartment slam shut. Sonny wasn’t happy but obeyed when spoken to in such stern terms. Jimmy had to wonder what quality of life this boy had endured. A previous home where the apartment was over-crowded, now in an unfamiliar home with no friends, guarded over by a disapproving grandmother while his mother was working…wherever. Again, Jimmy thought of the boy’s father. What did gone mean? What kind of trouble?

“You would be wise to stay away,” Nana said. “This is a family matter.”

“Sonny looked like he needed a friend. I was happy to talk to him. To let him talk.”

“He’s fine.”

“Doesn’t seem that way to me,” Jimmy said.

“Regardless, he is not your concern.”

“He mentioned his father is gone. What exactly does that mean? His father, I’m guessing he’s your son?”

“Again, none of this is your concern.”

“Mrs…”

“I am Lourdes Inshan.”

“Mrs. Inshan, I don’t mean to overstep my bounds. If I can be of help, though, I’d be happy to. I’m a licensed private investigator. I can offer help the police can’t.”

“Carmen has no need for your services. Nor does Sonny.”

Jimmy nodded, realizing he wasn’t going to win her over, not today. He stood on the front step as Lourdes turned around to head back to the apartment. Jimmy followed her inside the cool lobby, stopping at the base of the staircase.

“Can you say the same about your son?”

She stopped, spun back toward him. “Say what about my son?”

“Not needing my services. Whatever trouble he’s in, maybe I can help.”

For the first time since meeting her, her stiff presence softened. Almost as though she was resigned to whatever fate awaited them. “No. No one can help him. Not Carmen or Sonny, not me, not Ranuel himself. So why would you think you could do anything different? No, please stay out of this, Mr…”

“McSwain. Everyone calls me Jimmy.”

“Good day, Mr. McSwain. Please, be a stranger.”

She quickly turned and went back into the apartment. From where Jimmy stood on the first step he could hear the click of the lock, a statement unto itself. He paused, took a deep breath, and started up the stairs. Still, he kept looking back. He couldn’t help thinking about what secrets lay beyond that closed door. Obviously, they were a family with a host of problems, and they sounded like a combination of legal and domestic issues. That nebulous area between right and wrong, when your own morality sometimes made decisions for you. Which was right in his wheelhouse.

Yet both Carmen, last night, and today, Lourdes, had refused his assistance.

Sonny, though, was another story. The haunting look in his soft dark eyes while he sought out the last drop of apple juice had said one thing: Help.