by Owen Parr
Farnsworth blurted, “Yeah, like who is your client? And why are you investigating a suicide?”
“The first word in ‘private investigator’ is ‘private.’ Why does everyone seem to ignore that? My client wishes to remain private, period.”
“You want to see how fast you and your priest brother lose your PI licenses?” Farnsworth asked.
I stared at this idiot, and I really wanted to reach across the table and pounce on him. “My brother has nothing to do with this.”
Charles said, “Evidently, he’s been asking questions too.”
“You have files on this?” asked Farnsworth.
“I don’t keep files anymore. I memorize everything,” I replied.
“Aha,” Farnsworth retorted, “they still have a file on you. The captain said to remind you. And we need some answers.”
I started to get out of the booth, and Charles gingerly grabbed my arm. “Joey, just answer some questions, man. We’ll get out of your hair. We need to go back with something. You know what I mean?”
I waved over to Mr. Pat. “Please get Detective Farnsworth a plastic glass. He’s going out on the street with his Coke.”
“Wait a fucking minute,” Farnsworth began.
“No, you wait a fucking minute. I don’t have to answer any of your fucking questions,” I said.
Charles interrupted, “Joey, Joey.”
“I’ll talk to you. Your partner waits outside, or you go back with nothing,” I said.
Charles nodded to Farnsworth, pointing to the front door with his chin. Patrick poured the remaining Coke from the red- faced Farnsworth’s glass into a plastic glass with a top and a straw. Farnsworth removed the straw and threw it on the table as he turned and walked out.
“You love doing this shit to him, don’t you?” Charles asked, smiling.
“I forgot how much I disliked him,” I replied.
He took a sip from his Coke. “I really like your place. Business good?”
“Excellent. I never thought I’d enjoy being the proprietor of a bar.”
“You still hooked up with the Cuban bombshell FBI agent?”
“Marcy?”
“Why, is there more than one hot Cuban FBI agent? If so, I want to meet them.”
“You’re married with kids, or did Jenna kick your ass out?”
“Happily married twelve years, brother, which is not bad for being married eighteen, right?” Charles said, laughing.
“Bring Jenna over one night. I’ll have Marcy join us.”
“I’d like that; yes, I’ll do that. Now listen, brother, what do you know about this jumper that we don’t know?”
I didn’t want to give out too many clues as to why we thought this was more than just a suicide. I didn’t need the NYPD involved in this case, especially after finding out there was a call to the mayor. But I did want to give Charles something to go back with so he’d leave us alone.
“There’s a grieving wife who’s losing about two mil in insurance benefits. If this guy committed suicide, she gets zilch. You know what I mean?”
“So, the widow is your client,” he said, not in the form of a question, but statement-like.
I let him think that and proceeded. “It’s a nothing case, just something for us to do. Who knows? We might pull in other clients because of this.”
“Do you have any reason to think it wasn’t a suicide?”
I said, “We should wrap this up in a few days. It was ruled a suicide, and the likelihood that someone had a hand in pushing this guy out the window is a stretch at this point. If anything develops to the contrary, I’ll call you.”
“Fine, Joey, I’ll go with that,” Detective Charles said. “Can I pay you for the Cokes?”
“Get the fuck out, man. Be sure to call me. And bring Jenna, but leave the asshole home.”
Charles got up, bumped shoulders with me, shook my hand, and headed out to his sulking partner. My only guess was that the call to the mayor came from either U.S. Representative Stevens—the man running for Congress back then, Evans, or Albert, which added a twist to our investigation.
19
Marcy walked in about five thirty. The regulars knew better than to even glance at her. But the newbies—and it never failed—could not get over this stunning work of femininity. Clad with tight black jeans, a sports jacket, and a shield with a forty-caliber Glock 22 strapped to her thin waist, Marcy was, to them, a hot lady with legs that didn’t quit.
“I just got reamed a new one,” she said, kind of pissed. “That’s going to be confusing,” I replied.
“What do you mean?” she asked, paused, and then added, “Never mind. You are so vulgar.”
“Have a seat, relax, and tell me about it. How about a Pellegrino?”
“No, have Mr. Pat make me a mentirita. I’m off duty, thank God.”
I walked over to the bar and asked Patrick for a Cuba Libre, which is rum, in Marcy’s case, Bacardi Rum and Coke. Cubans in the U.S. use the word mentirita, which means ‘little lie.’ ‘Cuba Libre’ means ‘a free Cuba,’ and Cuba is under communist rule. There are no freedoms in Cuba under the Castro’s: thus, the name.
I waited for the drink to be prepared while Marcy cooled off a bit. Walking back to our booth, I said, “Patrick is working on a second one, considering its two-for-one until six p.m.”
“That’s funny.”
“Tell me, what happened?”
“My boss was all over me. Evidently, they found out I’m helping you with the jumper case.”
“I have a feeling I know why, but why do you think?”
“It’s a known fact we sleep together, and someone is complaining about you and Father Dom asking about a suicide. So, they put two and two together.”
“Why do they call it ‘sleep together’? I’ve never understood that. Do you?”
“Joey, this is serious. I’m using FBI resources to help two private investigators on a case that’s not even a case. I can get fired for this.”
“Then we’ll open a bar in the Keys, and fuck ‘em all.”
“Seriously?”
“With your Jimmy Buffet parrot-head tattoo on the back of your neck, your body in a halter top and hot pants tending tables, we’ll make a killing.”
“If we can’t discuss this like adults, I’m leaving.”
“Sorry. I had a visit from two detectives earlier in the afternoon about the same thing. Someone called the New York mayor complaining about Dom and me asking questions about the jumper. So, the mayor called the commissioner, and it came down to these two guys wanting to know why and what.”
“Who do you think called, Evans and Albert?”
“Remember my case with the homeless John Doe?”
“What about it?”
“The two men in the alley that were arguing, they-” Marcy interrupted, “—were the congressman and Evans.”
“The congressman was only a candidate then, but yes, the same two.”
“So, you think that Evans called the mayor as a push back to our—make that your—investigation?”
“It’d seem Evans or the congressman did, right?” I said, as Patrick brought over her second Cuba Libre.
“Thank you, Mr. Pat. They’re perfect as usual,” Marcy said, as Patrick smiled.
A uniformed policeman opened the front door and handed a waitress a large envelope.
“Ah, my research just got here.”
“Who brought it?”
“A uniform just handed it to Alina.”
I said, “Thank you Alina” to the waitress as she handed me the envelope addressed to Don Signori Giuseppe Mancuso. Funny friends I have.
“What’s in there?” Marcy asked.
“Everything my researcher at the force can get on our three-out-of-five suspects, plus the jumper.”
“You’re going to get everyone fired.”
“Great, we’ll hire them for our bar.”
A second later, my cell phone rang; I could see who it was from the cal
ler ID. “Agnes, my darling, how you doing?”
“Hi, Joey, is your brother there today?” Agnes asked.
“He should be here about seven this evening for an hour or so.”
“Wonderful, I’ll stop by and bring my research on your potential perps,” Agnes said.
“See you then, darling.”
“Who was that?” Marcy asked, after I disconnected the call.
“Another potential waitress, if she too gets fired.”
“Why did you call her ‘darling’?”
“All my lady friends are darlings, darling.”
“What did Agnes want?”
I love it when she gets jealous. “Agnes is like ten years older than me, and anyway, she’s hot for Father Dom.”
“Get out of here.”
“She was my backup for more research on our top five, just in case my buddy at the force got cold feet. She’s bringing over her files, but she wanted to know if Dom was going to be here.”
“I have to stay for that.”
“Father Dom gets really uneasy when she’s here. Back to you. What else did they tell you at the FBI white-collar division?”
“They want to pull the case from me, but I told them I hadn’t helped you in any way. That it was a coincidence that I was working the partner’s case and you were asking questions about one of their employees.”
“They bought it?”
“For now. What did the detectives want?”
“They wanted to see our files.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I said, I don’t have files; I memorize everything.”
“Did you tell them why you’re concentrating on the jumper?”
“I told them his widow could be out about two mil, if he in fact committed suicide. And that we didn’t have anything else.”
“They bought it?”
“Like you said, for now.”
Patrick was waving the landline phone over his head, motioning for me to come over.
I walked over to the bar. Taking the phone from Mr. Pat, I answered, “Hello, this is Mancuso. How can I help you?” The line was dead. I turned to Patrick and asked, “Who was that?”
“’He’s not on the phone?” Patrick asked, with an inquisitive expression.
“The line was dead.”
“He said he was Kathy’s boyfriend,” Patrick replied.
“No shit. What did he say?”
“Kathy passed away a few minutes ago.”
“Shit. What else did he say?”
“Not much, he was talking in a hush-hush fashion. He asked for you or Father Dom, and when I asked who was calling, he said, ‘Kathy’s boyfriend.’ That’s all.”
“Did you get his name?”
“He didn’t give me a name.”
“Fuck.”
Greeting some of the patrons, I returned to the booth.
“Who was that?” Marcy asked.
“The line was dead when I picked up. But the fellow told Patrick he was Kathy’s boyfriend.” I didn’t tell Marcy the whole story.
“Huh, I wonder what he wanted?”
“It was about Kathy.”
“How is she?”
I looked at Marcy, and immediately, she knew what just happened.
“Father Dom will be devastated,” she said, putting her palms to her cheeks. “Did he say anything else?”
“It seems he wanted to, but didn’t tell Patrick. Unless he calls back, we won’t know.”
“The receptionist at the partners’ office wasn’t nice to me, but I can call her. Maybe she’ll know who the boyfriend is. I’ll call her tomorrow.”
“What makes you think she’ll tell you?”
“My shield.”
“I don’t want you doing anything that can get you in trouble with the Bureau. As a matter of fact, we shouldn’t be going over these files while you’re here.”
“I know how to do it. If she knows, she’ll tell me. But what about the files?”
“I don’t know everyone at the bar. I know my regulars, but there are others here who could be watching us, either from the Bureau or from the force.”
“So, let’s go over to my place and review the research.”
“Yeah? We can spread everything on the bed and read.”
“I think the dining room table would be more appropriate for that.”
“Let’s wait for Agnes to bring over the rest, and then we’ll take off. Another mentirita?”
Marcy nodded, and I headed over to Mr. Pat to get her another rum and Coke.
The door to the bar swung open, and Father Dom walked in, followed by this exquisite lady wearing a soft-clinging summer dress that made her look sensual: big-rim glasses with thick lenses, beautiful bright inviting blue eyes behind those, and a long flowing ponytail of thick blonde hair that went all the way to her waist.
“Agnes, how good to see you. Thank you for coming. What can I get you?” I asked, as Patrick was preparing Marcy’s third mentirita.
Father Dom had no idea Agnes was right behind him. I think she’d been waiting outside until Dom came in. Dom turned to see Agnes and immediately became uncomfortable.
“Father, say hello to Agnes,” I said.
“Hi, Agnes,” Dom said, avoiding my eyes for fear I would laugh.
Agnes smiled at Dom. “Father, your homily this morning at Mass was wonderful. It gave me a lot to think about.”
“Happy to hear that,” Dom said, as he walked behind the bar, I think, to put a barrier between him and Agnes.
“Agnes, something to drink?” I asked again.
“Thank you, Joey, I’ll have a Pepsi,” Agnes replied.
This gave Mr. Pat and me the opening for our SNL routine.
“Mr. Pat,” I called out, “a Pepsi.”
Patrick replied, “No Pepsi, Coke.” I asked out loud, “No Pepsi?”
To which the regulars replied in unison, “No Pepsi, Coke.”
Agnes was a bit embarrassed by the routine, while Father Dom just shook his head.
“Agnes, have a seat over there with that young lady,” I said, pointing to Marcy. “I’ll bring your drink right over.” I walked behind the bar next to Dom and said in a hushed voice, “She was in church this morning?”
He looked at Agnes to make sure she was far enough not to hear his response, and then he turned to me and replied, “She’s there every morning at six-thirty for my Mass. I think she’s stalking me, brother.”
I turned to face the mirrored wall in case Agnes was facing us; I had to laugh at that one. “Have you ever heard her confession?”
Dom shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you if I had.”
“Yeah, but has she ever confessed about having impure thoughts about you and her?” Of course, he didn’t answer that. His expression of disgust was enough to tell me what he was thinking.
“Joey,” he whispered, “I find her attractive,” he said, almost apologizing.
“So, do I, brother. She’s attractive. That’s normal; you’re a man first. Imaging when she takes off those glasses and lets her hair down. No need to apologize.”
“I wasn’t apologizing.”
“Sure as hell sounded like that. Just go with flow, bro.”
“No flow. Why is she here?” Dominic asked, changing the subject.
“She did research on all five of our suspects.”
“Are we going to review that now?”
“I’m afraid not. Marcy and I are going to take it with us. I’ll tell you why later.”
“You’re leaving?” Dom asked, sounding a bit anguished.
“You’ll have to entertain Agnes for a bit. After all, she did all this work for us.”
“Beata Dei misericordia,” Father Dom replied in Latin.
“Brother, there’s something else I have to tell you.”
“Yeah, about what?”
“Kathy didn’t make it, Dom,” I said, holding both his shoulders.
Immediately, he made the sign of the cross a
nd said a little prayer, with his eyes closed. “Frankly, I prepared myself for that. I visited the hospital yesterday, and the prognosis wasn’t good at all. She was never conscious after the accident, and she was in a coma since then.”
“Did you meet the boyfriend?”
“No, only Evans was there.”
“Evans? What the hell was he doing there?”
“I don’t know. He said he and his partner had been visiting on a regular basis.”
“We’ll factor that into our investigation. Right now, I’m taking off. Are you going to be all right?”
“Yes, yes, go. When did you get the call about Kathy?”
“A few minutes ago.”
“We’ll talk later or tomorrow.”
I made my way over to Marcy and Agnes and excused myself. Agnes was delighted when I told her Father Dom would visit with her for a few minutes. Marcy and I walked out of the bar to the usual glances from the patrons, and I handed Marcy her rum and Coke in a plastic glass.
“I can’t drink and drive,” she said.
“I’ll drive; you drink.”
20
Marcy’s apartment in Brooklyn was a reprieve for me. I really enjoyed her place, not only because she was there, of course, but also because it was a peaceful abode. I think she had decorated in a feng shui style: soft, soothing colors, and one of those Zen water fountains. Whatever that style called for, I think she had it. My place? It was a man cave from top to bottom: not peaceful, more like modern stressful style. Needless to say, I enjoyed Marcy’s place a lot more than mine.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, as we walked in.
“How comfortable?”
She smiled, “Keep your pants on. We need to work.”
“How about my shirt?”
“Whatever.”
I kept my shirt on, just in case. “Who should we target first?”
“Let’s start with the most likely suspect. Who has the biggest motivation?”
“The partners?”
“Start with Evans.”
We sat around the dining room table. I read; Marcy took notes. “Let’s see,” I said, opening Agnes’ file on my left. The file from my researcher at the force was on the right. “Robert Evans, born in 1958 in Albany, New York. Married to Elena Muir in 1988. Three children—”