by Owen Parr
Ruth Goldstein was about fifty plus, impeccably dressed in a dark gray suit, laced cream colored blouse, deep blue eyes, and very attractive. I could see that she was very professional. "Thank you for allowing us to stop in. We have a proposition for you, and we did not want to waste any time in discussing it,” she said, with a slight Southern accent.
I smiled at both and replied, "I want to be upfront with you both. We've taken a new case, and we'll be tied up for at least two weeks."
Goldstein nodded to Cohen, and he said, "We are not here to discuss a case, we are here to offer you, sort of a partnership."
"That's very flattering, but I'm not an attorney," I replied, amused.
Cohen chuckled and said, "We know you are not, trust me, we have done our due diligence on you. Mr. Giuseppe “Joey” Mancuso. What we have in mind is to hire you, plus any staff you have, and bring you on board with our law firm as investigators."
This offer caught me completely off guard. It was like expecting a fastball, and getting pitched a curve. I had done my due diligence also on Bevans and Associates, and I knew of their prestige and size as a law firm.
"You seem surprised, Mr. Mancuso," Goldstein said, smiling.
"Please call me Joey, and yes I am. I was not expecting a job offer, to be honest with you."
"Joey," Cohen began, "Don't think of it as a job offer, what we have in mind is beyond that. Our thought is to set you up as a separate entity, a private investigation firm. While your load of cases would be mostly from our firm, we would not preclude you from taking other cases."
I sat back as Goldstein leaned forward, "In other words, you would be an independent firm, but we would expect you to handle all our cases. Similar to having you on retainer to our law firm."
They could both see that I was thinking, my wheels were turning, so they wasted no time. Goldstein turned to Cohen and said, "Share with Joey our idea."
"Our firm occupies five floors of the building that we are in. Currently, there is space available in our building, for which we have right of first refusal. While it is contiguous with our offices, it is separate and independent. Our idea is for you to occupy that space, and run your investigations from there."
Immediately, I mentally began listing the pros and the cons, and honestly, at first blush, it sounded enticing. "I don't know," I said, "This is such a big step, setting up an office, equipment, desks, phones, et cetera. A lot to think about."
"We would help out with that. Nothing for you to do, unless of course, you wanted to get involved," Goldstein replied, "Like we said, it's a form of a partnership. We can discuss the details later."
I didn't want to send any buying signals, so I crossed my arms and asked, "Who is doing your investigations currently?"
Cohen smiled, sensing just want I wanted to avoid, "We have two in-house investigators that you would be able to hire, or not. We want to take our investigations out of our firm. Tax reasons, our accountants tell us."
This was beginning to get interesting. My office, back in the saddle investigating. A constant source of cases to work on. Was this my chance to have my cake and eat it, too? I thought. "You've given me a lot to think about. But I have to be honest, when I came on board to run the pub, I committed to doing just that. My brother, Father Dominic, can't do it as a priest. We inherited the pub from his dad, who, in turn, inherited the pub from his dad. This place has been around since nineteen forty-eight. So, I need to give this some thought and discuss it with Dom. You understand that, right?"
Cohen pushed his chair back, "We did not expect an immediate answer. Our offer is open. Please take your time to consider it. It's a big move, and we would not want you to be hasty in your decision. You could keep the pub, and have Mr. Patrick continue to manage it. Or, you could sell it. I'm sure it will fetch top dollar as a business."
"You know about Patrick?" I asked.
Cohen replied, "Like we said, we've done our due diligence. Patrick joined Dom's dad upon their return from Nam. They were brothers-in-arms and friends. Let him run it, and you can get back to doing what you love." Cohen glanced at Goldstein.
Goldstein took the cue and added, "Joey, you're too young and too good at what you did at the NYPD, to just be tending bar. We need a first-class investigator in our practice, and we pay top dollar. We can’t think of a better person to do this with."
Cohen added, "We know you were asked to retire and take disability pay after sixteen years from the NYPD. We also know your record for solving crimes, and that it was the best for a homicide detective, because of your relentless pursuit of the truth."
"Due diligence again?" I asked, smiling.
Cohen and Goldstein just nodded and smiled. These two should be salesmen; they were hitting all my hot buttons. "Let's do this," I began, "I have a case I need to give my full attention to. Let us wrap that up, and we can discuss further. Fair enough?"
Goldstein responded, "That's all we want. In the meantime, if you have any questions, don't hesitate to call."
I got up from the table, and they did the same. I had a lot to think about, but, I would have to put all this on the back burner.
Cohen commented, "You know, Joey, I’ve been here before, and I have always enjoyed the black and white photos displayed above the booths."
"Thank you; they're a big part of the pub. They go all the way back to the late forties when Dom's grandfather opened the bar. Feel free to walk around. In the back, we have Andy Warhol and Woody Allen, both pretty reclusive individuals who enjoyed the privacy allotted to them by our regulars.”
Goldstein asked, "Which is the oldest photo you have?"
"Great question, I'll show you," I replied, walking behind the stretched long oak-wood bar that extended the length of the pub on the left side, "Here is Truman Capote in nineteen forty-eight with Captain Sean O'Brian. Capote had just released “Other Voices, Other Rooms, coinciding with the opening of the pub."
Ruth Goldstein asked, "Is the Captain holding the novel?"
"He is, exactly. We've never found what happened to the book itself, sorry to say," I replied.
Cohen and Goldstein were enjoying the trip down memory lane, as they glanced at the black and whites by each booth.
Cohen glanced at Goldstein, and said, "We'll get out of here and let you get back to the Longworth murder. We know you are pressed for time."
I thanked them for coming over, and smiled at their assumption that I was in on the case. These guys were good, and they were right. Longworth’s game clock, was running out.
3
It wasn’t even noon, and we had had a full morning. I needed to concentrate on the Longworth case, and I planned on reviewing the files from the attorney’s office to reconstruct whatever information they had on it. As much as I wanted to consider the offer from the Bevans law firm, I did not want that to distract me from the job at hand. It was an attractive offer, but my thoughts were on Father Dom, and the pub. My forced retirement from the NYPD’s homicide division about a year ago coincided with Dom’s dad, Brandon O’Brian’s death. And at that time, Dom was not only devastated by losing his father, but also about the future of the pub, which had been in the family since after World War Two. Dom would never be able to keep the pub, being a priest, but my sudden availability, and willingness to jump in, gave him a satisfaction that Captain O’Brian’s Pub and Cigar Bar would continue operation under family ownership.
My cell phone rang, the ID caller said ‘unknown.’ “Hello, this is Joey Mancuso.”
“Joey, this is Captain Johnson, how are you?”
This call was very unexpected. Captain Alex Johnson was my old boss at the precinct, and the person who had asked me to take my disability pay and retire. He was a seasoned lawman, having started like me, as a cadet and rising all the way to captain. Maybe in his mid-fifties, just a few years older than my brother, Father Dominic. I had a special place in my heart for the captain; he answered the call, as a patrolman, when my dad was shot and killed in a bar loca
ted at the corner of Mulberry Street and Grand, in Little Italy. He had taken me aside, away from the chaos that ensued after the shooting I had witnessed, and consoled a fifteen-year-old boy, as best he could. Captain Johnson made it a point to stay in touch with my mother, and brother Dom, ever since that moment. It was no coincidence when I became a detective, that I ended up working for him.
“Captain, I am well, how about yourself?” I was cordial, after all, we got along, and I always felt he was forced to purge me out of the force.
“I’m fine, Joey. I want to run something by you, and I wonder if you have a few minutes to discuss it?”
“I’m pressed for time, but I can spare a few moments. What I can do for you?”
“Fifteen minutes is all I need, and I’m one block away from the pub.”
“Come on in, I’ll wait for you.”
I made some fresh coffee, lit a Rocky Patel cigar, and put on a Bobby Darin CD. All our background music in the pub was from the old-time favorites. Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, et cetera. When the Captain walked in with a big smile, Clementine was playing.
“Welcome to our pub, I made some coffee, care for some?” I asked, extending a handshake.
“Thank you, Joey, yes, I’ll have some, cream, no sugar. I love your place,” he said, glancing around the pub.
“Have a seat,” I said, pointing to the ‘Broadway Joe’s’ booth. “Would you care for a cigar?”
“No, thanks, Joey. I don’t want to take up a lot of your time, but I have something I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Go right ahead, but why don’t we address the elephant in the room, first,” I said, as I served the Captain some coffee from behind the bar.
His happy face turned into a frown, “And what is that?”
“Captain, last time we spoke was when I handed you my shield, what? A year and a half ago?”
“You are right, Joey, and I’m sorry about that,” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “I should have reached out to you before. It was never my intention to push you out. There was a lot of pressure from above, and I had no choice. Anyway, you solved that case six months ago with your old partner, Detective Lucy, and got the bastard that killed the homeless man.”
“Jimmy.”
“Jimmy?” The Captain asked, squinting his eyes.
“The homeless man, his name was Jimmy.”
“Right, right. And this guy, Albert Evans, the Wall Streeter, you nailed him good.”
“They all got what they deserved. Let me ask you a question,” I paused, “who was it that applied the pressure to kick me out, Evans, or U.S. Congressman Stevens?”
The captain shifted his position, pushed his coffee mug aside, and replied, “In all honesty, I never found out. Someone called the mayor, who in turn called the police commissioner, and that’s when I got the call from the Chief of Police.”
I was either going to relive the past or move on, “Let’s move on. What can I do for you?” I asked, taking a puff from my cigar.
“I have some great news, I think. Now that you solved that case, and you proved you were on the right track back then, we want to work with you.”
“You want to reinstate me?”
“No, although we could talk about that. What we had in mind was to ask you to work as a consultant to the NYPD, to our precinct’s homicide division.”
Wow, a new case and two offers in the same morning. What was going on today? I thought to myself. “That’s quite a turnaround. I was not expecting anything like that.”
“It’s our way to pay you back. If you become a consultant, you keep your disability pay, and work on a case-by-case basis.” He opened his arms and smiled, asking, “What do you think?”
“That’s fascinating, Captain. I would have to think about it. There is the matter of a file that Internal Affairs has on me, which is like the Sword of Damocles, waiting to come down on me at any time.”
“About that file. What if it got cleansed?”
“Assuming I would accept, I want my record cleared of any bullshit that’s in there.”
“Joey, your record wasn’t necessarily spic and span, right?”
“Again, if I were to accept, I want to see my file before I commit. You and I can review my file together. Then we can talk about it.”
“Fair enough. When can you stop by the precinct?” He asked, as he stood up.
“I just took on a new case. Not before two weeks or so. Let me ask you, have you cleared this all the way up?” I asked, as I got up from my chair.
“I have, and it’s up to me to make the final decision, at this point. Your last case in the summer, the one that made the front pages of the New York Trib, I mean, you nailed five suspects, you solved three murders in one week. That got everyone’s attention, including, the Mayor and Police Commissioner O’Malley, whom I hear, is a patron of the pub. Call me in two weeks, and we can sit down.”
We made some small talk for a few minutes; I gave him a tour of the pub’s historic photographs on the walls, and the captain left. I could not believe what had happened this morning. As excited as I was to start a new case, and then, to consider these two offers, which I thought, were not in conflict with each other, I had a little voice telling me, Joey, not so fast.
For over two years I had had a relationship with someone I considered my soul mate. During the last six months we had gotten closer, and for the second time in our relationship, I thought marriage was a sure thing in the not too distant future. FBI Special Agent Marcela ‘Marcy’ Martinez was that soul mate. Daughter of Cuban immigrants, Marcy was born in New Jersey, and although feisty, and resolute, she was the most loving and caring person I had ever been with. Besides, she was the best-looking Special Agent the FBI had in the whole State of New York, or maybe the entire Tri-State area.
My near-death experience, a year and a half ago, at the hands of a shooter, had damaged our relationship, after I refused to take disability pay offered to me, despite her pleadings to do so. She felt, rightfully so, that my return to active duty proved that my first love was my job, and that she was second to that. Of course, my past immature attitude towards an occasional fling outside of our agreed monogamous status, added to the disenchantment. She had finally confessed six months ago, as we sat in the emergency room of the New York Presbyterian Hospital, when my former partner, Detective Lucy Roberts, was shot, that my selfishness towards my job made her think twice about accepting the engagement ring, after my almost fatal moment.
Now, I was a proprietor of a pub, a full-time business owner no longer wearing a gun to work, and our relationship had blossomed once again. The occasional crime solving case my brother and I took on as private investigators, she felt, would suffice my angst for crime solving. How would she react to me becoming a consultant for an NYPD homicide division? I thought to myself. I would have to address this with her, but it had to wait after the newly acquired case was solved, one way or the other. There was no time to waste pondering what both Marcy, and my brother Dom, would have to say about my newly uncovered opportunities, both of which excited me.
4
The loud sound of a car horn brought me back from my altered state of consciousness. The stream of cars and yellow cabs flowed steadily outside our pub’s door. Usually quiet inside our pub, before the start of business at two in the afternoon, the opening of the door allowed New York City to infuse our pub with its captivating sound. Someone was walking in, and I had no idea who it was.
“Good afternoon,” I said, “we don’t open until two.”
“Oh, I know. You must be Joey Man-cue-so,” a well-dressed fellow from central casting in his late thirties said. “I’m Special Agent Tony Belford, with the FBI’s White Collar Crime Division. Is Marcela here yet?” he asked, walking over to me and extending his hand.
I got up from the booth and shook hands with central-casted Tony, “Hi, happy to meet you Tony, but no, Marcy is not here, and it’s Mancuso,” I said, checking my hand for fractures, as he let
go. “Was she expecting you?”
“She was supposed to be here first, but I’m always early. Never know how traffic is going to be,” Tony replied. “I’m Marcy’s new partner.”
“Oh, great. So, how you doing’?” I asked, in my Italian slang.
“Living the dream, my man, living the dream.”
I tend to judge people by how they dress, perhaps judge is not the proper word, more like ‘read’ people. This fellow was ready for the cover of GQ Magazine. Brooks Brothers suit, Hermes tie, and Gucci shoes. Not a blonde hair out of place, a perfectly trimmed pencil mustache adorned his otherwise Adonis sculptured face. He was not dressing for himself, no, this asshole was dressing for others, and he wanted to create an image to be judged by. So, I did. An ‘asshole, at best’, I thought. “Have a seat,” I said. “I didn’t know Marcy had a partner.”
“Right, neither did she, until yesterday. I just got assigned here by FBI Director Wright, and Marcy’s in charge of showing me the ropes in New York.”
“So, you’re a new agent?”
“Hardly, Joey, I’ve been in Chicago’s office, and this is a new assignment for me. I’ve been a special agent for some years now, probably have more experience than Marcy, herself. I’m a Harvard graduate with a law degree, and a bachelor’s in criminology,” he said, emphatically.
Oh, she is going to love this guy, I thought. “Can I get you anything?” I asked, politely, but biting my tongue. This guy was a like a prairie dog; his neck moved almost three hundred and sixty degrees as he glanced everywhere.
“Noo, noo, I don’t drink or smoke. Got to keep the temple in shape. Thank you, though. I do love your place, very urban.”
‘Urban?’ What the fuck does that mean, asshole? I said to myself, “I was just about to light a new cigar. I’m sure Marcy will be here soon, have a seat,” I said, heading rapidly to my humidor to find a smelly stogie.
“I hear you and Marcy are good friends.”