Guardian Angel

by Adam Carpenter

  “You’ll be fine. A little scar maybe, perhaps it will give you a look of danger.”

  “Gee, Pops, that’s the look I was going for.”

  From the bathroom, Jimmy felt a stab of sorrow, knowing he was jealous of the bond shared by this father and his sons. It didn’t matter your age; a father and a son always needed one another. You were there to care for your kid in pain. You were there to care for him in later years. Jimmy hung up his jacket, placed it on a hook, removed his shirt and tossed it to the floor, and winced when he wrenched his shoulder. He stared at his exposed body in the mirror, focusing on the mottled skin where he’d been shot. What Steven had found sexy, Jimmy felt was a constant reminder of what he didn’t have. He shared a bond with his father, having been shot. How come he’d survived, and Joseph McSwain hadn’t? How come the tender scene in the living room wasn’t being enacted by Jimmy and his father? Because fate had already spun its tale. The bullet which had torn through Jimmy’s shoulder hadn’t been an intentional hit, as opposed to the one that hit his father. Joseph had been targeted, executed, a hit to the heart, too many hearts.

  Jimmy washed his face, felt the cold water invigorate his tired eyes. Memories faded, and he dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans he had on a hook then headed back out. Kellan was sitting up on the sofa, almost as if he too had let go of the past, focused now on healing, on tomorrow. Jimmy sat on the edge of the sofa.

  “You want to start from the beginning?”

  Kellan tossed a wary look at his father. Jimmy read that as the son not having told his father everything.

  “I’m not a dummy, Kellan,” Paddy said. “You were talking to that pretty girl half the night. It’s not hard to put two and two together when you left together.”

  “She was this actress, just moved to the neighborhood a couple months ago. Name’s Sally.”

  “Cute thing,” Paddy said.

  “Pop…maybe you should go see what’s keeping Taran? Does he even know what a brandy bottle looks like? Last I knew, Budweiser didn’t have the same effect.”

  Paddy let out a humph. “Fine. Confess your sins to Jimmy. We’ll figure out a plan of action later. I’ll pick up Taran at the bar, and we’ll head on home.”

  “Kellan can crash here,” Jimmy said. “I’ll watch over him.”

  To his son Paddy said, “Listen to Jimmy.”

  “Why, because he’s a tough guy, private detective?”

  “No, because he’s family.”

  Before leaving, Paddy placed a comforting hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, warmth spreading between them. The simple gesture didn’t possess the power to physically heal anything, but Jimmy nonetheless immediately felt a fresh wave of inclusion consume him, family indeed. The soft ache dissipated, and Paddy disappeared, and suddenly the two men were left alone.

  “I don’t have brandy, but I’ve got beer if you want.”

  “I think I’m okay.”

  “Good, so talk. This girl…Mickey Dean…bruises. Are they related?”

  “Not that I’m aware. She’s not from Hell’s Kitchen, like I said, just rents a place nearby, a wannabe actress. She had a pretty smile, and sure, she’d had a couple drinks, but we also hit it off, and she invited me to back to her apartment nearby, telling me her roommate was away for the Thanksgiving holiday weekend.”

  “And so you said ‘Yes.’”

  “I’m single, she’s single, two consenting adults…”

  Jimmy thought of himself with Steven Wang. “No judgments.”

  “Yeah, you were getting home pretty late, Jimmy….”

  “Focus,” he said.

  Kellan, being younger by five years and probably feeling vulnerable from the bruises on his face, did as asked but not without a smile crossing his face. This Sally-actress probably hadn’t been able to resist it. All his cousin lacked was an authentic Irish accent.

  “So we left at, I don’t know, one o’clock? She lives on Ninth Avenue and Fifty-First Street, just a few blocks from the pub. We walked up, talked, you know, finally able to hear ourselves out on the street and away from the noise of the pub. We went upstairs, and well, you can guess the rest. I left around three.”

  “Did she ask you to stay overnight?”

  “No. Why, is that important?”

  “Depends. Where were you attacked?”

  “A block away, dragged down Fiftieth Street to where it was darker, fewer people.”

  “You think you were specifically targeted?”

  Kellan hesitated before answering, almost as though he were trying to understand for himself what had happened and more importantly, why. It always came down to why, to motive. “Well, I know it was Mickey Dean and his idiot thugs. Everyone who grew up here knows Mickey. He was a thug back then. He’s worse now, scarred.”

  The scar aside, Kellan’s statement was true enough. The Deans had called Hell’s Kitchen home as long as the McSwains and the other denizens of the hood had, long before gentrification began creeping its expansive façade in, tenements giving way to high-rises, forcing many of the old-timers out to the suburbs or their graves. Maggie McSwain, Jimmy’s mother, had been among the holdouts, and the family still lived on 10th Avenue at 48th Street. The Deans lived a few blocks away, their house similarly ruled by a strong-willed lady despite the fact her husband was high up in the ranks of the NYPD. Then there were the two Dean sons—Larry, who was now a detective in the NYPD and whom Jimmy had seen just hours ago at the crime scene for Henderson Carlyle, and of course Mickey. Once there had been a daughter too, named… Jimmy couldn’t remember it, but she’d died as a teenager, an apparent suicide that had had the neighborhood buzzing for weeks. And now Mickey Dean, the bad seed, had resurfaced, a brat who’d always straddled both sides of the law, apparently prowling the streets late at night looking for trouble. He’d found it tonight with Kellan Byrne.

  “Did he address you by name?”

  “Sure as hell did. He said he thought I’d fled to Florida.”

  “‘Fled’? That was the word he said?”

  “He said it more with a sneer, like he was responsible for chasing me out of New York.”

  “You and he did have trouble back in school, most did.”

  “A bully picking on a weakling, tale as old as time.”

  “Like Beauty and the Beast. Except you’re Belle and Mickey is Gaston.”

  “Really, Jimmy, show tunes at a time like this? You’re the weirdest PI ever.”

  “Keeps people unbalanced. They never know what to expect.”

  “So, is that where you were, in that tux? A show?”

  “The Nutcracker. It was a case, though.”

  “How’d it end?”

  “The performance, or the night?”

  “Um, it’s late, so I’ll go with the night.”

  Jimmy blinked, thinking about the answer, and wasn’t sure there was one. “Mixed results. Let’s get back to you, Kellan. Who threw the first punch?”

  “Oh, Mickey never touched me, of course. That’s not his style, you know that it never was. He got his two goons to toss me around. He just watched, directed it. A punch here, a punch there, all accompanied by laughter. He encouraged them on, like he had a great seat for a prize fight, and he’d placed a bet on the result.”

  Jimmy could visualize it. Mickey always had flunkies to do his dirty work, even back in school yard days.

  “How long did the attack last?”

  “Couple of minutes. They got in some good punches, as you can see. Then they threw me down a set of stairs that led down to a basement apartment. I crashed into some garbage cans. Then I heard them walking away, still laughing.”

  “So Mickey never said anything to you, why he went after you?”

  Again there came hesitation. Jimmy sensed his cousin was trying to keep something from him. Now wasn’t the time for secrets.

  “Kellan, I need to know the whole truth. Mickey’s been AWOL for a while. There has to be a reason he’s back. What did he say?”

>   “Okay, before he left, while I was trying to get up, he said…and I quote, ‘tell your fucking cousin to mind his own business.’”

  Jimmy remained silent. Kellan had three cousins: Mallory, Meaghan, and himself. He had little doubt who the message was meant for, which meant that Mickey Dean had used Kellan as batting practice for who he wanted to hit in the real game. He wondered what it all meant. He and Mickey had never seen eye to eye, but they also never had any “business” to speak of. Interesting, and unnerving. He’d have to see where this investigation led him, but first things first, a few more details were needed.

  “This girl, Sally, you got a phone number for her?”

  “No…I mean, I told her I was only visiting for the weekend, heading home. I think that’s why she was so willing to…you know, have a one-night stand. Just fun for a couple of hours.”

  “But you could find her building, right?”

  Kellan spoke the address. “Apartment 4C in the back. You gonna talk to her?”

  “I just might. Care to give me a description…and I don’t need more than necessary.”

  Kellan smiled. “She did have this cute birthmark…”

  “Good for you, Kellan, you scored last night. Dark hair, light? Height…”

  “Long brown hair, blue eyes, a face shaped like the moon and lit just like it should be in the sky.”

  “You use that line on her?”

  “Hey, it worked.” He paused. “It was a chance encounter, Jimmy. No way she set me up.”

  “Sure, I’m a suspicious guy, hate coincidences. Best to eliminate her possible involvement before I deal with Mickey.”

  “Jimmy, I appreciate it…but just leave it. In another day I’ll be gone, Taran and I.”

  “Doesn’t mean Mickey Dean gets away with it. He’s been hiding behind his cop father for too many years, and for some reason he’s chosen this moment to resurface, reassert himself on our turf. But don’t you worry about it. Get some sleep. You’re not going to look too pretty later, but then again, you don’t look all that pretty now either. Your Miss Sally might not be so charmed by your looks now.”

  “Gee, I ought to look great going through airport security.”

  “Maybe you ought to stick around a couple days,” Jimmy suggested.

  “Hide and heal?”

  “At least heal. I’d never advocate hiding, but stay away from Mickey. I’ll deal with him.”

  Jimmy got up from the sofa, let his cousin spread out on the sofa, which meant he didn’t have a place to sleep. He walked over to the window, stared out at 9th Avenue, still quiet at six in the morning on a Sunday. He considered going over to his mother’s and crawling into his bed, and then he wished he’d never taken that call from Serena Carson and that he was still in the warm comfort of Steven’s bed. It was big and roomy and welcoming. Instead Jimmy crumpled his body onto the tattered chair in the corner and wished for sleep to hit him. Kellan was already out.

  Too much had happened in one night.

  He’d wrapped up Serena Carson’s case.

  Henderson Carlyle was dead, slaughtered by some unknown assailant.

  He’d had, as Kellan had said, “fun,” with a hot doctor.

  And for some reason the once wayward Mickey Dean had re-ignited a turf war with the Byrne family, and what worried Jimmy even more was the fact Kellan had been a mere pawn, no doubt a way to get Jimmy’s attention. Just what the hell was his motive? Mickey was a petty thief, a bully, a crook who had avoided any jail time, because of who he was and where his father worked. Jimmy didn’t take kindly to nepotism. Kellan had his father to help him heal. Mickey had his father to keep him from a life behind bars. What could Jimmy’s father do?

  A hole opened up and pulled him in.

  A new day had begun. The world beginning to wake up. That’s when Jimmy finally slept.

  § § § §

  Kellan was gone by the time Jimmy stirred. A text message on his phone said he’d gone back to his father’s apartment, he was feeling a bit stiff, and thanks. Otherwise, all was quiet, no other calls, but that wasn’t unusual on a Sunday morning. Seems the human condition had a way of respecting, at least for a few hours, that the Lord’s Day was one of rest. No doubt his mother had gone to mass at nearby St. Malachi’s, dragging the very pregnant and reluctant Meaghan with her. Unwed, future mothers needed to repent. Then his mother had to work the three p.m. matinee at the Calloway Theatre, where the new play, Triskaidekaphobia, continued its acclaimed run. All the drama associated with the Stage Fright case had thankfully gone quiet.

  Jimmy’s stomach growled, reminding him he’d barely eaten last night. A few appetizers at the post-performance party hadn’t exactly been filling. He decided he’d go out and grab a bacon-egg sandwich and the papers; he doubted either the Daily News or the Post had the story yet about the murder of Henderson Carlyle, at least not the print editions. He’d look them up online in a bit. First he needed food and coffee.

  He quickly showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and a pullover sweater, grabbing his leather jacket on the way out. It felt good to be back in his familiar skin, and that’s when he reminded himself he needed to return the tux to the rental shop. For now, he headed uptown along 9th Avenue, stopping at a nearby deli where he ordered his breakfast. He paid, grabbed the paper bag, and headed out into the cold morning, where he could see his breath in the air. The chill didn’t deter him, and he ended up in Clinton Square, a small park not far from where he grew up. An elderly couple walking their Maltese, a woman jogging down the street were the exceptions to the brisk morning. Jimmy was left with time alone on a bench where he could sip the steaming coffee and chew down his sandwich.

  He typed in his passcode and his iPhone came up, where he tapped on the Daily News app.

  The murder of Henderson Carlyle was the lead piece.

  SHOCKING MURDER ROCKS UPPER EAST SIDE SOCIETY.

  There was a photo of the stoop where the murder happened, a splotch of blood evident, and in the inset was a postage-stamp size photo of the once-handsome victim. Of course there was also an accompanying photograph of Serena Carson, and it only took Jimmy a moment to realize it was from last night’s benefit. Thankfully he’d been excised from the photo. Best to avoid public attention. Jimmy clicked on the article, and he absorbed the contents as his belly absorbed the needed grease from his bacon-filled sandwich. It was simultaneously filling and nausea-inducing. The team of reporters credited with the story had remarkably accurate details, though they hadn’t yet stumbled upon the fact Serena had an order of protection against the victim, quotes from neighbors who claimed they had seen and heard nothing, a full statement from the NYPD’s communications office stating they had no leads at the moment but that “a brutal killing such as this will not go unpunished.”

  Jimmy closed out of the app and went to the Post. Little was different. The only difference was a quote from Melissa Harris-J’Arnoud, the chairperson of Help Is Here, who said, “It is with shock and dismay that I have learned of the death of one of our treasured board members, a fine and true humanitarian. Henderson Carlyle did special work with New Yorkers in need, and he will be greatly missed.” Jimmy remembered the victim tossing around that name last night, since she’d allowed him into the closed reception. He had to wonder if there was more than a professional relationship between the two. Maybe the Serena Carson case wasn’t over just yet. Investigations were never simple.

  For now, though, his breakfast was gone, and the chill was beginning to seep beneath his skin. So he got up from his bench, strode back to 9th Avenue and soon came to 51st Street. He found the address of this Sally chick, who, if the buzzer was any indication, showed that the person who lived in 4C had a last name of Ranch, Sally Ranch. Maybe it was a stage name; maybe she had a bad agent. No matter, with nothing to go on but the buzzer before him, he depressed the one for 4C and waited for a response. None was forthcoming. He checked his watch. It was just past eleven o’clock, so maybe she was out, or maybe she w
as sleeping off the effects of the night’s activity. But the thing about being a private investigator, you didn’t get anywhere by being easily deterred. He pressed the buzzer again, and that’s when he heard the crackle from the other end.

  “What the hell…?”

  “Ms….um, Sally. I’m a friend of Kellan’s…”

  “Who the hell is that?”

  She had a lovely vocabulary. “You met him last night, I believe.”

  “Oh…yeah, what the hell’s this about?”

  “Kellan, uh, he was attacked last night, afterwards…he’s fine, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

  There was silence on the other end. Then came that same crackle.

  “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Jimmy McSwain. I’m Kellan’s cousin. This will only take a moment.”

  He expected her to come down and meet him at the door, to talk there. The next thing he heard was the release of the lock, the Manhattan version of being invited upstairs. She picked up men in bars. She allowed strangers into her building. He was beginning to question the common sense of this woman. Lucky her she’d met a nice guy in Kellan and in Jimmy, a gay one with an agenda that didn’t go beyond answers.

  He trudged up the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the narrow hall. He did that on purpose, so she could hear his approach. Indeed, as he reached the landing on the fourth floor, he heard the turn of a lock and a door opening. A woman of about five feet four stood there, her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore sweats and had in her hand a frying pan. Either he’d interrupted a pancake breakfast, or she was finally displaying some self-preservation.

  “Sally? I assure you, the pan isn’t necessary, but if you are more comfortable meeting at the coffee shop across the street, that’s fine.”

  “You said you’re Kellan’s cousin?”

  “I’m also a private investigator.” Not wanting to panic her, Jimmy slowly reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew his license.

  “A private…?”

  “Do you want me to toss it over to you? You can even call Kellan, or my mother…”

  She actually smiled, and Jimmy saw the alluring smile that Kellan had probably found hot. “Anyone who invokes their mother, I guess is okay in my book. Come in, Jimmy. I can even see a bit of Kellan in you, your eyes for one, the scruff on your face. You’re taller…”