“Easy, Kellan,” Jimmy said. “I’m guessing those are the goons who beat you?”
“It was dark, but yeah…that’s them.”
“Let me handle this.”
Even as he said the words, Jimmy didn’t want to initiate anything, not there. Maybe Mickey was just on the hunt for a brew, an innocent visit. Maybe the pope was Jewish.
“What, this a fucking homo bar now?” were the first words out of Mickey’s mouth, and he spoke them as he started down the narrow stretch between the bar and the opposing wall. His dark eyes were squarely directed at Jimmy.
“Go away, Mick,” Paddy said, rushing to the edge of the bar. “You’re not wanted here.”
“Public place, ain’t it? I’ll take a beer. My boys here like shots, whiskey. The good stuff, don’t go cheap on us, and none of those girly umbrellas in them drinks. Save them for McSwain.”
“You watch how you speak in my bar…”
“Paddy, it’s okay. Get Mickey his beer. I can handle him,” Jimmy said, rising from his chair.
Mickey neared his prey, standing just feet from Jimmy. “Ooh, a tough guy, huh? You tough in bed, too, faggot, humping some other guy?”
Jimmy closed his eyes, took a deep breath. When he reopened them, Mickey was standing even closer, his breath already foul with alcohol. Mickey Dean had always cut an imposing figure; in high school he’d already shot up to six feet, and now he towered at six four. Tonight his head was shaved to just leave stubble, and his arms were covered with a series of tattoos, none of them distinguishable in the dim lighting of the bar. He’d added a thick scar on his left cheek, the one Kellan had spoken about. Jimmy wondered what he’d done to earn that medal. Mickey was like a skinhead, thick bodied and rough, a throwback to an era when intimidation was enough to make anyone pee their pants. Jimmy knew Mickey had graduated beyond creating fear; he acted on those fears. Kellan was the latest proof. Jimmy wasn’t about to give in.
“Go on, Mick, have your beer with your boys, and crawl into a corner far away from here,” Paddy said. “No one but you wants trouble.”
“Who said anything about trouble? Maybe I’m looking for a date? You horny, McSwain?”
Jimmy took another pull of his beer. Jimmy had never hid his sexuality nor run from it. He wasn’t defined by it. He certainly wasn’t the type to rise to cheap insults.
Jimmy shook his head, sat back down. “You wouldn’t be able to handle it, Mick.”
“Oh, that so? Couple of pussies going at it?”
“You ever see two guys fucking? Girly is the last thing that would come to mind.”
Mickey Dean winced. He then leaned over the bar and retrieved his beer. He downed half of it in one pull. His goons had taken up a few feet away from him, protection at the ready but only needed when called upon.
“What about you, Byrne? You like sucking cock?”
“Shut up about Kellan,” Jimmy said, “Unless you want to look like he does.”
“That a threat, McSwain?” Mickey said, his voice like gravel. “Everyone here heard you.”
“No one heard a thing,” Paddy said, interjecting. “Drink your beer and get out.”
Mickey tossed a one-hundred-dollar bill on the bar. “I’ll tell you when we’re done.”
“I’d check that,” Jimmy said.
“You think I’m running counterfeit?”
“Your whole life, your whole façade, is fake. Why not your money?”
Mickey moved even closer to Jimmy, the air between them squeezed out. Jimmy continued to sit on his bar stool, his opponent standing, looming large. The bar had quieted, the attention now focused less on games and drinking and more on the confrontation taking place. Jimmy saw out of the corner of his eye Paddy at the ready with the telephone to call the cops, if the trouble escalated. Mickey had already beaten his son, and while their family was the type to settle problems among each other, Mickey’s eyes were already lit with booze, so there was no telling what he was going to do. Professional help might be needed. For now Jimmy signaled to his uncle to hang out. He’d handle this.
“Look, Mickey, I don’t know what you want, or why you’re even back in the neighborhood. Don’t make this worse, especially for yourself.”
Mickey didn’t say anything at first, he drank the rest of his beer. Slammed the glass down on the bar.
“Just remember, McSwain, this was my territory long before you came around and came out.”
“You done with the gay jokes? Nobody cares. It’s a new world.”
“Let me tell you what’s what, McSwain. Mind your own business.”
“Yeah, so you told Kellan. About what?”
“About everything that happens in this neighborhood, about anything you might hear about me,” Mickey said, the menace in his voice tinged with a darker edge, like he knew something, like he was trying to insinuate something between his words. What was this thug into now? Was he running drugs, weapons? He certainly wasn’t selling Girl Scout cookies. He was living life less on the edge and more on a precipice. Perhaps he was only an intermediary, reporting to guys who were even more dangerous than he. Guys who liked trouble tended to find even worse people to associate with.
“You’re full of shit, Mick, just like always. Surprised no one’s put a bullet in you.”
“Oh, you mean like your dear old dead dad?”
Jimmy regretted what he said, but he more regretted his actions. He leapt off his bar stool, a quick punch landing squarely on Mickey’s face. His nose splattered blood, but otherwise his big body didn’t budge. Jimmy felt pain rip through his arm from the forceful impact, but the heat he felt flooding through his veins overtook him, and he lashed out again, only to have it blocked by Mickey’s thick arm. Jimmy felt a blow come his way, and he tried to duck out of the way, but his anger fueled him more than his instinct for survival. The punch landed across his jaw, and he went down fast, hard, crashing against the wall and taking the bar stool with him.
“I told you, don’t fuck me with, McSwain,” Mickey said, wiping at his nose while hovering over him and looking bigger than usual. Jimmy’s view was skewed from staring up from the sticky floor. He was glad his first punch had done some damage, the blood still pouring out. He still felt like imparting more damage. His chest heaved, seething, seeking breath, seeking calm. It took all of Jimmy’s will power not to attack again.
“Get lost, Mickey,” Kellan said.
“Shut up, Byrne. Pussies like McSwain will never learn, never win.”
“That’s it, Mick, get the hell out, or I’m calling the cops…” Paddy started to say.
A new voice entered the mix, one that said, “There’ll be no need. The cavalry is here.”
Jimmy recognized the person behind the words, and the surprise helped him rise to his feet. He rubbed his jaw, thankful it wasn’t broken. He found himself staring at the equally imposing but far more attractive figure of Francis X. Frisano, the current captain of the 10th Precinct. He wasn’t in uniform, but that didn’t stop him from displaying a shiny gold badge, dropped open from a black wallet in his right hand.
“We got a problem here, gentlemen?” he said.
Jimmy welcomed Kellan’s hand, which helped in hefting him back up on his feet. Mickey turned, lifting his arms up as though he were under arrest, a not unlikely motion on his part and no doubt a familiar stance too. Surely he’d been in this situation before in his crime-laden life. The expression on his face was a mix of innocence and mockery.
“McSwain threw the first punch. I was only defending myself.”
“Shut up,” Frisano said.
He moved closer to the center of the drama, filled it with his own brand of learned intimidation. He was a career cop, knew how to hold himself and handle himself in confrontational situations. Jimmy had seen him in action during a hostage stand-off, and he knew that Frisano was the picture of calm under fire but decisive when needed. He also knew him as a fiery, potent lover, and at that moment he was as sexy as ever, dark scruff on
his cheeks, an open-necked shirt and pair of jeans under a leather jacket. It wasn’t the first time Jimmy felt weak in the knees at the sight of Frisano, but he had a feeling his current state of wooziness had more to do with the sucker punch he’d taken.
“Someone want to tell me what’s going on?” Frisano said.
Paddy spoke up. “Mickey Dean here, came in looking for trouble.”
Frisano turned to Mickey. “Do I know you?”
“Why the fuck would you know me?”
“I’m a cop. I make it a point to know criminals.”
“You don’t know shit. You know who my father is?”
“The bully’s last defense, hiding behind someone else,” Frisano said “But why don’t you enlighten me.”
“Lieutenant Lawrence Dean, Senior. He works in the commissioner’s office.”
Frisano nodded, as though he was impressed. Jimmy knew he wasn’t. Frisano’s own father worked at One Police Plaza too, but seeing two sons of the higher-up brass was like the city of New York, so vast and sprawling, had suddenly become a small town where everyone knew everyone, the prodigal son meeting the favored son.
“Yeah, I know him,” Frisano said. “Shame he’s got a son like you.”
“Fuck you, asshole.”
“You realize I could bring you in right now? You could spend a night in jail thinking of a way to retract those words.”
“Fuck you. I told you, McSwain attacked me. I’m innocent.”
Frisano laughed. “I doubt you’ve ever been innocent, even in the womb.”
There was a chuckle that spread among the denizens of the bar. Mickey wiped at his nose, a smear of blood on his hand. He realized he’d overplayed his hand and overstayed his welcome, if he’d been welcome at all. Jimmy saw him indicate to his two goons that it was time to go. The last thing he did before leaving was take back the one-hundred-dollar bill he’d left on the bar And old Paddy to suck up the cost of their drinks, the least he could do.
“Oh, and McSwain, heed what I said. Stay out of my business.”
“I was doing just that, until you made your business mine.” He smiled, letting Mickey Dean know he wasn’t done with him.
Mickey left, his goons in tow, leaving the crowd at Paddy’s Pub uncertain what to do, how to act. Paddy announced a free round on him, and everyone cheered, and before long the jukebox was playing, darts were being thrown, and the crack of a fresh game of pool won out over the drama of what had happened just a short while ago. Jimmy sipped at a fresh drink, even while he stared at the man sitting next to him, not Kellan this time, who had gone to the restroom, leaving space for Frisano to join in on the complimentary beer.
Jimmy found himself staring at Frisano, a rush of emotions swirling inside him. It had been a long day, one that had begun with him fearing seeing Frisano at the precinct when he went in for his meeting with Barone and ironically ended with him making an appearance here. His was day framed by thoughts of Frisano, and here he was in the flesh, deliciously so, sexy and alluring as ever. He conjured thoughts of the nights when they had been alone together, when the world didn’t matter and only the passion they shared did. Jimmy could have reached out now, run a hand across his stubble, slid a hand down to the exposed triangle of dark chest hair, knowing it was just a tease of the furry blanket that hid beneath the folds of his shirt.
Jimmy felt his throat close, dry-mouthed with anticipation of how this night could end. He then remembered Steven Wang, the night they had shared, the date that loomed this coming week. Was now really the time to be thinking of men, of relationships? Thankfully, Frisano didn’t steer the conversation that way. He had a different opening.
“So you discovered a body, I hear.”
“Oh, that.”
“You make it sound…nonchalant.”
“Henderson Carlyle, I didn’t discover him. My client did, but yeah, I called it in.”
“So Barone told me.”
“Is that why you’re here? Something I should know about the case?”
“I know you, Jim.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means stay away from this one.”
“I wasn’t…”
“Like I said, Jim, I know you. You can never let a case rest until it’s solved.”
“Solved” was a complicated word, its meaning not as final as it sounded. When Jimmy filed away a case, for him it was finished. He knew the ramifications of whatever crime he’d been drawn into never fully ended. The ripple effect on people’s lives was felt forever. A young man named Harris Rothschild had run from home, and it had ended with his father’s murder. Dumb as a rock, Rocky Martino had fallen in love with a man and watched him get shot and die in his arms. The Calloway family had nearly lost their theatre because of jealously, of drama that consumed the off-stage world of Broadway. Nothing was ever over, especially not the Forever Haunt, the name he’d given his father’s case, cold still, frozen in time, in space. Solved only opened up new wounds.
“I’m not involved with this one.”
“Keep it that way,” Frisano said. He set down his glass, the beer empty. “So this Mickey guy, should I keep an eye on him?”
“I’ve got it handled.”
“Tell that to your jaw.”
Jimmy rubbed it again. It might need some ice. “You should see the other guy.”
“I did. Didn’t like what I saw.”
“Like I said, I can handle it.”
Frisano nodded. “Typical Jimmy McSwain.”
“I don’t change, Frank.”
He nodded. “Too bad.”
He got up from the bar, stopped, and Jimmy felt his man’s gaze sink into him. He could have easily fallen into his arms, be taken away to be taken, but then he said nothing more, thanked Paddy for the drink, and he left the bar as quickly and silently as he had entered it. Jimmy was left with a mixed bag tossing inside him, his heart at the bottom of the pile.
“Who the hell was that guy?” Kellan asked, returning to his seat.
He thought about the question, and he thought about an answer. He had many. Finally, he settled on the truth.
“Just a cop,” Jimmy said, a wistful tone to his voice, “Just a cop.”
§ § § §
Jimmy slept, sort of. He was awake every hour, almost on the hour. It’s not that he dreamed. Such a notion would have required the deep REM sleep that doctors recommended. Instead his mind was flooded with images of his bruised cousin, of the scarred visage of Mickey Dean, replaying the quick fight they’d engaged in, the surprise arrival of Frisano. The night should have continued with Jimmy bringing Frisano to his office, where the two of them would have indulged the passion that tended to override their common sense. The flickering heat between them often won out over the bitter truth of their lives except last night. Because Frisano was closeted, devoted to life in the NYPD, and Jimmy felt seemingly unable to settle into anything resembling a healthy relationship, sometimes the flame went out.
Sleep eventually came his way, his mind shutting down for the night. Now, sunlight slipped through the opening in the curtains, taunting Jimmy’s eyes to awaken. He was naked beneath the comforting sheets, his cock poking up at the mere thought of being enfolded in Frisano’s muscular, furred arms. Maybe had had dreamed after all. Maybe knowing he’d been inches away from him hours ago had stirred carnal thoughts. If he’d been brave, he would have kept Frisano from leaving the bar. He hadn’t. It was cowardice keeping him from acting. It was fear of restarting something that tended to end in sorrow. His eyes flashed on the time on his alarm clock while he grabbed for his ringing phone. Ten-seventeen, unusual that he had slept this late. That was his first thought. His second thought was he didn’t recognize the number of the caller. That never deterred him. Work usually started with a mystery.
“This is Jimmy.”
“Jimmy McSwain?”
“One in the same,” he said. “Who is this?”
“Mr. McSwain, my name is Melissa
Harris-J’Arnoud. We met briefly the other night.”
Jimmy knew the name, but a fuzzy, beer-infused sleep kept him from remembering.
“You were the guest of Serena Carson,” she continued.
His shook his head, sat up in bed. “The charity…”
“I’m the CEO of Help Is Here. I wonder if we could meet.”
“Meet?”
“In person.”
“To discuss?”
There was a noted pause before she said, “Henderson Carlyle.”
If words represented warning signals, hearing his name felt like the shot of a gun. His mind recalled a different warning, this one coming first from Barone then from Frisano. Stay away, far away, from the Carlyle case. Yet here it was again, a part of his morning for the third straight day, almost like it was being dangled in front of him, there to grab, murder at his fingertips.
“I’m not sure how I can help.”
“Please, Mr. McSwain, meet with me, Lunch, today, my treat. There’s a lovely little bistro not far from our Midtown offices, Saju, on West 44th Street. Might you know it?”
He did. Jimmy knew many of the local haunts of the theatre district. It was just a few blocks from the Calloway Theatre, where his mother worked.
“One o’clock.”
“That’s fine,” Jimmy said. “Can I ask one question before I meet you?”
“Ask away.”
“Was Henderson Carlyle a friend of yours?”
There was another pause, this one way longer, and he wondered if he’d lost the connection. Then she said, “Can you be discreet?”
“That’s what I’m paid to do.”
She paused before saying, “He beat the crap out of me, too, Mr. McSwain”
Jimmy swallowed hard and said, before hanging up, “Call me ‘Jimmy.’”
Her words lingered with him all morning, through a bagel and coffee and a shower in which he allowed the hot water to pelt his tired body, almost as if he was willing to lose himself within the enveloping steam. His mind raced, because he was treading into territory he’d been warned to avoid, but then he thought of Serena Carson and the genuine fear he’d seen across her face when Carlyle had approached her at the benefit. Now he was about to meet another of Carlyle’s victims, and who knew how many others there were? He had to wonder just what Melissa Harris-J’Arnoud wanted from him, only to talk or perhaps to hire him And to do what? No doubt she’d gotten his number from Serena, which made him wonder if he was being led down a path he shouldn’t venture down. He was a private detective, and one of his suspicions on the job was that there were more words unspoken than voiced. Reading people meant knowing what they weren’t saying.
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