“Well, as I live and breathe, it’s Jimmy McSwain. My favorite private dick.”
Jimmy laughed. How could he not.
“Terry Cloth,” he said, “it’s nice to be remembered.”
“Oh, honey, I’d remember you, even afflicted with Alzheimer’s.”
“Gee, a politically incorrect compliment, I’ve never been more flattered. I must be at the Dress-Up Club. Miss Jellicle Balls performing tonight?”
“Alas, no. She’s out of town with her mother. Some summer trip for them both.”
“Good for them. Glad Harris and Jellison are healing.”
Harris was Harris Rothschild, who at night performed under the name Miss Jellicle Balls, and he did an amazing rendition of “Memory” from Cats. His mother, Jellison, had understudied the role of Grizabella on Broadway for a time, until she met the wealthy Saul Rothschild. Jimmy had found himself caught in their drama earlier this year, a file he’d labeled Hidden Identity. Not that he was here tonight for a show, but still, it would have been good to reconnect with people who’d found a happy ending. He didn’t always get those.
“So, who’s your headliner tonight?”
“Ooh, a doll. The legendary Miss Perfidia. You’ll love her.”
“I’ll try to stick around.”
“Ooh, don’t tell me. You’re working a case.”
“Aren’t you overworking that phrase?
“Ooh, so hunky and attractive, but so little time to play. Such a shame,” Terry Cloth said, pretending to wipe a tear from her perfectly applied mascara.
Terry Cloth was actually Terence Black, the proprietor of the Dress-Up Club and a big advocate for finding happiness within your inner drag queen. She did good work with men who might be having trouble understanding their sexuality, and Jimmy had a soft spot for her. Terry owned the entire building and offered up housing to men who sought refuge from unacceptance. Jimmy admired that.
“So, tell me Jimmy, what brings you down to our corner of the sky?”
“Let me guess, Pippin.”
“Ooh, you are a show queen. I like that.”
“I grew up in the theatres. It rubs off.”
“I’ll leave that one alone,” Terry Cloth said with a wink.
“I’m looking for Gregory Anderson,” Jimmy said, going all business now. “I believe he’s one of your bartenders.”
“Ooh, and a handsome one at that. He’s the shirtless one over there with the green bow tie.”
“Terry, all of your wait staff wear the same non-outfit.”
“Blonde hair, big nips. We don’t have to wax him like we do some others.”
Jimmy couldn’t help it, he grinned widely. “I’ll have to come back more often. No one makes me smile like you do, Terry.”
“Give me more than a pop-in, I’ll make you smile.”
“Some other time. Do you mind if I borrow Greg?”
“I don’t see why not. We’re between sets. Perfidia is on late, his real self is working a Broadway show. But please stay for her set, I’ll introduce you to Miss Perfidia. She might take a liking to you. But then again, she’s fickle. She might take a not liking to you.” Terry paused, a perfectly painted fingernail dancing around the rim of Jimmy’s shirt, toying with his chest hair. “Unlike me.”
“Uh, Greg, please?”
With a wave of her hand, Miss Terry Cloth escorted Jimmy over to the bar, asking if he wanted a glass of wine.
“Beer is fine.”
“Ooh, so macho.”
A beer was served, and Jimmy took a sip from the glass. Terry smiled at him, wiping a bit of foam from his upper lip.
“It’s on the house, on account of you being so dreamy.”
“Still a charmer,” he said. “Thanks.”
The flirting route was done. “I’ll get Greg.”
Jimmy surveyed the room, remembering his previous visits. He’d taken Barry here on a date, which had really been part of the case he’d been working. It was a bad situation of mixing business and pleasure, and it had kind of defined their relationship. For a moment, Jimmy tried to imagine sitting at one of the round tables in the cabaret room, he and Frisano sharing a bottle of champagne while watching Cher and Cher Alike performing their duet of “I’ve Got You Babe.” He knew Sonny would rise from the dead first.
“You wanted to see me?”
Jimmy turned to find a pretty young man standing before him. His eyes were blue, maybe even more so than Jimmy’s, and they owned a piercing quality he found himself drawn to. His blond hair was styled in a messy, contemporary way, and he had a good body. Tan skin, not a blemish to be found. As Terry had said, he was as smooth as a baby.
“Greg, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” he said. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Jimmy McSwain, A friend of Terry’s and a private investigator.”
“Look, uh…”
“Call me Jimmy. And don’t be nervous. Terry vouches for me.”
“Actually, Terry said to be nice to you. She wants to jump your bones.”
“Now if that’s not being vouched for, I don’t know what is.”
The remark seemed to deflate the tension in Greg’s shoulders. “Okay, Jimmy. What’s this about?”
“Alicia McDonald.”
His face paled, and Jimmy reached out to grab his arm, fearing he’d faint. No wonder his almost father-in-law didn’t like him. Greg was a bit of a delicate flower.
“Sorry to throw that out without warning, I should have couched it better.”
“Alicia’s dead. So is that part of my life.”
“I know all that. I’m investigating a murder, and the case ties in with Alicia’s death.”
“I’m sure I know nothing about any of this. I keep a low profile, Jimmy. Terence took me in when I was questioning. I mean, I’m still questioning some things. I like men now; I think maybe I always did. But this world, he keeps trying to get me to reinvent myself and get me on that stage. I think I prefer just serving drinks. It’s a fun atmosphere, I make great tips, and it keeps me from thinking about anything too serious.”
“I respect that, I do. But a man’s been murdered. As in first degree.”
“You mean, premeditated.”
“In cold blood. I watched the life drain out of him.” It was an exaggeration, he knew, but one he wanted to perpetuate for effect. He felt he nearly had Greg on his side, and so he went in for the kill, so to speak. “The victim was Duvan Ahkbar, does that name ring a bell?”
“He killed Alicia. What, did someone kill him in prison?”
“Duvan was released three months ago. He was living first at a halfway house—sort of a rehab for ex-cons, named Alicia House. Then he found housing in Upper Manhattan. It was a gift of sorts, from Eaton McDonald.”
The name of course registered with Greg, and finally he took a seat opposite Jimmy. He eyed one of the bartenders, called him over. He asked for a shot of vodka, apparently not caring that he was on duty. Jimmy took one as well. Soon, they had raised their glasses, Jimmy not sure if there was a toast involved, and then they drank them down. He felt the burning liquid on his throat. It had been a while since he’d indulged in the spirits.
“Okay, we got that out of the way. Tell me, did you and Eaton get along?”
“On the surface, yeah. But secretly I think he thought I wasn’t…uh, right for Alicia.”
Jimmy took a look around the Dress-Up Club. Men dressed as women, in gowns and full makeup, parading around the place and joking with the clientele, which was represented by both straight and gay folks. It was a genial, jovial night out, a far cry from the moneyed, proper world Greg had once been invited to. Which of these two worlds had made Greg the happiest, that’s what Jimmy wanted to know.
“I was engaged to Alicia for a year, the wedding still six months off when she was killed by Duvan. It was an agonizing time, there was such pressure from her family and friends to have the most perfect—which, in Eaton’s world, means expensive—wedding ever. There wou
ld be hundreds of guests, most of them business associates of the McDonalds. They have a huge estate out in the Hamptons where it was to take place. But amidst all the plans, it was like I didn’t matter, much less exist. Once she died, I went soul searching, and one night I wandered into a bar. I knew it was gay bar, but I didn’t care. I just needed to bury the pain. I got drunk, and then some guy picked me up. I slept with him, and after that night, I confess, it wasn’t the first time I’d done such a thing, but this time it felt…real. I’d never felt more myself. It was like Alicia’s death allowed me to reclaim myself.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that Duvan Ahkbar was also gay?”
He shifted nervously. “I don’t see that it matters one way or the other.”
“Or that he’d found love. And his lover now stands accused of murdering him?”
“It happens. You know the old saying, it’s a thin line between love and hate.”
“Greg, I’m going to ask you a question. Did you murder Duvan Ahkbar?”
“Me…murder…Jimmy, or whatever your name is, I think I’m done talking to you.”
“Sorry, Greg, look, relax,” Jimmy said, reaching out, touching his arm in what he hoped was a gesture of support. “I don’t think you had anything to do with it. But working a case means sorting through the evidence so you can eliminate it. Your expression tells me everything. Once I get rid of the clutter, I’ll be able to see the picture more clearly. I’ll be able to clear Rocky of the charges.”
“Look, I wish you luck, I do. You seem like a good guy, and Terry likes you. Life is weird, though, it’s always in flux. Finding love isn’t easy. I thought I had it with Alicia, we were going to get married, live in a brand-new brownstone, have kids, everything. Then one night, we are out with friends, we had too many drinks. Alicia darted out into traffic against the light…and boom, she was gone. So I can relate to your friend…this Rocky, if he lost the love of his life, that’s a real tragedy. But it’s got nothing to do with me anymore. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m working. Please don’t come back again.”
“Wait, please. One last question. You mentioned a brownstone. Do you mean the one at One Hundred and Seventh Street and Broadway?”
“How do you know the location?”
“It’s where Duvan lived most recently. Eaton McDonald set him up in it after he was released from prison to his death, just last Friday.”
“No, no, that can’t be right. Our brownstone was going to be new. There’s an empty lot just near the corner of West End Avenue. The old building was torn down because there were cracks in the foundation, and Eaton’s grand gesture for his daughter was for a new one to be built. I don’t know if he ever went through with the construction. I haven’t been up in that neighborhood since Alicia’s death.”
“Thanks, Greg. You’ve been a big help.”
“Good. Now I have work to do.”
With that, Greg Anderson picked up his round serving tray, straightened his bow tie, and returned to the cabaret room where he started chatting up his thirsty patrons. He stole one last look back at Jimmy, a haunted look in his eyes. Jimmy knew it well. Time didn’t always heal all wounds. Sometimes it just ticked in the back of your mind, endlessly counting off the seconds, minutes, hours you spent without that person. Was this how Greg lived his life, burying his pain in some newfound gayness? How about Rocky and his coming out? How about Jimmy himself, fourteen years removed from his father’s murder, and still not able to shake it. Demons never left you.
“How’d it go, sailor?”
Jimmy spun to see a curious Terry Cloth standing before him. She’d wrapped herself in her trademark robe that gave her her name. Guess that meant she was getting ready to introduce the next show.
“You’re not staying?” she asked.
“Wish I could. I need to see a man about…”
Terry Cloth held up a hand. “Stop right there. You need a man, you’ve come to the wrong place, honey.”
With a hearty laugh, she leaned over and planted a kiss smack dab on Jimmy’s lips, a mix of lipstick and five o’clock shadow eliciting a strange response inside him. A moment later, as he departed the Dress-Up Club and strode out into the dark night of a warm summer night. he could hear the applause as Terry Cloth took to the stage. He didn’t think everything she did was an act.
§ § §
Jimmy’s thoughts turned to returning home to Tenth Avenue and 48th to catch up on his sleep, but realized the apartment would be too quiet, too empty. His mother and Meaghan were still up at Peach Lake. He texted Mallory, but got no response. Where he ended up was his uncle Paddy’s bar, figuring when he was done for the night, he would just crawl upstairs and crash at his office.
“Thought you were up at the lake,” Paddy said as Jimmy sat down at the bar.
“Had to come back, something on a case I’m working.”
Paddy slid a Smithwicks in front of him. “Those deli murders?”
“Actually, that’s part of it. But no, a different case.”
“How’s Hester?”
“Your mother is as irrepressible as ever. She doesn’t seem to like aging.”
“Yeah, well, feeling’s mutual. Age doesn’t like her, keeps trying to get rid of her,” he said. “But she’ll outlive us all.”
“I think if you told my mother that, she’d jump in the lake and happily drown.”
“That’s why I’m down here,” Paddy said. “Everything else okay, Jim?”
“Time will tell.”
“It always does.”
Paddy went off to serve drinks to paying customers, leaving Jimmy alone with his beer and his thoughts. The pub was busy tonight, mostly because it was a holiday weekend, and in a neighborhood such as Hell’s Kitchen, the locals tended to stay local. No Hamptons, no houses in the country, no Fire Island. They still had to work, so they stayed nearby to play. The music was blaring out Irish tunes, some of the ladies in the back dancing up a jig, the men, already filled with beer and still going strong, clapping their hands. Why not, today was July 2nd, and most of the offices in the city were closed on Friday, and for those who worked the Broadway theatres, this was just like any night. They were just getting started. It’s not like any show had a ten a.m. performance. Ten p.m., maybe. Theatre folk like the night.
Jimmy sipped at his beer, staring at his silent phone. After a long day spent investigating Duvan’s killing, it would have been nice to shift gears and receive an update on Rashad Assan’s whereabouts. Frisano had gone quiet, and he wondered if he’d been reprimanded for his actions up at Alicia House. Had Eaton McDonald used his influence to cause trouble for Frisano? Last thing an ambitious guy needed was a black mark on his record, caused by a man who could sway mayoral elections with one phone call. With Frisano’s dreams of being commissioner one day, he needed friends, not enemies. And, not to put too fine a point on it, he didn’t need a lover.
Jimmy slid open his phone, pressing the text app. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Should he contact Frisano? Should he wait to hear from him? What was the proper protocol after an afternoon of hot sex and proclamations of keeping things on the down low? Their relationship couldn’t grow, it would remain as illicit as yesterday, or it would die from not feeding it. Hell, the two of them had shared their bodies, revealed part of their souls. So what the hell difference did a damn text make?
HEY. THINKING OF YOU. YOU ALL RIGHT? BACK IN CITY. PADDY’S.
He set his phone back down and reached for his beer. His phone buzzed seconds later.
THOUGHT YOU STAYED AT LAKE. AT PRECINCT. LATER?
Jimmy felt his heart race, his pulse quicken. He typed back.
I’LL BE HERE UNTIL YOU GET HERE.
Jimmy finished his beer, whereupon Paddy poured him another.
“Last one, okay, Uncle Paddy?”
“Sure. And Bob’s your other uncle.”
It was another two hours and three more beers before the crowd began to thin. Jimmy continued to sit at the bar, nursin
g the last one, feeling the effects of all he’d consumed tonight. He remembered the beer at the Dress-Up Club, which he’d barely touched, and the vodka shot which he’d knocked back without effort, and now more beer after beer. It was clear Frisano was going to be a no-show. Jimmy had sent a text a half-hour ago, and still he’d gotten no response. It was getting on toward two in the morning, and Jimmy knew he had to continue his efforts on Rocky’s case tomorrow. Not that he had a clue on where to begin. He felt he was close, that one important detail still eluded him. He tried to think of it, but his beer-addled brain failed him.
“Okay, Jim, think it’s time to go upstairs. Sleep this one off.”
“Yeah, guess you were right, Uncle Paddy. So much for one and done.”
Paddy leaned in, grabbed Jimmy’s cheeks with both of his meaty hands. “You listen to me, Jimmy McSwain. You’re my nephew, and I love you like a son. Joey was a good guy, the best, and it’s been my honor to look after you since he’s been gone. Boys need their fathers, yes, but when that can’t happen, I like to think an uncle comes in second.”
“Don’t let Grandma Hester here you say that. She thinks she comes first.”
Paddy laughed, and Jimmy slid off the barstool.
“You take care of yourself, Jimmy. The world can take care of itself.”
“Good words, Uncle Paddy. Like always.”
“You know me, an Irish therapist. Pull the tap, everything looks better.”
Jimmy stepped outside into the warm, early morning, digging into his pocket for his key to the door that was a mere three feet away. But as if proving that old adage right, most accidents happen when you’re almost home. Except, this wasn’t an accident.
Jimmy McSwain was jumped from behind, and he went down hard on the cement.
His eyes rolled up inside his head. He was out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jimmy felt like a sledge hammer had smashed into the back of his head, and the light of the fresh morning didn’t help lessen the pain. It took him a moment to remember why he might be feeling this way, realizing his headache wasn’t a result of the bender he’d gone on last night.
Crime Wave Page 16