Crime Wave

by Adam Carpenter

  § § §

  He just started walking. No destination in mind, his honed instincts of life in New York having gone on autopilot. Lights changed. He walked. A couple times cars honked at him as he went against traffic, but he paid them no mind. Jimmy McSwain was lost in a sea of his own regret, his mind busily replaying the hostage scene, seeing the urgent blast of Frisano’s gun repeatedly, the sound and fury not unlike the fireworks which would brighten the Manhattan sky twenty-four hours from now. He continued to see Larry Dean spin away from the impact of the bullet. He saw Assan’s body being blown back, feet lifted off the ground before going down. He saw crimson blood stain the sidewalk. For once, not one of Assan’s victims.

  Jimmy felt like one of his victims.

  He knew the dead man would never speak. His motives as dead as the rest of him.

  He found himself standing before the Harold Calloway Theatre on West 47th Street. Why he had gone there, he couldn’t admit. But given how he’d lost his father all over again today, it was only natural that he wanted to strengthen his hold with his mother. She was away, of course, and returning to the apartment would just feel empty. At least he was still out among the living. The marquee was blank, the signs for the recent revival of “You Can’t Take It With You” gone. Maggie had mentioned the unlikely named play “Triskaidekaphobia” as their next tenant, not until October. It would bring with it its own fears for Jimmy, notably the return to New York of Remy St. Claire. Not someone he wanted to see.

  But then again, Frisano was not high among his priorities now either.

  Another single bullet, another chance at redeeming the past gone.

  Jimmy stared at the dark theatre. No one was in the box office, the stage door manager no longer needed. It was all locked up, valuable real estate put on hold while the seasons changed. A hot summer would give way to a breezy fall, and with it, ironically, life would return, renewal in the air even as nature died. It would be a long summer; he sensed that the heat wouldn’t cease, the sweat on his brow permanent. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and wishing the weeks and months away. He wanted to see his mother back at work; he wanted to see bright lights and the thrumming activing of the public. Inside the theatre, life was in pretend, a solution not longer than three hours from being presented.

  Out here, it didn’t work that way.

  Assan was dead.

  Duvan was dead.

  Rocky was in jail.

  Jimmy was locked inside his own prison, too.

  Pushing these thoughts from his mind, he considered his next move. Could he just retreat right now, get his car and return to Peach Lake, drown himself in the lake and in beer? He’d done the latter last night, to ill effect. No, that wasn’t the solution he required. The case of the deli murders had reached an explosive, bloody end. There was nothing more he could do. Assan would lie in the morgue until someone claimed him. But what of Rocky, rotting away at Rikers, fearing a return to prison. Jimmy hated his personal incarceration, even as he was free to roam the streets. No, he had to push his worries aside. He had made a promise to Rocky to clear his name. To give him the new chance Alicia House had afforded him.

  The mind is a curious organ. It processes thoughts before the rest of you can catch up. It sent a message to Jimmy’s feet, and he was walking again, the Calloway gone from view. Not a few minutes later, he was on the subway, again heading uptown on the #1 train. It rattled, and it clacked, and he fought the throbbing in his temples. He knew where he was going. He’d figured it out. What he would do once he got there, that still proved elusive. Yet there he was, not thirty minutes later, standing on the corner of Broadway and 103th Street. Three blocks north, he came to the front door of the Tomorrow Lounge. He stopped at the first door he saw, the one that led to the cabaret room. The blood stain he’d seen last week was gone, wiped away. Like nothing had happened. All was quiet inside the room. It was too early in the day for entertainment. So Jimmy moved on, coming to the main entrance. He opened the door and stepped in, again feeling cool air swirl around him. It took him back to his first time here, when he’d followed Rocky and Duvan inside. He’d been sweating inside his car during a stakeout. So much had happened since that day.

  So much death, so much bloodshed. So many questions.

  And few too many answers.

  He sidled up to the bar. The same dread-locked, soul-patch wearing bartender nodded his way. Amos was his name, Jimmy recalled.

  “Let me guess, a Bud and some information.”

  “Neither Amos,” Jimmy said. “Sorry. I’m not even sure why I’m here.”

  “Your friend, he still in jail?”

  “Yeah. So much for Independence Day for him.”

  “Still got a day. Maybe a clue will find you.”

  Jimmy appreciated the guy’s optimism. So he took a seat on a barstool. There were three other guys, maybe the same ones from before, doing the same thing as the other day, watching NY1. There was a photogenic female reporter on the scene at 34th Street. Jimmy didn’t need to see the news footage. He’d seen the live show.

  “Guess I’ll take a Bud after all.”

  Amos served it up, Jimmy knocking down a twenty.

  “Crazy, huh?”

  “What’s that?” Jimmy asked.

  “Cops got that guy who was killing deli owners. Broad daylight, crazy city.”

  Jimmy just drank his beer. He wasn’t thinking of Assan. He was thinking of Duvan. He’d had dreams inside this bar. He’d wanted to sing, he’d wanted his voice to soar to the heavens and express his love for Rocky. Jimmy still marveled at Rocky Martino being gay. A tough guy from way back when, he’d bullied, he’d punched the weak, and he’d been in trouble since the womb it seemed. Yet now, he was a man with a broken heart, his lover dead, and he in jail for the crime. Nothing made any sense to Jimmy. He was actually jealous of Rocky, having found love. Even if he’d lost it. Jimmy had never felt that way, did he? Remy came closest, but Frisano wasn’t far behind. He was sexy and alluring, and he’d shot an arrow into Jimmy’s heart. Jimmy had welcomed being pierced. It had been too long since his heart had been given a work out. But Frank had ruined it by shooting something else. A gun.

  “Hey Amos, I’ve got a favor to ask,” Jimmy said.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” the bartender asked.

  “Do you mind, can I take a look at the next room?”

  “Cops have cleared it. We even had karaoke this past weekend.”

  “I’m not looking for anything concrete. Just a feeling.”

  “Sure, go for it.”

  Jimmy left his beer, got up and wandered over to the door. When he touched the handle, he heard the past intrude upon him. The blast of the gunshot. His eyes seeing Duvan on the floor, Rocky with the gun. But he really saw Assan, and he saw his father. Four men, bonded by blood, all of them destroyed. Jimmy swallowed it all down, felt it churn in his stomach. Or maybe that was just the beer. Too much lately. He needed to give himself a break. Life was taking its toll.

  Inside the room, Jimmy wandered over to the piano, his fingers toying with the keys. He heard their sound, but there was no melody. Just nonsense, almost non-musical. He stood there, gazing about the room. At the floor, at the front door, his eyes searching for something. Whether it was nature or nurture, Jimmy found himself needing the restroom. He made his way toward the back of the room, looking for a men’s room. He found it, along with a women’s room, and then a third door. His mind forgot what he’d come here for. The third door intrigued him. Did it lead to a downstairs? To a kitchen?

  He stepped forward, saw that a deadbolt had been turned. It was locked. But from inside, he didn’t need a key. So he just flipped the bolt, heard the clack of metal. When he opened the door, thick and heavy, sunlight flooded the room. It led to the outside alley. He stepped out, and he saw that the alley led back many feet to an open lot. He paused, found a brick on the ground, then used it to prop open the rear exit door. His felt his heart beating more strongly. As though
it had inadvertently discovered something. Yes, he had. But what did it mean? Just down the street, but still accessible from the alley, was the brownstone Duvan had been living in. The property owned by Eaton McDonald. A nagging feeling ate at Jimmy. He could taste a clue on his lips, and he held his tongue, careful not to spit it out.

  “Holy shit,” he said aloud.

  He snapped a couple of photos on his iPhone. He looked around again, committing the alley to memory as though the photographs were deceptive. Jimmy McSwain trusted one thing in this life, and that was himself.

  Back inside the bar, he slid back onto his stool. He tasted his beer.

  “Find anything?” the bartender asked.

  “Just another question. Do you mind?”

  “Shoot.”

  It was a bad choice of words, but maybe it was appropriate too.

  “You said you just bought this place, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Not the building, just the business.”

  Amos shifted uncomfortably behind the bar. “Yeah, like I could afford a whole building.”

  “Is Eaton McDonald your landlord?”

  He paled and started to turn away.

  “Amos, you’ve got to tell me. You know something.”

  “I don’t know nothing.”

  Was that just bad grammar, or a double negative with truth behind it?

  Jimmy would deal with Amos later. He had a different priority. Eaton McDonald. If what he suspected resulted in Rocky’s salvation, then Eaton McDonald was not only a killer, he was a diabolical one, cruelty his motivation.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The case had started with a stakeout, and it appeared it was going to end with one.

  Jimmy McSwain had been waiting near the prewar building at 74th and Park Avenue since eight o’clock Friday night. So far, he’d come up empty. There was no sign of Eaton McDonald, nor his limo or chauffeur, Ephraim. The sun had waned, stars had sparkled, and the moonlight had kept him company as the new day turned. The city was quiet. Holiday weekends did that. On the Upper East Side, it was particularly empty. Lots of folks had summer homes. The Hamptons, or Upstate. There was no reason to believe that Eaton McDonald was still in the city. Yet he had been just two days ago. He’d been in full business mode. A man of such means, such wealth, did he do as others did and take advantage of long weekends?

  For the past eight hours, Jimmy did his best to be inconspicuous. All the buildings on Park had twenty-four hour doormen, and they were trained to keep a lookout for their tenants. The job was not just open door, greet, nod politely, etc. You were their eyes and ears, and a guy lingering on the street for hours on end was nothing if not suspicious. They had the 17th Precinct on speed dial. Jimmy wouldn’t get past them. But he wasn’t trying to. He was just looking for a sign that Eaton was around, and of course, the first indication of such would be the presence of the limo. It was at seven thirty on Saturday morning that Jimmy’s overnight determination yielded results. The limo gleamed in the early morning sunshine as though it had just been through the wash. He also recognized Ephraim after the limo had pulled up to the curb. The big man took off his cap, rubbed his head. Jimmy thought of his injury, felt the bump on the back of his skull, noticing that it had gone down considerably. Time healed most wounds.

  Since he’d been inactive all night, Jimmy knew he had to spring into action right now.

  If Ephraim was here, it must mean Eaton needed his services. He didn’t want him being whisked away. Not without another chance to chat.

  Jimmy had been positioned across the street, hiding behind the Post. He threw it into the trash, folding it up. It had been yesterday’s paper, so it held no news of the events on 34th Street. He’d pick up a copy later. No doubt articles would find their way into The Forever Haunt file. He thought what Sunday’s paper might contain. A lot depended on what happened now. He pushed forward, the traffic light in his favor. He watched as the seconds clicked away on the pedestrian sign, made it with plenty of time to spare.

  Ephraim had his back to him.

  Jimmy cleared his throat loudly, making the man turn around.

  Ephraim frowned. “Headed to Rikers again? Maybe for a stay?”

  “Not me. Something you want to confess to? I’d happily do the driving this time”

  “What am I guilty of?”

  “Assault, for starters. Conspiracy?”

  “You’re an asshole. I told Mr. McDonald that. After you made me drive to Rikers.”

  “A bit out of your way?”

  “I was late getting the Mrs. that morning. She was less than pleased.”

  “You still have your job, right?”

  He crossed his arms. “What do you want?”

  “Your boss. He coming down soon? I mean, why else would you be here?”

  “His wife and daughter are out in the Hamptons already. He’s going there now. You will not be joining us for the ride.”

  “Oh, I think differently. Shall we wait?”

  “Get lost.”

  “Nah, this is a public sidewalk. I think I’ll stay. So, while we’re waiting, Ephraim, did you attack me on Eaton’s orders, or were you just pissed at me for making you drive me to Rikers? You seem petty enough to make it the latter.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Witnesses described my attacker two nights ago as hulking. That brings you to mind.”

  He said nothing. He just stared at Jimmy.

  “The witnesses left out stupid, but they can be notoriously unreliable.”

  “You got nothing, McSwain.”

  “The fact that you remember my name says a lot. I like to make an impression.”

  The two men had reached a stalemate, conversation strained as it was stalled. Jimmy kept an eye on Ephraim, not taking anything for granted. It was obvious the chauffeur had played the heavy the other night, using Jimmy’s inebriated state to his advantage. Sending a little message? It didn’t matter how much money someone had, they always let their emotions win out. Mistakes were made, big ones. Jimmy had a sense that after his talk with Eaton on Thursday, he’d sent a message through his chauffeur. Jimmy should have seen it coming. He should have seen a lot coming. Eaton had blind-sided him on their first meeting, being so available, so…welcoming.

  Jimmy had a sense he’d done the same with Duvan Ahkbar.

  Laying a trap in the meantime. Exacting his revenge.

  Just then the door to the building opened, Eaton McDonald nodding at the doorman with a silent acknowledgment. He was dressed not for business but for play, his pants pink, his shirt a selection of the colors of the rainbow. He must have a ten o’clock tee-off time out on Long Island. Jimmy hoped to make him very late for his date. And not that Jimmy wasn’t visible already, leaning against the limo as he was, he still stepped forward at the sight of the real estate developer. Jimmy was feeling confident on this turf.

  “What the hell are you doing here, McSwain?”

  “I thought we should have a talk. I have so much to tell you.”

  “I’m busy. Call for an appointment. Better yet, don’t. Just go away.”

  “Sorry, can’t do that. See, I’m a loyal guy. I make a promise, I keep it.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Rocky Martino is innocent. He should be free.”

  Eaton looked visibly annoyed. He turned to his driver. “Ephraim?”

  “I tried to get rid of him. He wouldn’t leave.”

  “Shall we go for a ride?” Jimmy said.

  “My wife is expecting me. I should have been out to our home in East Hampton last night. Business kept me here.”

  “It’s always business with you, isn’t it, Eaton? No one gets the best of you.”

  “You don’t succeed by kowtowing to others.’

  Jimmy smiled, then pointed to the rear doors of the limo. “Words to live by. Shall we?”

  Eaton McDonald fussed with his perfectly coiffed gray-blond hair, affecting little chan
ge. It was a nervous gesture, Jimmy guessed. He liked that. He had the guy on edge. But that meant he had to be cautious, too. Ephraim had surprised him once; he wouldn’t again.

  “I should call the police,” Eaton said. “This is harassment.”

  “Something tells me you don’t want to bring the cops into this,” Jimmy replied. “I know I don’t.”

  Eaton shot a look at his driver, the man getting behind the wheel of the car with a sneer on his face. Jimmy held the door for Eaton, watching as he slid against the soft leather seats. Jimmy followed suit, closing the door behind him. He heard the click of the lock. There were all in this together now. Then, remembering the button Eaton had used last week, he communicated with the driver.

  “Ephraim, One Hundred Seventh Street and West End.” He stared at Eaton as he spoke. “But you knew that, of course.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  At least his grammar was better than Amos’s.

  “Sure, then let me tell you what I know. Eaton McDonald Properties owns several buildings along Manhattan’s Upper West Side. A lovely brownstone, an open lot, which was supposed to be built upon—a wedding surprise for a couple just about to start their lives together. Oh, and one mustn’t forget the building on the corner. It includes a mixed clientele bar called the Tomorrow Lounge. Cheap beer, friendly folk, entertainment on certain nights, or at least, that’s what the guy who owns it is trying to do. It’s an ironic name, considering a man died there recently. No more tomorrows for him.”

  “Does any of this have a point?”

  By now, they had pulled out into the early morning traffic, which was light on this holiday. They turned west on 72nd Street before heading up Madison Avenue, traveling north toward the transverse through Central Park at 86th Street. From there, they would travel up Broadway. Jimmy found it interesting that neither the driver nor his boss objected to their eventual destination. Jimmy reminded himself to stay wary, because trust was not something riding along with them.

  “I, too, am away from my family,” Jimmy said. “Hopefully I’ll be up at the lake in time for the fireworks. It’s a lovely stretch of water, called Peach Lake. Do you know what’s not far from the lake? Parsons Hill Correctional Facility, and of course Alicia House, where just released cons can go to be reintegrated into society. But again, you know all this.”