Second shot, p.3
Second Shot, page 3
Jimmy had to admire the lawyer’s aggressive nature. He must be a beast in the courtroom. Other rooms, too.
“Shy you’re not.”
“Wait till you get me alone.”
The lunch transaction was completed moments later. Credit card swiped, Brenden signing the receipt, then getting up from his chair. Jimmy remained seated, looking up. The bulge pushing against the material of Brenden’s fancy suit was unmistakable. And not lacking.
“Let me know how things go with Mrs. Portnoy. And about Friday night.”
“Let’s take it a day at a time,” Jimmy said.
“Don’t take too long, Jimmy. I’m not without those who chase me.”
“Except now you’re the chaser.”
“Guilty as charged. I know what I like.” He paused. “Who I want.”
Brenden Hendricks departed the bar, not quite with a swagger but with an attention-seeking walk nonetheless. Look at me, I’m successful. Jimmy watched, as did a couple ladies at the bar. The waitress, too. She returned to the table to bus the remaining glasses and smile at the tip she’d been left.
“You need another beer? Or maybe a cold shower?”
“Given where I am, yeah, I’ll take that beer.”
“Why are all the hot ones gay?”
Jimmy had no answer for that. Instead, he took out his phone and checked his text messages that had come in since lunch began. He’d felt it vibrate in his pocket. Mallory, wondering how the meeting had gone. Meaghan, sending a photo of Baby Joey on a raft in the lake. And a third, which counted among the most interesting he’d received all summer.
Call me.
Not family, not a client. A cop. Newly promoted Lieutenant Roscoe Barone.
The private detective instinct was to call right away, find out what was going on. But Jimmy knew better, he liked to take time to anticipate what it all meant. To wonder just what the hell the NYPD wanted to talk to him about. Since his father’s shooting sixteen years ago, the relationship between the police and Jimmy had been contentious—not hate, not love, complicated with what had developed over the past year between himself and Frisano. Barone, the grizzled old detective, was another story. He’d never done Jimmy any wrong. He’d been a solid contact if not a source, a hard-nosed detective whose trench coat was as seasoned as his career. He’d been of help to Jimmy often, even as sometimes he’d thwarted Jimmy’s efforts. Justice was what he served, and at times they disagreed on the process. But never the result.
Last spring, Barone had been transferred from the 10th Precinct in Chelsea—which at the time had been under the leadership of the ambitious young Captain Frisano. After the completion of the Forever Haunt case, which had helped expose the depths of the Blue Death and brought a resolution to the cold murder of Jimmy’s father, Roscoe Barone was personally handpicked by the commissioner to join his covert Special Task Force, which, ironically, was headed by Lieutenant Salvatore Frisano. Jimmy’s ex’s hard-nosed, traditional, Brooklyn-born father. While there were thousands of members of the NYPD. Jimmy’s blue line continued to narrow.
But Barone never bull-shitted him and so it was with those thoughts and the fortitude of a fresh beer put in front of him by the waitress at Jameson’s that he opened the text and pressed dial. Last year, Barone had given Jimmy his personal cell number. A way to avoid the bureaucratic tape of the NYPD switchboard or a nosy dispatcher wanting to know why Jimmy was calling. This time Barone answered himself, and quickly. Red tape gone opaque.
“That was a quick return of my text.”
“And you answered on the first ring, too. I’m intrigued.”
“Guess that means we’re both ready to get down to business,” Barone said.
“I’m all ears.”
“Must make you walk funny.”
“Barone, are you developing a sense of humor? Change of scenery seems good for you.”
“More pressure, but also more independence. Sounds like your life.”
Was that a random comment, or a suggestion? “Okay, Barone, you have my attention.”
“Not over the phone.”
“You want a meeting. Tell me where, when. Knowing why would help.”
“Tonight. Meet me outside One Police Plaza. We’ll go for a walk.”
“Meaning you don’t want anyone to hear what we’re talking about.”
“Six o’clock. Work for you?”
“Sure. You gave me the where, the when. Still waiting on the why.”
“Later.”
“Mr. Wu-Tin?”
There was a pause, confirmation without confirming. “I’ll see you at six.”
The call ended, leaving Jimmy wondering what new developments may have happened. If it wasn’t enough being presented with a potential new case, now the police have come calling, he assumed, about the man behind Mallory’s shooting. When it rained, it poured. He thought of the juxtaposition of time, with the arrival of September, a time when people felt a renewal. Summer ended, school started, the holidays loomed, nature died. A chill washed over him, his soul warmed only by a sip of beer. He finished the pint.
“What do I owe?” he asked as he approached the bar.
“The other gentleman covered it,” the waitress said. “He dropped a twenty on his way out.”
“Ah, thanks,” Jimmy stated. Felt obligation and tossed down a five-dollar bill. He felt better doing that, then headed out onto the congested streets of Manhattan.
His world. His comfort zone.
While he’d been away the past month, he’d missed it. Its canyons, its lights, its humidity, its massive throngs of people who walked past him with a pace that continued to reduce a New York Minute to thirty seconds. Each person on a cell phone, wrapped up in lives deemed important. To him just pieces of a population that stoked the energy of the city’s heated sidewalks and streets. Cabs honked, Ubers dropped off passengers, lights went red and green, the stop and start life in a city that changed every block.
He left the quieter East Side and found himself walking along Fifth Avenue, the city’s spine. All around him he observed more people: locals, workers, tourists, swirling about with direction and determination, or worse, confusion, a pointed finger nearly taking out his eye. Jimmy felt he wasn’t part of it. A newbie. He walked, almost like on a journey, finding himself in the midst of Rockefeller Center. The famed ice rink was a month from operation, the towering Christmas tree still standing tall in a forest, unaware of its tumbling fate.
What was he doing here? What was calling to him?
Red neon lights beckoned him. Observation Deck.
Strangely, almost as though he was on automatic pilot, Jimmy bought a ticket and boarded the elevator and soon was thrust high above the city he’d been born to. Some people had problems with heights; he not among them. The view was majestic from atop the so-called 30 Rock, where you could see east, you could see west, north, south. He spun around, daring to go to the edge and stare down at the solid ground his feet had just walked. But it was the miles in every direction that captivated him, amazed him. The world held such possibility. You just had to look and you had to seek. Open eyes meant an open mind.
Suddenly, he took out his phone. Scrolled through his texts, his recent calls.
One name was missing. Frisano.
It took going back to late June to find his last communication with the man who had been his lover.
Frisano: I heard you called the precinct. Sorry, I need some time.
Jimmy: take all the time you need. Bye.
He’d wondered if he should include that last word as closure. In the end, yeah, he did. He’d never sent another text and nor had Frisano.
Apparently, not enough time had passed for either of them to work out whatever was going on. Jimmy wondered if the closeted cop was still involved with the emotionally wounded Elliot. He doubted it. Not that he had any knowledge of the situation, Jimmy had assumed it was two men in pain finding comfort in each other, their fire burning out as fast as a candle flame in the wind.
Returning to his contacts, he called up Frisano’s info screen. Jimmy could call him or he could message him. He could also block this caller, which he’d not done but nearly had two months ago. He fought the urge, anger giving way to lingering sadness. Just because Jimmy had returned to the city didn’t mean he’d returned to his old self, his old habits, his perpetual vices. If Mallory had the strength to move on from Taylor and from injury, the latter of which could have killed her or left her an invalid for the rest of her life, then he could forge a life beyond his dating woes.
Except it hadn’t been just dating. It had been love. He stared back at the world before him.
Was it this overview of the city that had him thinking of Frisano?
These towering skyscrapers. The mass of people. The limitless sky.
The wonder of what was possible in a world sometimes consumed by darkness?
Or could what fueled this reflection be the advances of Brenden Hendricks? Jimmy didn’t want to reverse time, but he also wasn’t sure if he wanted to push it too far forward. Which left him standing on the rooftop of one of Manhattan’s tallest, most-famous buildings, the translucent walls before him offering soaring views while also keeping him enclosed, protected.
Visitors walked around him, talking, taking pictures. Laughing. He watched them as they didn’t even notice him. He still felt alone, devoid of emotion, strangely, a stranger in a city he had always called home. The city was rumored to never sleep. Sometimes Jimmy didn’t either.
He didn’t block Frisano’s number. He deleted it all together.
Feeling the pulsing heat of Brenden’s business card in his pocket. Temptation earning its definition.
Chapter 2
Conflicted emotions often took hold at night. Dark feelings hit him mostly when he tried to sleep. Usually occurring somewhere around three in the morning. A lost hour, when an empty bed meant loneliness. Causing him to question life’s bigger answers. No man at his side. Being gay had never been one of his inner debates. He’d felt the truth about his sexuality deep within him and had never fought it. He was attracted to men, what was the big deal, and even so, why was it anyone’s business except the men he chose to sleep with, to be involved with? From his teen years, he’d always found himself jealous of pretty women latched onto the arms of handsome men. He’d never questioned which from the couple he was looking at, much less why. Not once had his family had a problem, either. They knew.
The only pause his sexuality offered up was wondering what his father would have thought.
Men of the NYPD were old school. Not that they didn’t have open minds. Some just didn’t have educated ones. Jimmy being the only male in the McSwain family, it was possible the name would die out with him. Though, given the fact Meaghan hadn’t married Rocky, she’d written her last name on Joey’s birth certificate. Illegitimate, but in this modern age, somehow still legitimate. Joseph McSwain the newer could be whoever he wanted to be.
Maybe even a cop. Like Jimmy might have been.
Today these same thoughts struck him at day’s end, a distraction from waiting. It was the location.
Standing on the edge of One Police Plaza in front of the cement barriers, the sun starting its quiet descent toward darkness, Jimmy again was hit by the choices he’d made over the years. Waiting for Barone to arrive, thinking back to the day he filled out the NYPD academy application. Maggie at his side, saying nothing. Which of course meant she was saying everything. Telepathy was one of her hallmarks as a mother. Her way of telling him to put pen to paper, answer honestly, honor your father. Being accepted had hit him hard, devastated her when he’d graduated, taken the badge and locked it in his safe, then walked away.
Jimmy had sought the training, the expertise. Only to be able to use it to his own advantage. His terms and his own rules.
Yet here he was again, years later, back in front of the NYPD headquarters. The cops were never far from his world. Last spring he’d exposed a corruption scheme known as the Blue Death and solved a fifteen-year-old murder that had rocked the Blue Line—and the neighborhood. He owed the force nothing, but knew he could never say no to them, either. Jimmy and the NYPD defined love-hate relationships. Conflict their common bond. Which is why he found himself here, reluctance losing out to the curiosity of the call. Just what did Barone want to discuss with him? He crossed his arms, paced, tried to wait. Whoever said patience was a virtue knew shit about patience. Or people.
Six-ten he got a text. Be there in a moment. Sorry. Development.
Related to whatever they were meeting about? He assumed yes.
Cruisers painted blue and white came and went through the security checkpoint, all of it done in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. Every borough had their series of precincts, but the administrative branch was housed here. Jimmy found himself here in the belly of the beast, and while thinking that, there came Barone, approaching quickly. Frown on his face.
“McSwain. Thanks for meeting me. Sorry to be running late. Had to arrange something.”
“Having to do with me? With…whatever this is?”
“Maybe. Let’s talk. Let’s walk.”
Jimmy could have responded with a quip but he was tired of being delayed. Barone, looking slimmer than he’d been in years, was dressed in a dark suit, his thinning and graying hair combed. Once upon a time he’d looked a Big Mac shy of a heart attack. Burst capillaries spread across the nose. His seventies-style mustache gone. Maybe this new position had put a restorative spell on him. Something Jimmy could take to heart. Change was possible.
“You look good, Roscoe.”
“You never call me that.”
“I wanted you to know that I meant it.”
Silence, then a nod. The two men continued to walk, emerging from the confines of One Police Plaza to one of the courthouse buildings. Jimmy didn’t know which one. There were a lot of them down here. It had been a few years since he’d done jury duty. His judgments came from the street. Lower Manhattan was a maze, a mirror of the legal system. The two of them were small pawns in the big world of law enforcement, both encased within concrete and glass and the blind eyes of justice. Truth would hopefully prevail, but it was often challenged by the vision of others. Of manipulation, and apparently, admissibility of evidence.
“The flash drive you provided. We’ve got an issue with it,” Barone finally said.
“Because of a technical problem, or because it was obtained illegally?”
A slight nod. “The latter. That doesn’t mean we won’t develop a case.”
“A case, yes. But do you have a goal?”
“Yes. The same as always. To bring down a criminal.”
“He’s more than a criminal. Not some petty thief. He’s a murderer.”
“Jimmy, we know what he’s done. It’s just acquiring the proof.”
“We’re speaking generically. I need confirmation. Mr. Wu-Tin is who we’re discussing.”
“He’s back in New York.”
Jimmy felt his heart flare. Almost like the burn set him to walking faster. “Where is he?”
“In due course, Jimmy. Let’s walk, let’s talk.”
“You said that. We’re already doing that.”
They headed down Duane Street, bypassed the forty-story Jacob K. Javits Building, home to numerous government agencies, hitting the corner of Broadway. Reade Street was nearby. It’s where the famed drug store chain got its name. A piece of New York trivia, but it instilled in Jimmy the thought that this was a case of right place, right time. So, Mr. Wu-Tin was back and the NYPD was on the case, and in due course Jimmy had just gotten back to the city, too. Elements coming together. Cohesion determined to bring down conspiracy.
“Hungry?” Barone asked.
“For information. Tell me what you want, then maybe we can enjoy our date.”
Barone pursed his lips, a nod to Jimmy’s smart-ass remark. “It’s a threesome.”
“This isn’t just some random walk. We’re headed somewhere. Where I’ll get the full story.”
“You’re a smart man, Jimmy.”
“Why not just ask me to meet you both wherever.”
“I wanted to take your temperature first.”
“Currently, feverish.”
“You’ve always got an answer for everything, don’t you, Jimmy?”
“My profession has its share of twists. It’s good to be ready for the turn.”
They came to Church Street and Duane and Jimmy figured where they were going. During the Fresh Kill case, he’d met Barone at this New Orleans inspired restaurant named 1803. They were a block away from its location, on course to soon go through its doors. He must be a regular, a substitute for the Westside Tavern on 23rd Street he’d haunted many times. That’s the great part about Manhattan, there’s lots of bars and lots of restaurants and it was always good to find your local. You got taken care of instead of getting taken.
But as they approached the restaurant, its large plate glass windows open and inviting, they stopped. Or at least Barone did. Touching Jimmy’s arm to give pause to the moment, to their step. Jimmy felt words were coming, feeling like a warning.
“Jimmy, inside, let’s keep this professional.”
The light of day faded. Darkness rolled over him like an omen. This was serious. “I don’t even know what’s going on.”
“We need your help.”
“Yeah. We. See, that’s where I’m uncertain. Which we are we talking about? The NYPD?”
“In a way.”
