by Owen Parr
“Where are we going to start?” Dom asked.
“We have a bar to tend to. I’ll call what’s her name and ask her to stop in this evening.”
“Who is that?”
“Big tits,” I quipped.
“How did you get her name and number so fast?” asked Dom, a bit dumbfounded.
“I follow your teachings, bro. ‘Ask, and you shall receive.’”
“You got her number when she was here?”
“When the jumper was making the rounds serving the Champagne Tito bought, she asked if I was hooked up with anyone.”
“To which you answered was, ‘No, I’m not?’”
“Not exactly. But she wrote her first name and number on a napkin, and I filed it in the cash register.”
“I don’t think even if I became the Pope that God would save your soul, brother.”
“Father, you better intercede for me.”
It was my turn to talk to big-breasted red halter top. Reaching into the cash register, I retrieved the napkin with her number.
After a few minutes on the phone with her, I had more information.
Her name—Melody Wright; she claims to be an aspiring actress working as a model of some kind, and lives in an apartment complex, Riverside South, on the West Side or what is known as UWS, for Upper West Side, an affluent area. Donald Trump built it for her. As an aspiring actress and part-time model, in my opinion, the rent was beyond her capabilities, unless of course, she was the recipient of a nice inheritance. Or maybe our Tito, the jumper, was footing the bill.
One thing for certain: Melody was more than happy to stop by the pub later in the evening to join in the celebration with Tito.
3
Day 2
There was a thin, lingering gray-and-white blanket of cigar smoke that rose from the patron’s seat as it reached the mid-level of the pub and then disappeared into the ceiling. The sound of clinking glasses, the occasional outburst of laughter, and the constant buzz of conversation pervaded the establishment. We always had music playing; our choice was the old favorites. This evening, the voice of Frank Sinatra in the background, softly permeated the pub. Our regulars loved singing along with Sinatra’s “New York, New York” every time it played. The aroma of cigars, Scotch, gin, and other fine spirits infused the atmosphere. Somehow, it all blended together quite nicely. Our pub enjoyed a life of its own.
Captain O’Brian’s Tavern was established in 1948 by Father Dominic’s grandfather, U.S. Marine Captain Sean O’Brian, upon his return from World War II. The tavern was a family institution in the Financial District of Manhattan, and it catered to military and police personnel, as well as Wall Street types and other questionable clientele.
The bar was busy; our usual Wall Street crowd was here. The stock market had a record up day, so all the Wall Streeters, both gents and ladies, were celebrating and sitting towards the back, lighting up the cigars and enjoying their single malts. These folks drank for any occasion. When the stock market took a dump, they would also drink to drown their sorrows, although, some made lots of money on those days too. It was when the markets had a flat day that they would go home early. ‘No action meant no transactions,’ one regular had explained. Our other patrons—and we had an eclectic group of police and unsavory characters—were latecomers to the bar. It almost seemed like there was a second shift. Wall Streeters would leave and the new characters would come in. It worked just fine for us, although the second shift tended to be more beer and well drinks as opposed to the premium stuff of the first shift.
At around six in the evening, I heard the crowd go quiet for a minute. Sure enough, Melody had just walked in. As she walked towards the back, I could see that she was in mourning. At least, she was wearing black—a tight black skirt that outlined her well- formed and rather large derriere with a matching white silk blouse, also tight and with an interesting and revealing cleavage somewhat disguised with a silk black scarf.
Everyone followed her every step, so I decided to walk towards her to fend off the admiring crowd. As I approached her and gently put my arm around her waist, there was a collective sigh and some boos from my patrons. She smiled softly, staring into my eyes, and I nodded towards the back of the bar. I could hear a few people say, “Mancusooo, Mancusooo.” A bunch of pigs, these guys are.
“Are you taking me to the confessional booth?” Melody asked, in a California-girl high-pitched intonation.
“You’ve heard about that,” I replied. “It’s private; we can talk there. I remember what you drank last night. Can I get you a Cosmo?”
“No, how about a Manhattan?”
“A Manhattan, of course. Have a seat, and I’ll be right back,” I replied, as I walked to the bar and asked Mr. Pat to get us the drinks.
Father Dom came over to our booth and said, “Ms. Wright, I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Parker.”
“Thank you, Father, that’s very nice of you.”
“If there is anything I can do—” Dom began.
I interrupted, “I’ve got this, Father.”
“Yes, of course you do,” said Dom, a little perturbed at my interruption. “I’ll leave you two.”
“Thank you again,” Melody said, smiling at the good father. “So, Joey, tell me about this picture of Woody Allen and this man,” she said, pointing to a black-and-white picture of Woody Allen and Dom’s father over the booth.
“We also call this the Woody Allen booth. He used to frequent the bar and sat back here, mostly by himself, when he wanted to be alone.”
“Oh, my God, that’s so interesting,” she mused.
I added, “The black-and-white photos over the green glass-shaded banker’s lamps on the walls above the booths are a nice touch. What a history is gathered here with these memories: Father Dom’s grandfather, Captain Sean himself with Norman Mailer, Truman Capote, and Babe Ruth, going back so many years. Then, Dom’s dad Brandon with Broadway Joe Namath, The Mick— Mickey Mantle.”
“So, when I become famous, will you put up my picture?”
I smiled, “Of course I will,” I said, smiling. “Let me get back to the reason I asked you to stop by. Tell me, how are you feeling?” I asked, in a low voice.
“This is devastating. I loved him so much, and we were going on a trip today,” she said, pushing her platinum-blonde hair back from her face with both hands.
“To Portugal, I think, right?”
“Yes, to Lisbon, then Madrid.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Are you still a detective? Jonathan mentioned you were or had been with the NYPD.”
“No, I’m not with the force anymore. I’m retired. I am curious, though.”
Our drinks came, and I thanked Angela, the waitress. “Is there any reason you can think of why Jonathan would have committed suicide?”
“Oh, my God, you’re thinking what I’m thinking?”
“What is that?”
“So, why would he commit suicide if we were going on a trip to celebrate?”
I hate when everyone starts his or her sentences with ‘So.’ Just drives me insane. “Celebrate the new account?” I queried.
“Not just the new account. We were getting engaged in
Lisbon.”
“I have to ask this; did you know he was married?”
“So, yeah, to that bitch Adelle. But he was dumping her soon.”
“He was?”
“We were getting engaged. It’s not like he can have two wives, right?”
“Right, of course. How soon was the marriage or divorce going to happen?”
“So, he wanted to be married before we went to Aspen for New Year’s and celebrate our honeymoon there.”
If I hear one more ‘So,’ I swear I’m going to kill myself. “Got it. In the next six months then?”
“Yes, depending on the divorce.”
“Did his wife know about the divorce? Before you answer that, I need a favor.”
“What is it?�
�� she said, smiling.
“You know I’m Italian?”
“Mancuso is Italian, yes.”
I did a rapid survey of the premises to make sure no one was listening. “In Italian, the word ‘so’ is a bad word, and while nothing really offends me, there might be others who are troubled when they hear that.”
“Oh. My God. I had no idea. I am so sorry.”
“That’s another thing. Try not to use ‘Oh, my God’ as often. Father Dominic is sensitive when people use those words in vain.”
“Of course, of course. What was your question?”
“The divorce, was Mrs. Parker aware?”
“Jonathan hadn’t had a chance to tell her. He was planning on doing it after we came back from Madrid.”
“I see. You both had the wedding planned, but Mrs. Parker was unaware.”
“That’s what Jonathan had planned, yes.”
“What if Mrs. Parker contested the divorce? Sometimes it takes a while to settle those things.”
“They weren’t getting along. As a matter of fact, I think Jonathan suspected she was playing around on him.”
“Did he?”
“He never came out and told me, but I know he had more than an inkling.”
“Let me ask you this, you think someone pushed him out a window?”
“Oh boy, maybe it was his wife or her father?”
“Why would you think that?”
“He was having issues with her, serious ones. Her father was very upset at something going on in the office. I don’t know what, but they had heated arguments occasionally.”
“Would you like another drink?”
“Are you trying to get me drunk?”
I smiled, “No, somehow I think it takes more than two drinks to get you drunk.” I nodded to the waitress and made a circling sign with my index finger to do another round.
“You know, Joey, I find you attractive. I love your jet-black hair combed back like that and your rugged face with that tough-looking jaw. I bet you boxed when you were younger.”
“Why, because my nose is crooked?”
“It’s actually a sensual nose.”
“My nose?”
“Yes. And the rest of your face: rugged, manly, a man’s man. And your nose, like I said, sensual.”
Never heard that before. “Thank you, it never got fixed after I broke it. I’ll remember that.”
“I hope you do,” she said, reaching over with her shoeless feet and rubbing my legs.
“Couple more questions if you don’t mind,” I said, trying to concentrate on the matter at hand.
“You really sound like a cop.”
“Once a cop, always a cop, right? Sixteen years solving crimes, it’s become a habit.”
“Go ahead. What else you want to know?”
“What happens to you now?”
Tears developed from her eyes. “I don’t know. My life is ruined.”
“Do you work? Do you have income?”
“Why, you think I was a kept woman?”
“I don’t know. I don’t mean that as an insult.”
“I’ve been fortunate. I have money put away, and yes, Jonathan helped with the apartment. But I didn’t need his help. He just wanted to do it.”
“I see. Was he a wealthy man?”
“I suppose, never bothered to ask that. He spent it like he had it, and he was going to earn a lot more now that he’d become a partner.”
“He was going to become a partner at his firm?”
“Yes, the new account meant that much to his company. We were going to be so happy,” she said, as a new wave of tears emanated from her eyes.
I reached for my handkerchief and handed it to her.
“Thank you. You are one of the few remaining gentlemen that carries a handkerchief.”
“My father made sure I always carried one,” I said, never knowing why he had done that.
“What are you going to do now?”
“So, oops, I’m sorry. I said the word.”
“It’s okay. Go on.”
“Life goes on. Modeling and acting. Mr. Evans called—that’s one of Jonathan’s senior partners at the firm—and he said he knew a producer who was putting together this off-Broadway play and was looking for new faces. Maybe I’ll follow up on that. That is my dream, you know.”
“Good, good. When did you meet this fellow Evans?”
“Jonathan had poker night once a month in my apartment. Mr. Evans came once to play.”
“Have you ever seen him again?”
“What are you asking?” she asked, a bit rattled.
“Just that. Have you seen him again?”
“No, never seen him since that first time,” she replied, glancing down at her drink.
“But he knew you were an aspiring actress?”
“Jonathan told him that when we first met.”
“I see.”
“Can you answer a couple of questions for me?” she said, smiling.
I guessed I should reciprocate, so I said, “What’s on your mind?”
“It’s personal, but I’m curious about your father and family.”
“Oh, no problem. Father Dom and I share a mother. Her name is Briana.”
“Does she live in New York?”
“No, she’s retired in Florida.”
“What about your dad?”
“My dad was second-generation Italian from Brooklyn. He followed my grandfather’s lifestyle and career.”
“Which is?”
“Was. Dad passed away in a shooting at a bar in Little Italy a few years ago.” I added, “La mela non cade lontano dall’albero.”
Melody snapped back her head. “Excuse me. What was that?”
“The acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree. My dad followed his dad in the family business, and I was headed that way also.” I loved my dad, and my memories of him were good growing up in Brooklyn. His lifestyle was another story, but he never exposed his famiglia to the dangers associated with his chosen profession.
Melody spoke, bringing me back to the present. “So, what happened? How come you didn’t?” she asked, again moving her shoeless feet, now up my groin area.
I had to stop the conversation. “God sent Father Joey to intercede on my behalf. He literally pulled me out of that lifestyle.”
“Good for Father Dom. I really like him.”
“Melody, I’m going to have to get back to the bar.”
“What happens now?” she asked, as she had aggravated my reaction to her feet. She realized she had and chuckled.
“What do you mean?”
“You and me. Can we get together?” she whispered, with a mischievous glance at the pub.
“Maybe after you’re done with your mourning. We can get together for a drink again.”
“I was thinking more than a drink. How about your office now?”
4
Day 3
Thursday
Father Dominic had made an appointment to speak to both Evans and Albert after his duties at the church in the morning. He stopped by the bar just before walking over to the office building where their offices were.
“Mr. Pat, you are always first in, last out,” Dominic said. “This place is my life, Father. You know that. I feel at home here with all the memories of your father.”
“Yes, I know, but you need to have a life outside these walls.”
“I’ve had a good life, and I’ve experienced a lot of things. Helping you guys here is of great satisfaction. Trust me.”
“We love having you here. Any word from Joey?”
He was headed to the ME’s office this morning, then to visit the wife of the gentleman that jumped.”
“I left before he,” pausing, he added, “finished talking to Ms. Wright. Did he say anything related to the case about her to you?”
“He said he didn’t see a motive on her end to be implicated in any foul play. That’s all he told me about the case. He asked that you call him be
fore going over to Evans and Albert offices.”
“Thank you. I’m headed over to their offices to speak to both partners. I’ll be back afterwards. I’ll call Joey on the cell on my way there.”
“I’ll be here. You take care of business, Father.”
Father Dominic called Joey and walked the two blocks to the office building. It was a warm morning in the city. There was still a yellow tape around a second-story landing that protruded from the building. Evidently, Mr. Parker had landed there, not on the sidewalk. If he had landed on the sidewalk itself, others could have been hurt, Father Dominic thought. He moved his eyes from the sidewalk towards the top of the building, imagining the flight this fellow took. The glare from the sun blinded him, and he squinted to focus on the windows of the floor he assumed Parker jumped from.
Taking the elevator and pushing twenty-one, he removed his white collar from his neck. He never wanted to use his priestly attire when he was involved with outside-of-church activities. He still wore his black shirt and his black pants, but he added a gray blazer, giving him the appearance of a mid-level executive wearing Friday casual clothes.
Approaching the receptionist, he said, “Good morning, I’m Dominic O’Brian. I have an appointment with Mr. Evans and Mr. Albert.”
“Yes, Mr. Dominic, have a seat. I’ll let them know you’re here.”
He sat in a plush waiting area. The walls were paneled with mahogany to a height of about ten feet with light blue silk wallpaper above it. The brown-colored marbled flooring was laced with gold veins and attractively accented with thick, dark blue area rugs that matched the wallpaper. Mahogany baseboards and crown moldings framed the walls. Even though everything about the offices depicted high net worth, it was subdued, nothing flashy or boorish.
“Father Dominic, how good to see you,” said a young lady, as she approached to take him back to a conference room.
Father Dominic raised his head quickly, surprised that someone knew he was a priest. “Stella, no, wait. Kathy, how are you? I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Yes, I am—was—Mr. Parker’s assistant,” she said, lowering her head.
