Guardian Angel

by Adam Carpenter

  Ralphie Henderson was a man of black and white, of truth and lies. He saw through bullshit. He knew right from wrong. He knew conflict from drama. Jimmy realized he was about to wade through a world filled with all of that and more, knowing it was going to consume his every waking thought. Sitting across from Ralphie, his father’s one-time partner, he knew his own obsession with his father’s case would have to take a back seat, not that he’d fallen upon any new clues which to pursue, but still it was always in the back of his mind, in his waking thoughts and in those that kept sleep from him. Jimmy reached out, suddenly locking his hands with those of his aging friend.

  “I don’t know what I would do without you, Ralphie.”

  “What’s got you in a mood, Jimmy?”

  “Last night my cousin joined us for dinner. Ma had me sit…elsewhere.”

  “In your father’s chair.”

  Jimmy nodded, sipped his beer. “Yeah, I felt both right and wrong at the same time.”

  “Jimmy my boy, let me tell you something that’s true. Your father would be honored to know you took his seat. It’s where you were destined to sit, where life takes you. The timing might have been wrong, but we get no guarantees, and you can’t wait until tomorrow to do something that was easily achieved today. That chair has remained empty for as long as Joey has been gone, and it’s high time someone filled it. I’m just glad it was the right man.”

  “Sometimes I don’t think I’ll ever solve the case, the Forever Haunt.”

  “Time is fluid, Jimmy. It might feel regulated by a clock, but there are other forces at work. You just have to know how to tell time differently. People joke about a New-York minute being faster than a regular one. There are faster minutes than even that, and it’s one that took your father from you.”

  “It’s called a second,” Jimmy said, his voice flat.

  Silence fell between them, philosophy sinking into their pores as much as the beer hit their bloodstreams. Their corner of the bar felt darkened, even as more people entered the confined space, filling it with laughter, the sound of the television providing the soundtrack of life happening outside. It was a good reminder to them both that getting caught up in the maudlin only kept them trapped in a cocoon. Their second beer was almost empty. Jimmy didn’t need a third, not after the wine he’d consumed at lunch. The choice though wasn’t his. A third round arrived, courtesy of the bartender. Jimmy didn’t touch his. Ralphie did.

  “So you say your cousin’s visiting. Kellan or Taran?”

  “Actually, for a time, both.”

  “Thanksgiving, of course. Paddy closed the pub for the day.”

  “McSwain…rather, Byrne, traditions. Taran’s gone back home already, but Kellan is still here. He ran into the wrong side of someone’s fists the other night, kind of bruised up.”

  “You know who did it and why?”

  “Guy named Mickey Dean. Actually he just watched. He had a couple thugs do his work.”

  “Mickey Dean, no shit,” Ralphie said.

  “You remember him?”

  “Ha, poor excuse for a human as a kid. I can only imagine how much worse he is now.”

  “Wanna fill me in?”

  “Jimmy, Hell’s Kitchen was our beat, your father’s and mine. We knew the bad guys, and in a neighborhood once known for its Irish gang, the Westies, and other assorted criminal elements, it’s hard to forget a street thug like Mickey. How many fights we came across, stopped, I remember one, I think it was the corner of 46th and 11th. Mickey was probably all of thirteen but a big kid, already filled with anger. He was pummeling this poor boy. Joey pulled him off and threw him to the ground, hard. As he wiped blood from his nose, Mickey stood up and said Joey would regret that, said his dad was a cop too, a real one, not some fuck-ass patrolman like him. That’s a direct quote. Joey spoke of it often, said that kid was going to be real trouble one day.” Ralphie grew silent suddenly, his mind taking him back to a different time. Memories seared in his brain, the words as threatening then as they were powerful now. “He wasn’t wrong. Joey was. Mickey went to jail for a bit. Not even his father could protect him. Guy like him, prison doesn’t rehabilitate. It just makes them angrier at society, and when they get out….”

  “And a career criminal is born.”

  “What do you think is Mickey’s racket now? Why target Kellan?”

  “He said it was a message…for me.”

  “He beat up your cousin to get at you?”

  “Mickey came to Paddy’s last night, tried to stir up trouble. Frisano put a stop to it.”

  “Hmm, the plot thickens.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Who are two of the commissioner’s top lieutenants?”

  Jimmy froze in his spot, almost like his body had gone numb. “Lawrence Dean, Mickey’s father, and…Salvatore Frisano…Frank’s father.”

  “Jim, I think you need to watch your step here. I don’t like where this is going.”

  “Nor do I, which is why I’m going to step even closer. Mickey wants trouble, he’s got no idea what he’s stoked inside me. Is his hatred of me because my father busted him a couple times as a teenager? I mean, it’s been more than fifteen years…surely he’s got a bigger agenda than just petty revenge against the son of a cop who had his number. Ralphie, I gotta admit, the news of Mickey’s return to the neighborhood intrigued me. Now, it’s something more.”

  “Fear?”

  “Apprehension. He’s got to be planning something.” This time Jimmy finally touched his beer, drank a gulp down for good measure.

  “Guys like Mickey don’t come out of the womb hating the world,” Ralphie said. “Life turned him into the monster he is. So the question is this: what created your neighborhood Frankenstein monster?”

  Jimmy paused, thoughts creating his words. “Like the story, you go back to the creator.”

  “Indeed.”

  A simple word but one filled with a warning. Jimmy felt a chill invade his bones, as though a ghost had slipped into him. Why did his story always come back to fathers and sons: demanding fathers and their wide-eyed, hopeful sons, the complex relationship that existed between them built not always on love, not always on respect, often reverence in Jimmy’s case but sometimes disappointment. Sometimes it was a competition that bonded them or separated them. A son’s success or failure to live up to a father’s expectations defined them. Sometimes strong men turned bitter. Sometimes weak men turned evil.

  Mickey Dean was the worst, because he represented both.

  Jimmy wondered why, and suddenly he felt as empty as the pint of beer before him.

  The ghost lingered, an uninvited guest.

  § § § §

  What else lingered was the truth that Jimmy McSwain, who had experienced quiet days during the month of November, had seen his workload increase exponentially with the start of the first fall of snow in December. Two cases, neither official, had, in one day, become actual investigations. One would pay him and pay him well. The other would pay dividends in other ways. Jimmy lived for the satisfactory conclusion of a case, and he knew a fresh series of challenges had been issued to him. It would take great effort and some street smarts to write up an end file for each case. Who killed Henderson Carlyle, and what was Mickey Dean really doing back in Hell’s Kitchen?

  Jimmy was back in Manhattan, back home in his office above Paddy’s Pub.

  It was after seven in the evening when he awoke from a much-needed nap, and he went to the bathroom, where he splashed water on his face. He grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge upon his return to the living room then went to his desk and fired up the laptop. The caffeine and sugar rushed through his system, giving him the energy to begin his search.

  First things first, he did a Google search on Henderson Carlyle, curious to see what would come up. The man’s digital footprint was plentiful, with photographs of him at high-end functions like the Metropolitan’s annual ball, several benefits for Help Is Here, usually with a beautiful woman on his ar
m and even a few shots of him in blue scrubs, visiting sick children. Jimmy was surprised to see Steven Wang in one of those hospital photos, where he was shaking hands with Henderson. Jimmy was reminded of his date the next night and considered whether he was really going to go through with it. He was busy, and of course deep inside he knew that was just an excuse. Could he kill two birds with that same stone—enjoy his date and get some information from Steven about Henderson?

  Second he looked for any social media activity from Henderson. There he came up empty. The man seemed to have no Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram accounts, which in today’s age was equated with being a recluse. It made Jimmy wonder if there was a specific reason. Perhaps the man had something to hide, an understatement for sure, since Jimmy knew of two instances of him beating up women he had dated, and reportedly there had been others. Not exactly a subject one would send out a tweet about, but Jimmy did manage to find some newspaper and magazine articles about the man. What he gathered was the man didn’t do much of anything in his life other than date and attend fancy dinners and galas.

  Jimmy stared at a couple of photographs of the man. His perfect hair, teeth, his skin tan and his attitude were blasé, almost smug. He knew he was good-looking, model worthy and, based on what Melissa confessed to him, possessed of an impressive cock. Money, privilege, a total lack of responsibility: it was a recipe for a man who felt entitled to anything, anyone, the type who thought he was immune to the world’s ills and laws, and he lived that way for all of his thirty-eight years. Until he crossed the wrong person. And that person sliced him right down the middle.

  Jimmy closed out of his browser, considering his next move.

  He then typed in Melissa Harris-J’Arnound, wondering how the web represented her, and as opposed to Henderson Carlyle, Melissa was all over it. Social media was her friend, active even an hour ago on Twitter about Help Is Here. He read a series of her tweets, and it was just the normal propaganda of a woman whose job depended on donations from influential, wealthy people. Had Henderson’s money come not from him but higher up in his family? He changed directions on his web search, this time looking up his parents, who weren’t even based in New York, he discovered. Calvin Carlyle and his stylish wife, Tessa, were based in Santa Fe; they had made their fortune in real estate out west. Jimmy read a profile of them, and he got the sense that of their three children, Henderson was seen as the black sheep. Another son was a doctor in Seattle. A daughter worked in Silicon Valley. A family that was spread far and wide, was there a story there? Abusers tended to act out because they too had been abused.Henderson Carlyle had just been a first-class asshole and the family intentionally sent him away. Had that rumored incident of abuse back in Santa Fe forced Henderson to seek a fresh start, and he’d chosen New York for it?

  Jimmy checked the time, realized he’d been searching the web and gathering details for nearly ninety minutes. He’d barely touched his Coke, beads of sweat on the can evidence that the room was warm. Closing in on nine o’clock, he realized he could run over to the Calloway Theatre and escort his mother home. It was her late shift that night, Triskaidekaphobia letting out around 9:30; it was Tuesday night, and most of Broadway started at 7 p.m. She always enjoyed when Jimmy came to pick her up. He liked the idea even more since Mickey Dean had resurfaced. He’d already targeted one person in his family. No telling what he was capable of. Once initiated, violence didn’t fade. It escalated.

  Jimmy grabbed his leather jacket and keys, headed out of the apartment, down the flight of stairs and out the door. A clear, dark night hovered above the city, stars lighting the sky. He could see his breath before him, visible under the glowing streetlights. People bypassed him, young and old alike, who made up the mix of cultures now living in Hell’s Kitchen. It had changed so much. Perhaps it was nostalgia hitting Jimmy’s heart, but there was something comforting about seeing the old tenement buildings, the walk-ups that still made 9th Avenue its own enclave. Too many of the new high-rises surrounded them, left them in shadows, almost like they were closing in on the last surviving stretch of open sky. For the time being, this was still home, and it felt right.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he reached for it. He paused when he saw the name, but then he picked up.

  “Hi Steven, how’s it going?”

  “Jimmy, hi. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Nah, just running to pick up my ma from work.”

  “See that’s why I like you. You’re a good son.”

  “Oh, that’s why?” Jimmy said, not sure why he suddenly wasn’t afraid of banter.

  “Well, for other reasons, too. We can discuss that tomorrow. You’re still coming?”

  This was his escape, if he wanted it. He could feign an excuse, a new case. It wouldn’t be a lie. Yet he found himself saying, “Yes, what time, what can I bring?” and Steven’s response was one filled with promise, with innuendo.

  “Just yourself. Clothes are optional.”

  “I might have to wear them, you know, in public.”

  There was a pause on the other end before Steven said, “Sorry if that was forward.”

  “I think we’ve already gone down that route, Steven. I’ll see you at seven.”

  “Plan to stay the night.”

  It was a rushed phrase, one Jimmy wasn’t given the chance to reply to, since the call ended. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that invitation. Dinner was one thing, a hot diversion following. To stay for breakfast meant something more, something deeper and committed, a notion Jimmy wasn’t accustomed to. Still he didn’t run from the idea. He didn’t do his usual thing and call back and cancel, saying something had suddenly come up. He let it sink in, let his mind get as used to it as his body.

  He put the phone away as he was crossing 8th Avenue at 46th Street. He walked up one more block and turned right, where the lit marquees of several theatres hit him like a flashbulb going off. The Brooks Atkinson’s doors were locked, the show already over for the night, the same for the Friedman across the street, and down at the Ethel Barrymore, the crowd was being let out. The Calloway’s doors were still closed, the performance not yet over. Jimmy crossed against a backup of traffic, opened the front door to the lobby. Joe, the usual ticket taker, was on duty, and he welcomed Jimmy with a smile but no words. The end of the play was quiet, and any noise could be heard inside the house. Suddenly an eruption of applause consumed them, and Joe sprang into action to start opening the exit doors.

  Soon the curtain call was over, the crowd dispersing. Jimmy wandered over to his mother, who stood behind the last row, ushering people to an assortment of exits or to the bathroom or the merchandise booth. Standing beside her was the house manager, Stephanie. Jimmy greeted her first, his mother yet to notice him.

  “Nice to see you,” he said.

  “You haven’t been here in a while,” she said, kissing his cheek.

  “He’s always so busy these days,” Maggie said, turning around. “Little time for his poor, suffering mother.”

  “Um, Ma, I’m here to walk you home.”

  She put a hand upon his scruffy cheek, rubbed the thick whiskers. “He’s a good son I have, Stephanie. Never shaves, but if that’s his only fault, I suppose I can consider myself lucky. Though I sense it’s not just the goodness in his heart that brings him here tonight.”

  His mother could always see through him. She knew he was gay at a young age but never said a word. Some topics just never got discussed. Eventually some topics became accepted. Same as tonight, she knew he had an ulterior motive, and it wasn’t until the house had been cleared and the doors closed up, when Jimmy and Maggie were back out on 47th Street, that she gave voice to her concerns.

  “This about that awful Dean boy?”

  Jimmy pictured Mickey as he came into Paddy’s Pub, all muscle and sinew, tattoos, not a boy but certainly awful. “What did you hear?”

  “My brother and I talk every day, Jimmy. He told me Mickey confronted you.”

  �
��Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Yet here you are, escorting me home late at night. You must be worried about him.”

  “Just being cautious, Ma. I doubt he’d try anything with you. Then again he’s not exactly the sharpest monkey in the barrel. For now caution is the word of the day, at least until I can figure out what he’s really doing back in Hell’s Kitchen. Kellan’s beating was a warning shot. He’s up to no good, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

  “Is that your new case? You, your own client?”

  “You know what they say…”

  “Jimmy McSwain, you’ve never been anyone’s fool.”

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek, waiting at the light at 9th Avenue. The walk sign gave them the go-ahead, and they continued across the wide avenue, continuing west along 47th. They weren’t far from the home they loved and had shared for a lifetime. For a moment he eyed his mother and tried to put himself in her shoes. Of course he knew how much he missed his father, but what about Maggie, who fifteen years after her husband’s death still went about her daily life, working, praying, cooking, cleaning, almost as if Joseph McSwain was coming home one day. Did her heart ache, did it mourn him? Had she ever considered moving on? Jimmy couldn’t see another man sweeping her off her feet, but she wasn’t old either, sixty-seven, still as beautiful as ever, and still sharp with the tongue, still filled with insight.

  “You staying home tonight?” she asked.

  “Yeah, Ma. Why do you ask?”

  “Some nights you don’t. Makes me wonder. A new man in your life?”

  “Ma, I’m usually at the office.”

  “Exactly, usually.”

  He laughed. It was good to let some of the drama lift off his shoulders. “You are quick.”

  “And you are evasive.”

  He wasn’t about to tell her about the next day, about Steven Wang. He could just hear her. Oh, a doctor…

  “Ma, can I ask you a question about the Deans?”

  “Ah, at last we get around to why you really picked me up at the theatre,” she said. “Shoot.”