Guardian Angel

by Adam Carpenter

  The first call was anonymous to 911. He reported seeing a man beat up on the pier.

  He hung up before they could ask for his name.

  As for the second cop he called, all he said was, “It’s me. Can I see you?”

  § § § §

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  “You should see the other guy.”

  “I’m not sure I want to. Is he alive?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  As Jimmy entered the apartment, he thanked the universe for small favors. Captain Francis X. Frisano was off duty. Jimmy had nowhere else to turn, not home where his mother would want to know what happened, not to the police precinct where he would put Frisano in an awkward position. No, it was Friday night, and he was alone, confessing to Jimmy during that phone call he was happy to hear from him and of course he can come over. Jimmy had said he’d probably want to reconsider that opinion once he laid eyes on him.

  “Jesus, Jim, you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

  “Just a few scrapes. Let me get cleaned up. Then we’ll…talk.”

  Frisano closed the door, encasing them in their own world, a place they preferred, where they could be themselves. Whatever existed between them usually happened there, where privacy was akin to intimacy. Unlike the last time he’d been there, when Frisano grabbed his hand and asked him to stay, Jimmy had no such plan to bail on him this time. Not then, not that night. He made his way to the bathroom, the pain already starting to penetrate his body. Peeling off his bloody clothes, he started the shower, staring at himself in the mirror. His eyes were puffy, and a nasty scrape was on his left cheek. A line of blood trailed from his mouth down to his chin. Mickey had landed a few good punches.

  The steam started to consume the compact bathroom, blurring Jimmy’s vision of himself. He stepped under the hot spray, grateful for the heat which washed over him. He stared down, saw the water turn red for a moment before it returned to normal, as though the drain were taking not just the pain but the memory with it, but Jimmy knew it wasn’t possible. He also knew he wasn’t done with Mickey Dean. Perhaps he never would be, not until the full and final truth came out. As he soaped himself, he considered the consequences of his actions. Mickey would be found, and he’d be taken into custody, perhaps to a hospital. Then he’d hopefully sing like a caged bird, freedom his goal, not caring whom he took down in the process: Jimmy, Joey, or the entire heart of the McSwain family.

  He heard a rapping at the door.

  “You okay in there?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be out in a second.”

  Jimmy turned off the shower nozzle, stepped out, dried himself with a large blue towel hanging from the rack, and ran it through his hair. Then he tightened the towel against his waist before returning to the main room of the studio apartment. Frisano was standing in the center with a bottle of beer in each hand and pressed one toward Jimmy.

  “Thought you might need this.”

  Jimmy took a grateful pull on it before setting it down on the coffee table. He took another step forward, the space between himself and Frisano closing in. He took the bottle from Frisano too, placing it next to his. As though the sweating bottles were mirror images of their situation, like meeting like, Jimmy pulled Frisano to him, landing a kiss on his lips. The response was strong and immediate, a rush of emotion, and soon the two men were locked in a tight embrace as unexpected as it was inevitable. Jimmy had known the reason he had called Frisano. His motives had been as transparent in his mind as the stars were dotting the sky. He felt a deep stirring beneath the towel, and he pressed himself harder against Frisano’s muscular body. He broke from the kiss, his eyes staring into Frisano’s.

  “I think I needed that more.”

  Frisano stared at him, and a hand reached out, touching the scar on Jimmy’s shoulder.

  “I haven’t seen this before. Sexy,” he said, “Does it still hurt.”

  “All of me hurts,” Jimmy said.

  Frisano ran a hand across Jimmy’s chest, ruffling the matted hair. “What else do you need?”

  Jimmy dropped his towel, letting it fall to the floor. “You.”

  Their kisses erupted again, fierce and hungry. Jimmy reached for Frisano’s T-shirt, pulling it over his shoulders to reveal the man’s strong, hairy torso. He kissed him, ran a hand across the thick dark hair that covered his chest, and relished its coarseness, somehow finding comfort within its dark whorls. Frisano grabbed him, threw him down onto the bed, the long-simmering heat between them at last given another chance to boil. Frisano stripped down to nothing, and then he easily climbed atop Jimmy. They kissed deeply once more, a single exchange that seemed to seal the deal of what was soon to happen. Jimmy couldn’t wait, and he said so, and soon Frisano was sheathed and ready, sliding his cock deep inside Jimmy. It was a pain he welcomed, knowing pleasure would soon win out, and with each hungry thrust the warmth inside Jimmy grew. He hugged his lover, digging his nails into the man’s back, clutching at even more hair. Frisano was a beast huffing above him, and Jimmy his willing prey. The man’s driving cock making him feel as alive as he’d felt in too long…too long.

  “Love me, Frank, love me all night,” Jimmy said.

  “I will, and you will love me. You will stay with me. I won’t let you go, not this time.”

  “Never again. Never stop.”

  Time spun away from them, Frisano’s urgent thrusts the only way to mark its passage. He was relentless, allowing Jimmy to savor him. He was an ideal lover, aggressive but loving too, a heady mix of hunger and passion. Jimmy lay there on his back, his legs wrapped around his lover, watching with wide eyes as Frisano hefted himself onto his palms, his biceps straining. Sweat had begun to form in the dense fur of his chest. Jimmy reached up, seeking out a nipple and another, liking the grunts that shot forth from Frisano’s lips.

  Soon Jimmy felt his own cock welling up with a ready explosion. The friction of his shaft against Frisano’s furry stomach had stiffened it and heated it. He felt a whoosh of desire sweep across his body, a concentrated rush bringing a numbing focus to his mind. Frisano then cried out in the darkness of the room. A series of hard thrusts were the final build up to his orgasm. Jimmy was close too, and he wanted them to climax at the same time, to confirm to him they were in sync, that what they shared was mutual. Jimmy refused to think of anything, wanting only the comfort of being loved and of unrelenting sex with a man who never left his thoughts and had never left his heart. The world pulsed, and it gave him life.

  Jimmy pulled Frisano down on him. Their bodies locked like one, linked together. Frisano let loose. Jimmy felt him explode inside of him. Frisano continued to rock him, to rock the bed, readying Jimmy for his own inevitable release, which came just as he grabbed at Frisano’s back, thick hair grasped in his fists. Jimmy unloaded then, a sharp exhale of breath following his release. He found Frisano staring at him, thinking he must look like hell, the bruises on his face still raw and soon to turn purple. A kiss was exchanged before Frisano rolled over onto his back. Both of them stared up at the ceiling.

  “We’re not done,” he said.

  “Not by a long shot,” Jimmy said, “But for now, I’ll take that beer.”

  Frisano got up from the bed, padded naked over to the coffee table to retrieve the beers. Jimmy sipped at his, and Frisano was about to cheer when a ringing sound interrupted their privacy. The outside world was calling, intruding. Jimmy knew the police precinct captain had to answer. Even when he was off duty, he was on duty, just one of the unavoidable aspects of the job. Frisano grabbed for his cell phone, spoke into it, and smiled at Jimmy while he said, “What do you got?”

  Jimmy drank from his beer, admiring the man standing naked before him, exposed.

  Jimmy was too only more so with his bruises like his chest had been opened and his heart was visible. Unlike Henderson Carlyle his was still beating and revealing his feelings. Except as the conversation went on, Jimmy felt it skip a beat. Something was wrong. The room dar
kened, and moonlight no longer shone through the window. Yes, something was very wrong.

  “I see. Yeah, okay, an interesting development. Thanks, I’ll see you soon.”

  Jimmy had wanted nothing more than to rekindle their romance with an all-nighter, to fall asleep beside this man and wake-up beside him too. He wasn’t afraid of breakfast. He wouldn’t run, if Frisano suddenly asked him to move in. Here it wouldn’t feel like prison, like someone was trying to keep him from being who he was, but the expression on Frisano’s face said such fantasies would have to wait.

  Frisano set the phone down and eased his way to the bed.

  “You’re not gonna like this,” he finally said after hesitating.

  “Why’s that? What happened?”

  “Mickey Dean is dead. Cops found him tied to a lamppost along the piers.”

  Jimmy’s mouth opened about to speak before he stopped himself. He knew he shouldn’t say anything, not in front of a cop, even if that cop was his lover and was naked after the two of them had just made passionate love. But wasn’t that why he’d come there, not just for sex but for protection from all that Mickey had taunted him with, to bury such horrible ideas with wonderful emotions? He tried to wrap his mind around what he’d just heard: how was it Mickey Dean was dead? He was breathing when Jimmy left. He was alive. He’d checked.

  But now he was dead.

  “That’s impossible,” Jimmy finally said.

  “That’s not what the single gunshot to his forehead says.”

  Epilogue

  Fate was working overtime, proving to be as cruel as she was rumored to be. The coldest season had arrived as well, the unseasonably chilly first three weeks of December a mere prelude to the winter that was finally, calendar-wise, upon them. As the solstice began, it was a time for family to nestle amongst each other and to acknowledge and remember the events of the past year. Though they had suffered a loss in Kellan Byrne, the McSwains had much to celebrate, notably that they were healthy and ready for a breather from the drama that had consumed them since Thanksgiving. A new year would soon be upon them, a renewal. Meaghan would give birth, ushering in a new era for a family defined by its traditions.

  That night was one of their time-honored ones, Midnight Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

  Jimmy’s wounds had healed, and he’d even shaved that night, put on a suit and tie, and given in to his mother’s insistence that he dress for the Lord. They stood in the back pews, voices singing out as the cardinal recessed out of the mighty sanctuary. It was almost 1:30 in the morning, the choir’s soaring notes giving the solemn hour a sound not normally heard at that hour even in a city that doesn’t sleep. Jimmy saw Meaghan yawn her way through the song, “The First Noel,” standing there and holding her expanding belly. The next year would be a series of firsts for all of them. He and Mallory would be an uncle and aunt, his mother a grandmother, and Hester a great-grandmother. There was already a wealth of gifts mitigating the others wrapped under the tree back home, mere trinkets to a world newly filled with promise and new life and enough of death.

  It wasn’t the same for every family that season.

  Paddy wasn’t with them this year, as he’d flown down to Florida to spend time with his other son, Taran. Hester had joined him for the sunshine. He’d even achieved a sense of détente with his ex, Darcy. Hope out of tragedy.

  Jimmy, in a moment of benevolence toward a man who deserved none, wondered what the mood was like at the Dean household. Mickey probably had not been a warm and fuzzy guy around the holidays. Why should one day of the year alter what the rest of the year couldn’t? He thought of Maureen Dean, wondered if she’d put a second angel in the back room of her shop. “It wouldn’t be right,” Jimmy thought but then decided it wasn’t his place to judge. Mothers felt pain others didn’t.

  Kellan Byrne and Mickey Dean, victim and killer, both gone, where a month ago they’d lived, breathed, and made decisions they couldn’t undo. Fate at work was unkind.

  The mass over, Jimmy took Maggie by the arm, escorting her down the illuminated steps of St. Pat’s and into the surprisingly warm night. Since winter arrived, so had unseasonable temperatures, a dramatic shift from the so-called Polar Vortex which had toyed with them only a week before. There would be no white Christmas that year, but it didn’t stop tradition, even if the weather defied it. With Mallory and Meaghan in tow, they made their way to Rockefeller Center, not alone as they trekked to visit the gargantuan tree which defined the legendary plaza during the season. It towered high, and the lights adorning it were many, too numerous to count.

  Jimmy thought about his first memory of coming there. He’d probably been five, Meaghan a newborn, and Mallory seven. His father had been by their side, and on that night he recalled heavy snow falling. He couldn’t wait for Christmas morning. He’d wanted a red toboggan with a trip to Central Park and its many hills on his menu of things to do during the break from the school year. He got both wishes that year. His wishes don’t always come true.

  “Something on your mind, Jimmy?” Maggie asked, still linked in the crook of his arm.

  “Just thinking about other times, before I knew awful things lived in this world.”

  “Oh, Jimmy, you never rest, do you?”

  He couldn’t tell her anything, certainly not that night, of the accusations Mickey Dean had made. He hoped his lies were dead and buried alongside him. Mickey hadn’t been the only victim. The two bodies found at Rocco’s Garage were identified and mug shots found. They matched the two goons who accompanied Mickey on his exploits, his henchmen. While it had been made to seem both men were victims of the fire, the coroner had found that each man died of a single gunshot wound, a small neat hole in the center of their foreheads, not unlike the way Mickey had been found. Mere pawns in a bigger scheme, they’d obviously fucked up and paid the ultimate price. They’d been disposed of, clearly dispensable.

  Why was he thinking it while all around him were happy people, snapping photographs of the tree? He looked down to find his mother smiling, perhaps about memories of Christmases past. He should learn to enjoy the moment.

  “Let’s go home,” Maggie said finally. “Tomorrow new gifts await us. Meaghan, just you wait and see what I got the baby.”

  “Ma, you don’t even know the sex of the baby.”

  Maggie McSwain allowed a twinkle in her eye, glowing with color not unlike the giant tree before her. “Don’t I? If a mother is all seeing, then a grandmother is all knowing.”

  The McSwain family returned home to their cherished apartment on 10th Avenue and 48th Street, where they retired to their bedrooms to sleep at last. It was getting on toward three in the morning, and of course the only one still awake was Jimmy. He lived life as a night owl, so it wasn’t rare for him to still be awake. He sat on the floor, a beer at his side, because that’s what he felt like having. In the kitchen, a second one had been poured in a glass that sat at the head of the table. Jimmy stared up at the pine tree he’d helped decorate, all while the sounds of Mitch Miller played softly in the background. The past was alive. The tree glowed with gold and silver. Jimmy stared upwards at the very top of the tree, raising his glass to the shimmering angel who kept watch over them.

  § § § §

  CASE #642: GUARDIAN ANGEL

  I was tending bar at Paddy’s the night I found out. Paddy was still visiting his lone son in Florida, which left me in control of the tavern which bore his name, better than taking substitute ushering shifts at the Calloway. I’d just closed up. The time was four in the morning. I wiped down the bar with a wet cloth, realizing that another year had nearly reached its destined ending. By the turn of the calendar, the day was December 31st, New Year’s Eve. Paddy would be back later, intent on being the master of ceremonies as the countdown to the New Year began. He’d never missed the dropping of the ball. I guess I hadn’t either.

  Silence enveloped the room, perhaps too much. I needed sound. I grabbed the remote and flipped on one of the flat-
screen televisions. I’d seen that hour enough in my life to know that not much was on. It was easier just to watch the news than infomercials. Turning the channel to CNN, they were discussing the latest in the political race. I was kind of sorry I’d flipped it on. Except here’s the thing about the decisions you make in life, even the simplest ones like watching television: Life sometimes wants you to do what you wouldn’t normally do, because it has something to say.

  I considered carrying a case of empty bottles to the back room but instead chose to stick around the main room. A bevy of glasses needed to be cleaned, so I started with those. Despite the splashing of warm, soapy water, I could hear the words of the anchor speaking above me, a mindless drone until a certain phrase captured my full attention. “Plane crash.” I looked up to see a banner thickening the bottom of the screen: BREAKING NEWS, it read. I nearly dropped a glass into the sink. It could have shattered and drawn blood. Enough had been spilled already, so I stopped what I was doing. Again it was meant to be.

  “This tragic news is just coming in. The details remain sketchy at this time,” the anchor was saying, “But Caribbean authorities in the Turks and Caicos have notified the press of the crash of a private plane, which lost contact with air control shortly after take-off just hours ago. Witnesses walking along the nearby beaches said they watched as smoke billowed out of the cabin before the plane exploded and plunged into the sea. A male pilot and one woman were aboard, and neither is believed to have survived. We will have more on this story as it develops, including the identity of the pilot and its lone passenger.”