Jimmy paused, remembering the scene on the docks last December, when he and Mickey finally gave way to their anger, pummeling each other until one was the victor. But really, even as Jimmy left the vile man tied to a lamppost, awaiting the arrival of the cops thanks to an anonymous call he placed, could he truly consider himself champion? Mickey had left him with a devastating piece of news, his legacy as evil as the life he’d led.
“What does your boyfriend say?”
Only the ornery Ralphie could be so blunt. Except Jimmy wasn’t sure of the status between himself and Frisano. They’d never discussed labeling their relationship, and certainly wouldn’t be doing so after the bad ending from last night. Ralphie could read Jimmy’s body language, the way he shifted on the edge of the bed.
“Trouble again?”
“It’s always something. I pushed too far, I think. But he should know…how important the Forever Haunt is to me.”
“Seems to me, with relationships, they only thrive when you focus on the future, not on the past.”
Jimmy got up off the bed, walked over to the window. The sky was a clear blue, appropriate for a cold winter day, and he could see the thin branches of trees waving in the wind. They were bare, an indication that spring was still a bit away. Which meant the days still got dark early, and almost as if agreeing with him, the sun dipped behind a cloud and the room grew shadows. Jimmy remained looking out the window, thinking about the complex world out there.
“So how do you manage all of this? The murder, your boyfriend? The cold case?”
“That’s what I have to figure out. Just trying to figure out where to start.”
“Where do you think it begins?”
Jimmy turned around. “Working backwards. With the most recent murder. If Officer Luke was crooked, then he might have been involved in the corruption surrounding the mysterious Blue Death organization. I’ll have to start with talking to his widow, which I’m hesitant to do since she only buried her husband yesterday. Last thing I want is to appear insensitive, because I’m more attuned to her loss than she might ever know. But Ralphie, hasn’t this gone on long enough? How many other police officers are going to be murdered, and in the name of what? Whether they got involved in something unsavory or just were in the wrong place at the wrong time and discovered something they shouldn’t, no kid…” He paused, a lump caught in his throat. “No kid should grow up without a father.”
“Then there’s your answer.”
Jimmy thought about his own deceased father, and he thought again about the accusation Mickey Dean had lodged against him. Was this the time to talk to Ralphie about it? Opening this can of worms would lead to a larger discussion and he doubted either of them was up for delving into it. A yawn stretching over Ralphie’s mouth gave Jimmy the clue he needed, and so he tabled the subject until another time. He crossed over to the bed, held Ralphie’s hand.
“Something else on your mind?” the frail man asked.
Yes, Jimmy thought. But what he said was the opposite. An emphatic, “No.”
Silence followed, then an acquiescence. “Okay, I’ll let it go. But something’s bugging you.”
“Another time, Ralphie. Get some rest. I’ll visit you again. Soon.”
“Hopefully I’ll be released in the next day or so.”
“Don’t push it. I need you, Ralphie. In my life.”
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere. Devil’s not ready for this old coot just yet.”
“Hardly,” Jimmy said.
They two exchanged a conspiratorial smile. Then Ralphie nodded, closed his eyes, and was asleep in seconds.
Jimmy continued to hold his hand, remembering how much this man had helped him, what a good friend he’d been to his father, a partner who would have done anything for him. A chilling revelation hit Jimmy. All these years spent investigating his father’s murder, the game had changed drastically in the last year. Clues had revealed themselves, only to disappear into the ether. He had to use his smarts to bridge all the disparate pieces he’d unearthed. His breath constricted inside his lungs. His body locked in place, almost as though it had suffered its own stroke. He recovered, and at last the words he dared utter finally came out. Words that needed to be spoken aloud. “The man I need to investigate is my father.”
§ § § §
On the way back to Manhattan after grabbing lunch, congestion in the tunnels kept the subway moving slowly. Which allowed Jimmy’s thoughts to turn to how everything in life always swung back to family connections. And for Jimmy McSwain, those connections boiled down to fathers and their sons. From Joseph and Jimmy himself, to Lawrence Dean and his two boys, the angry Mickey and the slow-witted Larry, Jr. To Salvatore Frisano and his ambitious son, Frank. Always, it came down to the bond, the expectation.
But ultimately, did whatever was truly going on with the case he’d dubbed the Forever Haunt begin with a young troubled girl? Such was Mickey’s accusation. The Dean family had lost their daughter, Cassiopeia, when she was just fourteen. She’d leapt from the top floor fire escape of their building on 47th Street between Ninth and 10th Avenues one dark morning. Labeled a tragic suicide. Maureen, the matriarch of the Dean family, had seemingly never accepted it, failing to recover from the loss. She opened a psychic shop in the neighborhood, renamed herself Madame Mo and offered advice to the willingly susceptible. Jimmy thought the only person she ever really helped was herself. Her small storefront was really just a shrine to the little angel she’d lost. These were the conflicting ideas that swirled inside Jimmy’s mind as he finally arrived at his stop.
Off the subway and back on the familiar turf that was Hell’s Kitchen, he approached his childhood home with sudden trepidation. A westerly wind had picked up off the nearby Hudson River, ratcheting up the cold air along open canyons. He zipped up his leather jacket, and he tucked his hands inside the side pockets. He rarely worried about gloves.
The time was four in the afternoon and the sun was waning in the sky, not quite ready to give way to the encroaching night. He wondered what he would do for dinner, since his mother was working the late shift at the Calloway, which meant she rarely cooked a meal on those nights. Meaghan would be home but of course of no help, pregnant or not. He might just pick up some take-out, Chinese or Thai. It was then he saw the young boy sitting on the steps of the entrance to the building, alone but for a juice box in his hand. The straw stuck out at an angle.
“Hi. Sonny, right?”
The boy withdrew into himself. He said nothing. Sought safety in his drink, a long sip.
“I’m Jimmy, remember?”
“Momma said not to talk to strangers.”
“That’s great advice. But I helped you move in, sort of. I carried a box.”
“She said you were nice. I don’t know.”
Jimmy offered up a friendly smile. Glad that he’d earned the approval of Carmen. Her son, he was a different story. Still, he took a chance and sat beside the wide-eyed boy on the low-lying step. The physical difference was stark, but an aura surrounding them suggested two inner children. An unspoken bond.
“What flavor?
“Apple,” Sonny said, looking at the juice box as though to confirm.
“I always liked grape.”
“I like that too,” the boy said. Progress, the two of them on the same page.
“You like your new home?” Jimmy asked.
Sonny shrugged. “Guess so. Not as noisy as the last place.”
“Where was that?”
He shrugged again. “I don’t know, really. I think Harlem, and there were a lot of us.”
“What do you mean, a lot of us? Many people living in the same apartment?”
“Yeah.”
“So this is nice. Just you and your Momma?”
“And sometimes Nana. Like now.”
“Nana? Is that your Mom’s mother?”
“No, my Dad’s. Aubelita is in Puerto Rico.”
Jimmy decided to cease with the nosy questions, and i
nstead concentrate on whatever Sonny volunteered. Given that he called one grandmother by the traditional Spanish name, the other by a more colloquial name, it made him think that Sonny was of mixed race. Carmen obviously was of Hispanic heritage; but given the boy’s light mocha skin, he wondered what other influences he carried in his genes. The boy was quiet, sipping at his juice box. Jimmy heard him reach the bottom, a last ditch slurp. He wondered if their conversation had reached its natural end, too.
“Is your Momma home now?”
“No. She’s at work. Like I said, Nana helps out. But she’s asleep inside. She’s old.”
“So who’s watching you?”
“I can take care of myself,” Sonny said, his voice a mix of resignation and determination.
“I’m only a few floors away. If you ever need anything, you can knock on the door.”
Sonny said nothing, staring forward. But then he turned to Jimmy, looked up. “Thanks.”
“Everyone needs someone to talk to.”
“Even you?”
Jimmy laughed. “Especially me. Life can be tough. It gets easier when you have a friend.”
“Is that what you are, a friend?”
“If you want. I’d like that.”
Sonny smiled, the first sign that Jimmy had gotten through to him. Jimmy felt a warmth in his soul. He thought of the tenuousness of life, that of an old man like Ralphie Henderson, with his health crisis perhaps indicating time was running out for him. And then of this young boy, he who had his entire future waiting for him. Life was a series of decisions. Fate could dictate where you went in this world, or you could fight its charted path, override it and pave your own. Because as powerful as fate could be, there was equal strength found in determination. Jimmy had battled both for as long as he knew. Talking with young Sonny, it had given him a renewed sense of hope. He reminded himself he, too, had a future. It was out there for the grabbing. You couldn’t always rely on the past, a place that liked it secrets too much. Jimmy knew one day he’d have to let them go.
“What about your Dad? Is he around?”
Sonny hesitated. He tried to drink from his juice box. Came up empty. “He’s gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Your Dad?”
“He died. Many years ago. I was older than you, fourteen. But I still miss him.”
“My Dad, he’s in trouble. I heard Momma say that’s why he’s gone. He ran.”
Jimmy nodded. Didn’t say anything because to do so would interrupt the boy’s confession. “But he didn’t do anything wrong. He’s my hero.”
Jimmy smiled down at the boy. “That’s how it should be. A father is always a hero.”
“Are you sad?” Sonny asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. Seems you need to talk to me more than I need to talk to you.”
“You’re a very smart kid, Sonny.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a clearing of a throat behind them. Jimmy looked up to see a woman standing in the doorframe. She was closer in age to his own mother, over sixty. A mop held in her aged hands. Her gray hair was stringy, lying flat against her scalp. Like she either didn’t care about her appearance, or maybe the deep cleaning of the new apartment had rendered her sweaty and in need of a shower. He had to assume this was Nana. So much for her napping.
“Who are you?’ she asked.
Jimmy stood. “Jimmy McSwain. I live on the top floor. I met your grandson and his mother last night. I helped with a couple of boxes. I was just making sure Sonny here was okay, you know, in his new home. Change is not easy at any age.”
“Sonny is fine.” Her eyes turned to her grandson. “Go inside and wash up.”
“It’s not dinner time yet…”
Nana hit the wooden stem of the mop against the cement step. It was a command. Sonny got up, and without another word walked back into the building. Jimmy heard the door of the rear apartment slam shut. Sonny wasn’t happy but obeyed when spoken to in such stern terms. Jimmy had to wonder what quality of life this boy had endured. A previous home where the apartment was over-crowded, now in an unfamiliar home with no friends, guarded over by a disapproving grandmother while his mother was working…wherever. Again, Jimmy thought of the boy’s father. What did gone mean? What kind of trouble?
“You would be wise to stay away,” Nana said. “This is a family matter.”
“Sonny looked like he needed a friend. I was happy to talk to him. To let him talk.”
“He’s fine.”
“Doesn’t seem that way to me,” Jimmy said.
“Regardless, he is not your concern.”
“He mentioned his father is gone. What exactly does that mean? His father, I’m guessing he’s your son?”
“Again, none of this is your concern.”
“Mrs…”
“I am Lourdes Inshan.”
“Mrs. Inshan, I don’t mean to overstep my bounds. If I can be of help, though, I’d be happy to. I’m a licensed private investigator. I can offer help the police can’t.”
“Carmen has no need for your services. Nor does Sonny.”
Jimmy nodded, realizing he wasn’t going to win her over, not today. He stood on the front step as Lourdes turned around to head back to the apartment. Jimmy followed her inside the cool lobby, stopping at the base of the staircase.
“Can you say the same about your son?”
She stopped, spun back toward him. “Say what about my son?”
“Not needing my services. Whatever trouble he’s in, maybe I can help.”
For the first time since meeting her, her stiff presence softened. Almost as though she was resigned to whatever fate awaited them. “No. No one can help him. Not Carmen or Sonny, not me, not Ranuel himself. So why would you think you could do anything different? No, please stay out of this, Mr…”
“McSwain. Everyone calls me Jimmy.”
“Good day, Mr. McSwain. Please, be a stranger.”
She quickly turned and went back into the apartment. From where Jimmy stood on the first step he could hear the click of the lock, a statement unto itself. He paused, took a deep breath, and started up the stairs. Still, he kept looking back. He couldn’t help thinking about what secrets lay beyond that closed door. Obviously, they were a family with a host of problems, and they sounded like a combination of legal and domestic issues. That nebulous area between right and wrong, when your own morality sometimes made decisions for you. Which was right in his wheelhouse.
Yet both Carmen, last night, and today, Lourdes, had refused his assistance.
Sonny, though, was another story. The haunting look in his soft dark eyes while he sought out the last drop of apple juice had said one thing: Help.
Chapter Three
Seemed Jimmy was living his life on the subway these days. Two stops away from his destination, he considered the possibility this was the wrong approach. Was he pushing his luck at best, or at worst, guilty of putting his needs above those of others? He’d waited two days since his meeting with Ralphie until finally making the decision to visit the widow of Officer Denson Luke, and so, as the subway rattled along the iron rails beneath Queens Boulevard, an inner conflict continued to churn in his gut. He hadn’t phoned ahead and he hadn’t cleared any of his actions with the slain officer’s superior, Captain Frisano.
He hadn’t spoken with him about anything. Jimmy understood how grief worked, knowing the woman’s emotions would be raw during such a delicate time. It wasn’t that he was wishing to take advantage of her vulnerability. He was offering to help her. He thought in doing so she could help him. Opportunity had a limited open window.
The R train screeched to a stop at the Woodhaven Boulevard station, making Jimmy realize he would soon have to decide whether he could go through with this venture. It was eleven-thirty on Thursday morning. After a day of reflection, he’d awakened with a new purpose, and not forty minutes ago he’d gone down into the subway at 49th and Broadway, the local train
taking its slow route while gifting him the unwanted time to second guess his motives.
The doors closed with a ping, and soon the train was edging ever closer to its next stop at 63rd Street, Rego Park. A decision seemed to settle within him as the conductor announced their station, and suddenly the train had arrived, with Jimmy hopping off and going topside to the busy thoroughfare of Queens Boulevard.
It was a cloudy day, a low ceiling keeping the temperatures in the low forties. Another sign that spring was forcing winter’s demise. New life was in the making even if the tree branches were still bare. Like life was being held in the balance. For Jimmy McSwain, who lived between the realms of death and reality, today was one of mixed emotions. He thought of the brave father who had been taken from the unsuspecting Luke children, then thought of his own father being taken from him. Such a trail of loss, separated by fifteen years and senseless regret, now urged his feet forward, hitting the hard cement with newfound determination.
Queens’ layout was a complicated grid. He bypassed delis and Chinese take-out places, stores that theoretically sold household goods for .99, a few banks. Then he banked off the main street, more than surprised that he’d found 65-15 63rd Road, just a few blocks south of the subway station, without a misstep. But now came the moment of truth. Standing before him stood a small two-story shingled house, one of many on the congested block, looking darkened even in the light of day. He knew the signs. Grief lay beyond that door, a sorrow you could only know when it happened to you.
Jimmy took a deep breath. Then he walked up the cement steps and knocked on the door.
A figure wafted toward him, slowly, cautiously. He could tell it was a woman. She opened the inner door, leaving the screen latched.
“Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Luke?”
“You a reporter?”
“I’m actually a private investigator. My name’s Jimmy McSwain.”
She paused, and he could tell she was looking at him, into him. Trying to discern a level of trust. It was hardly a regular occurrence, a PI showing up at your door, not to mention one who freely admitted to his profession. But murder wasn’t an everyday thing in most people’s lives either. He was encouraged that she hadn’t yet shut the door on him.
Forever Haunt Page 4
