Crime Wave

by Adam Carpenter

  “A captain’s work, it’s never done.”

  Frisano rose from the sofa, stretching his body in the open space. Jimmy looked up with surprised eyes, unbelieving of what was suddenly happening. Here he was in a state of near-total undress, his jeans around his ankles and his shirt undone, his spent cock dangling among sweaty pubes, and the man who’d just done all of that to him looked fresh as a daisy, fully clothed and ready to exit. What the fuck was this?

  Frisano was making his way toward the door when Jimmy sprung up from the sofa. He quickly tucked himself in and then grabbed at Frisano’s arm. He spun him around.

  “Something wrong, Jim?”

  “Yeah,” he said, and from the expression on Frisano’s face, he knew what he had to do.

  He pushed Frisano up against the door frame, planting his hands upon the man’s chest. He leaned in and kissed him, hard, just as the man had done to him. Turnabout, Jimmy decided, was fair play. He wanted to play the aggressor, so too could Jimmy. He took it even further. With no buttons to undo, Jimmy reached up and grabbed hold of the collar of the V-neck, and he tore it open. Frisano stood there, a slight grin on his face, but saying nothing. He just watched as Jimmy marveled at the lush forest revealed before him. A pelt of black hair covered Frisano’s chest, thick, springy as he ran a hand over it. The preview of hair sticking out of his V-neck was just the tip of the furry iceberg. Jimmy leaned forward, heat consuming him, and with a closed fist grabbed at Frisano’s hair, pulling it.

  “Yeah, you like that, Jimmy?”

  “I’ll tell you what I like,” he said.

  He unzipped Frisano’s jeans, pulling them down around dark, hairy legs. He wore no undershorts, and his thick cock jumped at him. He dropped to his knees and right there he took it into his mouth. Frisano was turned on. He thrust himself at Jimmy, then again. Jimmy reached around, grabbing at Frisano’s ass cheeks. They were lined with a light coat of fur, too. He pushed onward, taking him, enjoying him, knowing that what Frisano had pulled just now was a test. Was Jimmy just in it for a quick blow, or was there something more. Was it reciprocal? Hell it was, and Jimmy attacked him to the point that Frisano grew weak in the knees. Jimmy could feel him about to drop, the heat of the apartment encircling them. Jimmy felt sweat drip down his cheeks, felt salty beads form on his chest. Jimmy knew it wasn’t going to be long, he felt the tightness in Frisano’s balls.

  He heard the words, encouraging ones.

  “That’s it, that’s it…go down big on it…”

  Jimmy did as asked, and soon his mouth was met by another thrust. And an explosion of come that splattered all over his face. He dropped back onto the floor, panting with exertion. As Frisano did the same, they found their bodies embracing, kissing, caressing. Jimmy loved how this hairy man felt beside him. The heat was palpable, even now after they had climaxed.

  “You had me going there. Frank, you almost broke me when you said you were leaving.”

  “Sorry to play it that way. Guys…they get what they want, to hell with the other guy.”

  “I’m not like most guys,” Jimmy said.

  “So I’m learning.”

  Jimmy kissed him again, brushed his hand across the furred chest. “So, now what?”

  “I think some things we save for another time,” he said.

  Jimmy understood, and the smart part of his brain agreed.

  He realized they were lying on the hardwood floor, hardly a comfortable arrangement. So he suggested they moved to the sofa and just enjoy each other’s company, touch and tease, play. And talk. Frisano agreed it was a good idea, but someone else had an alternate plan in mind. From inside Frisano’s jeans, a buzzing sound came.

  “Let me guess…the precinct.”

  Frisano quieted him with one hand, answered his cell phone with the other one. Jimmy watched as his new lover sprang into action, immediately jumping into cop speak. It was a sexy sight, seeing him shirtless, his bicep curled as he cradled the phone. He nodded, said shit a few times before saying he’d be right there. He closed the phone, stuffed it back inside his jeans.

  “Sorry, Jim. Got a situation.”

  “What kind?”

  Frisano hesitated, as though considering whether he should say anything. But tonight had been about sharing. “Don’t go all ape shit on me. Okay. But there’s been another deli robbery. Another murder.”

  Jimmy opened his mouth to speak, but Frisano shut it for him.

  “Not a chance in hell are you going with me,” he said, “For lots of reasons. Now, tell me you have a shirt I can wear. You kind of tore mine to shreds.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  CRIME WAVE! Is the city’s blood ready to boil?

  Tuesday morning, Jimmy sat at the breakfast table at his mother’s apartment in his shorts, staring at the New York Post, feeling like the headline was staring back at him. Taunting him. It was still hot as hell outside, with the temperature in the high eighties. It was eleven o’clock. His mother had gone out to run errands, and Meaghan was still sleeping. Having the apartment to himself felt nice, the quiet soothing him. Though truth be told he’d still be at his office if only last night’s company hadn’t had to leave so abruptly.

  Not that he needed reminding about Frank Frisano, the headline served as a reminder as to why he’d had to leave. The date had gone well, for sure. It had taken a couple surprising turns, and in its midst had been as hot as anything Jimmy had experienced in quite a while. The last guy he’d dated, the British editor named Barry, the sex had been rather vanilla. Frisano had already topped that, and they hadn’t even, as the kids used to say, gone all the way. Jimmy had a sense such a thrilling event wasn’t too long in the future.

  But right now he concentrated on the details of the article.

  This time, the deli was located on 23rd Street between Tenth and Eleventh Avenues, just a few blocks north of the last place but further west toward the river. The M.O. was identical: an attempted robbery, the owner fighting back, going so far as to brandish a baseball bat as he ran out of the store after the assailant. The bullet had gone through the thick portion of the bat before hitting the deli owner in the forehead. Both had dropped to the ground. Surveillance video was fuzzy. But, according to Captain Francis X. Frisano of the 10th Precinct, everything matched the pattern established since the start of the heat wave.

  “Two delis, two murders. It’s senseless. We will stop this madman.”

  A grainy shot of the deli accompanied the article, as did a photo of Frisano.

  He looked hot, Jimmy decided, picturing him with his shirt off. Picturing himself ripping that shirt off.

  “Oh, he’s hot,” he heard from behind him.

  He turned to find Meaghan hovering over his shoulder. “You make it a habit of sneaking up on people?”

  “What’s got you so jittery, Jim? Date not go so well?”

  “It went fine.”

  “Except you’re home,” she said. “Better luck next time. Like I said, that guy’s hot. If I had seen him at the bar last night, I might have wanted to do nasty things to him. Too bad he’s a cop, not up your alley. So to speak.”

  “Meaghan, don’t you have anything better to do?”

  “Nope. Theatre’s closed, I’m off for the summer. Got nothing to do but hang around.”

  He looked at her, said, “Good thing. You look like crap.”

  “Gee, thanks, Jim. I’m fine. Bartender bought me my final round.”

  “And how did you thank him?”

  “Eww, not that way.”

  “Long as you say so,” he deadpanned. “Anyway, I’ve got work to do.”

  “What’s that like, always being on the job, Jim?”

  “Busy.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think I’d like that.”

  He shook his head, retreating to the bedroom. Meaghan was six years younger than he, so she had been only eight when Joey McSwain was shot dead in front of that deli down the street. Their relationship hadn’t blossomed into hero worship, not the wa
y it had with Jimmy. She still had her mother to raise her; a boy needed his father, Jimmy still thought. Old school, but that was the McSwain way. It’s why the girls had names with M, boys with J.

  He closed the door behind him and turned the lock. With the long day ahead of him, he knew it was time to get to work. He fired up his laptop and checked email, looking to see if any potential client had reached out to him. The way this heat was taking over the city, emotions were boiling over. What cheating husband awaited discovery by his wife? What divorce lawyer needed a P.I. to chase down an ex-lover? It wasn’t always pretty what Jimmy did, but it paid the bills. Fortunately, the case of Harris Rothschild from last spring had been lucrative and was paying the bills for a while. Which meant Jimmy had the time and the resources to jump into Rocky’s case wholeheartedly.

  Since he was already on the computer, he decided to begin his background checks there. It wasn’t his favorite part of the job; he liked being out on the streets, questioning people, finding leads, chasing down suspects. Doing a Google search just didn’t get his motor running. Again, he thought of Frisano, felt a rush of heat wash over him. He hadn’t heard from him, but he wasn’t surprised. Once he was on duty, Frisano was a different man. A focused man. Jimmy took the mental hint and set up about focusing on his own career.

  He typed in Duvan Akhbar, the name of Rocky’s lover.

  What came up first was news of his murder, published just days ago.

  Ok, that much Jimmy knew.

  “Tell me something else,” he said aloud, and then he narrowed his search by adding the words “hit and run,” the crime for which Duvan had been sent away. He hit enter, and after a few moments up came a fresh assortment of news articles, all dating back four years. Jimmy fired up an article from the Daily News and began to read. Duvan Akhbar, 29, of Manhattan, had been driving along the Upper East Side late-night, during a torrential rainstorm. He later said he never knew he’d hit a person much less caused bodily harm, but indeed he had. A young woman, 22, named Alicia McDonald, daughter of an influential New York real estate magnate, had died of internal injuries suffered after being struck. When he’d learned that next morning of the incident and discovered it was his model car the police were searching for, he called his lawyer, who advised that he turn himself in. He pleaded guilty to manslaughter, had it reduced to reckless driving and leaving the scene of an accident, but was still sent away for three years. Jimmy knew this last part, but it confirmed Rocky’s story that Duvan had been sent to Parsons Hill, a prison in Putnam County, just north of the city. Quotes filled the article, Duvan apologizing to the girl’s fiancé, Greg Anderson, and to her devastated parents. It hadn’t seemed to have been accepted.

  A red flag went up right there. Was Duvan’s murder based on revenge?

  Had the fiancé waited for Duvan’s release? And then shot him?

  Had he trailed him, discovered that he’d found love? Did it matter than Duvan was gay?

  Jimmy again did another Google search, looking for Greg, or Gregory, Anderson.

  The name was far too common. He’d need to do further digging.

  What of Alicia’s family? Jimmy would look at that angle, too, but right now, he was tired of the computer. He needed to get on his feet and do some real investigating, and he knew just where to start.

  He showered, ran a rare razor across his face, and for the moment felt renewed.

  He couldn’t say the same for his sister. She was in the bathroom now, and what he heard didn’t sound good.

  “Hey, Meaghan. I’ve gotta go out. You okay in there?”

  “I’m fine, just go.”

  Then he heard retching sounds again. That girl would never learn, partying had its limits.

  A minute later, he hit the summer-baked streets of Manhattan. The humidity hadn’t yet broken, and he felt his underarms and forehead form early beads of sweat. Walking over to Broadway and 50th Street, he stopped only for a bottle of water to keep himself hydrated, and then ventured downstairs to the subway. The uptown #1 train was just pulling in, thankfully, so he didn’t have to wait on the hot platform. The car was chilled, providing a rare opportunity for him to enjoy the fact the train ran local. He rode all the way to 103rd Street, and was topside not thirty minutes from when he’d hopped on. It had been less than a week since he’d been up here, and before that he couldn’t recall ever having hung out much in this upper Manhattan neighborhood. It wasn’t quite the Upper West Side; some called it Hamilton Heights. He saw a street sign indicating he was passing by Duke Ellington Way. He strolled further up Broadway, eventually coming to the Tomorrow Lounge. An ironic name, given that just days ago someone had lost all their tomorrows inside its walls. Checking his watch, Jimmy noticed it was nearly 1:30 in the afternoon. He wondered if the joint was open. He took the few steps down and peered through the small plane of glass.

  A few older men sat on the stools, the same bartender from Friday night on duty. Jimmy recognized his crazy hair and the soul patch beneath his lip. Jimmy knew he had to go inside, but he also sensed the guy wouldn’t be too forthcoming. Last time, he’d brought bad luck. Still, you wanted answers, first you had to ask some questions. It was the old omelet-broken eggs rule.

  Stepping inside, two of the regulars turned to him. The bartender looked up.

  “Oh, it’s you…from…”

  “Yeah. From Friday night. Got a minute to spare?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on, man. It’s important. A man’s dead. Another man is facing life in prison.”

  The facts seemed to speak for themselves. The guy’s face softened, and he waved him over, sat him down on a stool at the near edge of the bar, away from prying ears.

  “Name’s Jimmy. Jimmy McSwain,” he said, offering up his hand.

  The guy shook it. “Amos. Amos Greene.”

  “I figured I owed you an explanation, Amos. The guy the cops arrested, I know him.”

  “Know him, as in…how?”

  “Childhood friend. He was recently dating my sister.”

  “That guy? Thought he was head over heels for Duvan.”

  “Ah, so you knew them. Both of them.”

  Amos’s face turned red, realizing he’d revealed information without having been asked. But Jimmy didn’t want to piss him off and lose any additional details the guy might provide. He defused the moment by asking for a beer, and the guy pulled out a Bud bottle.

  “You remember.”

  “I’m good at my job,” Amos said.

  “So am I. Look, Amos, I’m a licensed private investigator. Rocky hired me.”

  “No shit, really?”

  “I can show you my license if you want.”

  “Nah, what difference does it make. You could always have just printed it off a computer. Look, Jimmy, you seem like a cool dude. But what happened, I don’t need that kind of business. I just took over the ownership of this place, changed its name, it’s kind of…evolving. The previous owner never knew what to do with the space in the back, he just rented it out for parties. I came up with the idea of using it to showcase local talent. Duvan, he was just one of several cats I hooked up with, you know, creatively. I play saxophone. I’ve got a guy who plays piano; we just needed some people to sing, and maybe drum up business beyond the guys who come here on a daily basis. This is a jazz neighborhood.”

  Ah, that explained Sir Duke and his street.

  Jimmy nodded toward the three middle-aged guys fixated on the television, none of whom seemed like music was in their soul. Just beer. They were busy watching NY1, which had changed its name to Time Warner Cable News. They still did the weather on the 1s. Jimmy heard Roma Torre saying the heat wave wasn’t soon to break. Then they went back to their top story, the shooting death of a deli owner on 23rd Street. Jimmy looked up briefly, saw Frisano’s profile on the television, crisply dressed in his uniform. He was photogenic, that’s for sure. A couple of the guys at the bar commented on the city going to shit.

  “Da
mn mayor,” one of them said.

  Jimmy nodded Amos’s way. “Let me guess, you inherited these guys.”

  “Them, and some others, though a bunch drifted away to another watering hole.”

  “You making ends meet?”

  “I was hoping to. The fact there was a murder here kinda killed my weekend.”

  Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “Slip of the tongue?”

  “Oh, shit. You know, words happen.”

  “Murders happen,” Jimmy said, “and sometimes the cops nab the wrong guy.”

  “You don’t sound fond of the NYPD.”

  Jimmy thought of Ralphie, he thought of his father’s unsolved murder, and he thought of Frisano’s image up on that screen. “Let’s just say I’ve got my issues with them. Mostly, they do a great job. Sometimes they screw up, either by arrogance or short-sightedness. Arresting Rocky for Duvan’s murder, it was an easy collar for the detectives. Something for them to crow about. No manhunt, no knocking door to door. A killer found over the body. A conviction as easy as one two three.”

  “So where do I figure in this investigation of yours?”

  “How long had you known Duvan?”

  “Barely two months. He was living around the corner; I think he had a roommate who had taken him recently. One day he came in, saying he saw my poster in the window about wanting to try to audition some singers. He was straight with me, told me he recently got out of prison, he was re-making his life. Said he’d worked in finance back in the day but always wanted to sing. I gave him a shot; hey, it’s not like I’ve led an ideal life, I’ve made mistakes. So I took sympathy on Duvan.”

  “Not everyone thinks those who have served can be redeemed,” Jimmy said. “So, did he ever perform?”

  “No, we never got to that. He said he was waiting on someone.”

  “Rocky.”

  “I’ll tell you, when I finally met him, he took me by surprise. Tough guy, didn’t seem gay really, had a thick New York accent.”

  “He grew up in Hell’s Kitchen. We went to school together.” Jimmy took a swig of his beer, thinking of the next line of questioning. At last, he said, “So, you were expecting him that night?”