Second Shot, page 11
* * * *
A new day, back to the grind, the 7 train, and Flushing.
It was almost a repeat of the other day. Except today he was going it alone.
Setting the trap.
He slipped off Main Street, breathing easier as the bustling crowd of Main Street reduced in size. He saw a park nearby, iron fences and benches, a spot of grass in a sea of urbanity. Kids and parents played, but there was a bench open at the far end of the park and he welcomed it. He had a bit of research to do. He’d meant to work last night but family intervened. That was fine. Sure, Jimmy lived for his work, but he loved for his family. Priorities knew their rank.
Settling on the bench, he took out his phone and fired it up. He’d turned it off on the subway to preserve his battery. He was at full strength. He went first to the website of the New York Post, where he searched for articles about the warehouse fire in Queens. To find out anything new about the three victims found inside. There was a short article. The three men were employees and had died of smoke inhalation. Not exactly what that fireman had said yesterday. An authority from the coroner’s office was quoted as saying cause of death was pending. There was more evidence to be compiled.
Maybe they didn’t want to talk about the gunshots. Holding things back. Disinformation coming from the Task Force.
Another search. Another website. The New York Daily News. Usually they provided more in the way of visuals. Photographs. Jimmy examined the remains of the warehouse, trying to see if the photographer had seen something Jimmy hadn’t. Clues were often minute, discovered when you opened your mind and squinted your eyes. Jimmy could see a melted gas can. Once plastic, now charred remains. It was set against the blackened building. To him, that meant an accelerant. Deliberate. Proof of what the fireman had revealed. Wu-Tin eliminating that and those who could harm him.
But fire always left scars. It was Jimmy’s job to find the scab.
He was about to head over to Imperial Dragon when a call came in. The ID set his heart fluttering, nerves and excitement at the same time. He hated the feeling. He hated he allowed that feeling.
“Frisano,” Jimmy said.
“You used to call me Frank.”
“Frank means truth. You lie.” Brutal words. That’s what being alone did to you. “What’s up?”
“Where are you?”
“About to dine on the lunch special at Imperial Dragon. Headed there in ten minutes.”
“Good. Let me know how it goes. We’re well aware of Wu-Tin’s surveillance cameras in all his properties. He’ll see you. Which is just what we want.”
“And where will you be?”
“I’m actually nearby. You have back up. You just won’t see it.”
“If someone’s following me, I’ll see them.”
“But is it us, or is it one of Wu-Tin’s thugs?”
“Maybe it’s both.”
“You have someone on the inside?”
“Just go get lunch, Jim.” Apparently, Jimmy wasn’t supposed to know everything.
“Hopefully it’s not my last meal. I’d prefer wings and a beer.”
A halting laugh. “Still Jimmy McSwain.”
“People don’t change,” he said.
“We’ll talk later.” A safe response. Meaning a non-response.
Jimmy put the phone away and got up off the bench. The kids continued to play, on swings and slides and seesaws. Jimmy felt he’d ridden them all just now, unsettling his stomach. But he realized he hadn’t eaten and it was time. For food, and for furthering this case. On the sidewalk, he saw a young woman with a cane, a dog on a leash guiding her. His mind flashed to Mallory and Shade. Recalling Mallory saying how determined she was to return to Manhattan. But how? This was a vertical city, steps and walking coming as natural as breathing. Her challenge was his fuel. He saw the sign down the street for Imperial Dragon. He was done with the slow lane. Fast lane, express lunch.
As he entered, a bell jangled above him. The reception area of the restaurant was filled with Chinese chakachas, an oversize fish tank allowing its residents to swim and float and not be on the menu. The colors were red and gold and as he appreciated the host desk, a bronze metal cat waved at him with a continuous action. No one was present. He waited. He looked around. Just as Frisano had said, surveillance cameras were evident. On the far wall, mounted toward the ceiling. Jimmy could have smiled. He could have waved. But it was one thing to enter the tiger’s cage. It was another to taunt the creature.
“Hello, sir, may I help you?”
It was a young woman. Dressed in traditional Chinese clothing. Pretty, her dark hair long and straightened.
“It’s just me. So, uh, a table for one?”
She paused, looked up, as though looking at a camera herself. His request wasn’t strange. But with the restaurant owned by a paranoid crook with a cruel streak, perhaps the employees were on alert. Jimmy remembered Kenji at the Chinatown location. He’d been eviscerated.
“You come with me,” she finally said.
Jimmy was escorted to a table for two and to make a note of his singular dining, the hostess removed the second setting and then placed one menu before him. It almost made him feel more vulnerable. The other patrons, most of them of Asian descent, seemed to be enjoying their meals. Jimmy had eaten twice at the Chinatown version of this restaurant and been pleased by the food. Mostly because he hadn’t been poisoned by the chef’s boss. Jimmy stole a look around. Wondering if Wu-Tin was on the premises, or maybe he was busy burning down another of his buildings.
Another woman came by. Older, a streak of gray in her hair. A scar beneath her eye.
“You ready to order?”
“Oh, yes, thanks. General Tso’s chicken. An egg roll. I hear they’re great.”
“You like spicy?”
“I’m not afraid of the heat.”
That more for the camera than the waitress. You never knew who was watching. Or who was listening.
He also ordered a Tsing Tao. He might be working but he was still Jimmy. Independent.
As he waited for his food, Jimmy examined his surroundings further. It all looked on the up and up, just a restaurant treating its clients to the best meal they could provide. Jovial laughter, animated conversation. Were these people tourists? Were they neighborhood? And if the latter, were they aware of the owner and his reputation? Maybe the food was good enough to turn a blind eye, provided they were fed and not fed to.
The food arrived. A steaming plate of spicy chicken and rice. His egg roll crisp. Before he took a first bite, he looked around again. No one was paying any attention to him. The camera was more of a mystery. It captured images. But it all depended on who was watching on the other end. Jimmy took a bite. It was delicious, and he was hungry, and it didn’t take long for him to complete his meal and feel satisfied. It’s a shame his nemesis couldn’t just serve food. Serving danger just didn’t taste the same.
The older waitress came by and cleared his plate. While he waited for the bill, he checked his phone. A text from Brenden, which he would deal with later. One case at a time. Jimmy was one to compartmentalize. A few emails, which he’d deal with. A photo from Mallory with her dog. It served as a reminder of why he was here, and if that wasn’t enough, here came the other reason.
A black plastic tray was set in front of him, a slip of paper representing the bill. Orange slices and a fortune cookie. It wasn’t the waitress who had brought it. A man instead, and instead of waiting for Jimmy to read his fortune, settle his account and be on his way, this new person took up occupancy on the second chair at his table. Jimmy looked at him. He would have been shocked to see Wu-Tin.
It wasn’t.
The man was fifty-something, had thick muscles beneath a gray suit. No gray in his hair.
Same scar as Jimmy’s waitress.
Maybe it was a Wu-Tin marking. Meaning, I own you.
“Something I can do for you?” Jimmy asked.
“You have been to our restaurants before. You are fan?”
Quite the opposite. “The food is good. Not sure about the, uh, staffing. Customer service is a bit lacking.”
“Chinese people are proud people. We help. We serve. We please. But we are reserved.”
“Nasty scar.”
“I used to be chef. Oil splashed on my face.”
“From the wok, or from someone…I mean, something else?”
“I suggest you read your fortune, Mr. McSwain.”
“Ah, so you do know who I am.”
“We knew from the moment you got off the subway. Your visit the other day caught our attention. You are a thorn, Mr. McSwain, and Mr. Wu-Tin is no fan of roses to begin with. Petals are meant to be sprinkled on a grave. The last memory of a person’s life.”
“Sounds like I don’t need to crack open my fortune cookie. Sounds like you wrote one for me.” He grinned. It wasn’t friendly.
“Open it anyway. You may be surprised.”
Jimmy leaned forward. He finished the remnants of his beer. Then he ripped open the bag, tore the cookie at its middle. It was empty. He had no fortune.
“Is that a message without one?”
“Only Confucius knows a man’s destiny.”
“Good. I’ll take comfort in that. Means Mr. Wu-Tin doesn’t know mine.”
The thug’s forehead furrowed, as though he didn’t understand. He grabbed the bill and crumpled it before standing.
“Lunch on us.” He paused. “But don’t forget to tip the waitress.”
And then he was gone. Jimmy had a splash of beer remaining. He left it. It was warm, and bitter. Kind of like this September day. As he headed back out into the sunshine, he started to slip on sunglasses when he saw a slight man standing on a balcony ledge on the second floor of Imperial Dragon. Arms crossed, a stern expression etched upon his face. He said nothing. He made only one motion. Put a finger to his head, as though holding a gun. Jimmy knew it was meant as a warning. Stop your meddling.
Jimmy almost saluted him, mocking him. Instead, in a move that couldn’t be more Hell’s Kitchen, he tossed him the finger. Petty but effective. Wu-Tin turned around and slammed the door behind him.
“Proud of yourself?”
Jimmy turned at the sound of the voice. On the street corner, leaning against a tree with rough bark and leaves ready to fall to Autumn, was Francis X. Frisano. His arms were crossed, too, and he wasn’t slight. In fact, he was damned handsome and Jimmy hated himself for thinking that. Frisano was like the man in black. From his jeans to his shirt, two buttons undone, thick chest hair visible. That dark beard. Jimmy knew the body well. Too well. He blinked, shifted his focus.
“You wanted me to bait him. I think I achieved my goal.”
“And you certainly didn’t waste any time. Wu-Tin knows he’s being targeted.”
“He knew that already. This is a chess game. We need to stalemate the King.”
“And to do that, we need a couple of Queens.”
Jimmy didn’t rise to the bait. Because it just would take over the conversation, more about them and less about their enemy. Keep it focused. Jimmy wasn’t going back. He wasn’t sure how to move forward either, so numbness right now seemed a better option. It was kind of like this game of cat and mouse they were playing. Wu-Tin observing him, Frisano secretly following him. Did that make him the cheese, edible and disposable?
“Frank, what do you really want from me?”
“You called me Frank.”
“Slip of the tongue. What does the NYPD and their Special Task Force want me to do?”
“I think you know.”
Jimmy wished he’d put on his sunglasses earlier, not even seeing Frisano. He hated the glare of the day. It revealed as much as it blinded. But then words formed, in his mind first, and then his tongue and there was no way to stop them. “NYPD wants their hands clean when this case is all over. No liability. Toward Wu-Tin. Toward me. Either one of us is expendable.”
“Jimmy, that’s not what’s going to happen.”
“I’ll tell you what, Captain Frisano. Go inside that restaurant. Have a meal. But don’t forget to check your fortune cookie. Mine was empty, deliberately. A warning. See what you get.”
There was no response from Frisano so Jimmy started quickly down the sidewalk, bumping into several unsuspecting pedestrians. He apologized and then thought one of them had grabbed his wrist in retaliation. Except it was Frisano. The electricity he felt seared his insides, a burst that he hated. A burst that sent a shock to his system. He’d missed it. They locked eyes, dark and blue reflecting off the sun’s afternoon glare.
Frisano spoke first. “Jimmy, no one wishes you harm. We just know we need you. We have confidence in your quest to bring Wu-Tin down. Personal motivation always triumphs. It drives results.”
“Say I achieve that. Then what?”
“Then what?”
“You. Me. Us?”
Frisano looked down at the way he’d clenched Jimmy’s hand. Jimmy looked, too.
Suddenly, Frisano pulled Jimmy in tight. Faces inches apart. Then even fewer inches. Then none.
Frisano’s kiss was deep and passionate. It felt wonderful. He smelled great.
But he knew the heart was as empty as his fortune cookie. Jimmy McSwain pulled away and reclaimed himself.
“We’ll talk later, maybe tomorrow,” he said. “About the case.”
The last thing he did before he walked down the street was wipe his mouth. The past left a bad taste.
Here’s the thing about the 7 train. Yup, it’s elevated and gave riders a view of life in Queens and all its disparate neighborhoods, but eventually it winds its way toward Manhattan, toward a tunnel and an underground maze. Today, it stalled in the tunnel and Jimmy sat for an hour inside a car with failed power. No air-conditioning. It was like he was caught between two boroughs, two lives, two cases, and two men. He sat. He waited. He replayed the exchange with Frisano.
Hey, he was alive.
He knew that because of the hurt occupying the empty seat next to him.
Chapter 8
He’d survived that second trip to Flushing. Now how about a second trip to Harrison up in Westchester? A juggling act of two cases made all the more complicated by two relationships, one he wanted, one he didn’t, sort of neither had he asked for. One of the men was taking center stage later tonight.
Jimmy had dined with Maggie and Meaghan between shows on this Saturday, a quick meal. No more tech issues, previews were in full swing heading toward next Sunday night’s official opening. So far so good, with crowds piling into the eleven-hundred seat Calloway Theatre. The reception to the show was probably better than Jimmy’s had been the past couple of days. Yes, the grass was always greener on the other side. Ma was on early shift for the matinee and she came home to prepare dinner, Meaghan was on late shift, a deliberate move. All that meant was they were on the reverse schedule tonight and Joey wouldn’t need a babysitter. Just an uncle. Meaghan would be home by eight-thirty and take over.
But then he would be off to the Portnoy’s for whatever their evening entailed. A limo would be sent to fetch him, so Brenden had informed him via text two days ago. He also said he couldn’t wait to see Jimmy again, and maybe dinner had breakfast on its plate. This would be the first time seeing Brenden Hendricks since Jimmy said good morning to him and whisked him out of his office above Paddy’s Pub.
“Too many woulds,” Jimmy informed his nephew as they sat on the living room carpet.
Joey knew none of those words. He was only six months old. But he knew his uncle, and in response to the question posed to him, he just gurgled and smiled and rolled against Jimmy’s side. Jimmy stroked his nephew’s feathery hair. Found himself smiling for maybe the first time in days.
The clock read 8:20. Meaghan would get home in ten minutes usually.
“Okay, I think I’ve got time for this one,” Jimmy said. Hugging the boy to his side, staring at him with eyes as wide as the world. It was ironic how men in his life caused the world to go dark. How family gave off a sense of light.
“I’ll tell you another story about your grandpa. I’ve told you about him before. You have his name. And you know what that means? It means you’re among the most special people this world has ever seen. I live in a world of darkness during the day, but when I come home and I get to see you, somehow I feel the sun. I didn’t always feel that way. Sure, my dad, your grandpa, Joseph McSwain, oh, he could light up a room no matter the hour. He had what we Irish call the gift of the gab. He’d tell any story, and even if you’d heard it before, it still somehow sounded new. Because he’d always change a detail. Not that he was lying about what he’d said before, but rather each time he told it, he thought of something he’d missed. Or maybe he was just a great storyteller.”
Jimmy paused to see if Joey was still awake. It was almost bedtime. But he was.
He was listening. Jimmy continued.
“One day I had a baseball game. Central Park. He showed up in his police uniform on the hottest day we’d had so far that year. It was June tenth. I was only twelve and when I saw him, it meant so much. I was just a growing boy, and I was trying to figure out why I thought our coach was so handsome.” Jimmy rubbed the beard on his chin. “He had a scruff, too, and I thought it was hot. Oh, shh, don’t tell your mom I used that word. You’ll find your own way. Anyway, it was time for me to bat, and there was Papa McSwain sitting in the stands. I watched him swiping sweat off his brow. Yeah, it was that warm, lots of humidity. But then he pointed at me. Focus on the pitch. He was right. I stared back at the pitcher. I lowered the rim of my cap. Saw the pitch, and I swung. I so wanted to hit a home run to tie the game. You know what happened?”
Joey just stared at him. He was attentive.
“Not only did I miss it, I got hit by the pitch. Right in the butt!”
The word butt made Joey laugh.
“I took my base, and later I scored on a home-run by my once-upon-a-friend Larry Dean. We won the game by one run, my hit-by-pitch the difference. Papa said after the game I won it by taking one for the team. I had a black and blue mark for a week. On my butt.”
