Second Shot, page 2
Taylor. Mallory’s chicken-shit ex of a boyfriend who flew the coop and across the pond for a safe life in London, all happening after her injury.
“You okay with me taking this case?”
“Jim, I told them to call you.”
“You should be resting.”
“I am. I’m fine. I’m healing. I’ve got help.”
Just then, Jimmy heard a sound through the phone. A sharp, eager sound.
“What was that?”
“My new friend. Jimmy, Grandma Hester and I went for a ride yesterday. Her idea.”
“I think I’m gonna need more details.”
Then he heard the sound again. It sounded like woof.
“Who is that?”
“That’s Shade. My dog. A rescue, trained as a service animal. Just what I need.”
Jimmy smiled. Not because of the dog, but because it meant that Mallory had committed herself to rejoining the world. Nothing would stop her from fully healing, from restarting her life. The shades served as protection. An appropriate name. Everyone deserved a second chance at life. Yup, that elusive second shot.
A new case would soon begin. He named them all. Grabbing for his files, he began filling out the initial paperwork. Sometimes the title came first. This one was a natural.
Case File #721: Second Shot
Status: Unsolved
Part 1: Justice Denied
Chapter 1
The dank establishment wasn’t his first pub and it wouldn’t be his last. They were part of his world, especially given the fact that his uncle Paddy owned such a place and Jimmy worked from an office one floor above it. Life in Hell’s Kitchen was familiar and true, but for Jimmy McSwain, while admittedly out of his neighborhood, he was certainly not out of his element.
He walked into Jameson’s dressed in black jeans and an untucked chambray button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, wondering if he’d gone too casual for this business meeting. But perhaps the look was what they expected. Independent and tough. He’d skipped tossing on a blazer because the early September air still held summer’s humidity. The restaurant had not just air conditioning but also possessed a sense of cool remembrance; he might have met a date here once. He exhaled, feeling comfortable. Give him a high-end bar, exclusive hotel, champagne and caviar, he might seem out of sorts. But this was his world. Jameson’s was darkly lit, the long bar populated with what appeared to be a cast of regulars and local businessmen. Twelve-thirty in the afternoon, it was a different universe within these walls, the sunshine as unwelcome as an AA meeting. Subdued light fixtures set the mood, men, a couple of women, just wanting to escape from the world for a lunch break of liquid courage.
Some might criticize them their indulgence.
Others would envy their ability to push back at the stresses of the day, if only briefly.
Jimmy felt neither. Work was his choice, he had that option, especially given the fact that he had no boss. Unless he counted his mother, Maggie. After he casually arrived, he noticed two men seated at a back table, both dressed in designer suits, assuming they were who he was meant to meet. Nodding at the bartender behind the bar—a thick-bearded, long-haired hipster who looked like he belonged in Williamsburg and not Midtown Manhattan—he cruised toward the well-heeled gentlemen. They looked up at him with curious anticipation.
He addressed the older man. “Mr. Streb?” Jimmy asked.
“You must be Jimmy.”
“More than must. I am.”
Streb looked at his associate. “Like he’s just stepped into a film scene. Classic.”
Jimmy bristled at the man’s comment. He was far from central casting, but his words just made him think Streb had a limited imagination. Much like his personal style. Pin-striped suit, one of those light blue shirts with a white collar, a yellow-striped tie. Talk about answering an ad, this guy was the ideal Wall Street wolf, circa the Wall Street movie. Michael Douglas would slap him silly nowadays. He was chubby, puffy, with thick gray hair swept back, a florid complexion that the glass of whiskey in front of him only exacerbated.
As opposed to his companion.
Bright blue suit, those brown cordovan shoes that were all the rage with young executives, noticeable when he stood to shake hands. Clean shaven, preppy, stylish. He was a man still trying to prove his worth to his employer, playing the conflicted roles of ambition and sycophant. Jimmy was glad he hadn’t travelled down this path in life. Being a private detective meant you lived life on your terms, your clock, your streets. Your code. This guy, he’d bought into the corporate dream: probably owned a Soho loft, a BMW that he hardly ever drove—paying more in parking than in insurance—and a Platinum Amex bill that if he added up the points, all his flights would be free. Damn if the associate wasn’t also handsome, Jimmy noted, his expensively styled hair dirty blond in color, with a severe part on the right. GQ circa now.
Jimmy considered if he’d come out of the closet yet. Tough to do in his line of work.
Offered a seat, Jimmy accepted, looking between the two contrasting men.
He first addressed, again, the older man. “Mr. Streb, thanks for the invitation.”
“Call me Byron.”
Jimmy nodded. “Okay. Byron.”
“Man of few words.”
“I talk when I need to. Generally, I listen. It’s a good quality in my profession. You called this meeting, so I’m guessing you’ll be doing the talking.”
“Actually, I will.”
Jimmy now turned to the other man, the young one. The cute one with the expensive suit and trendy haircut. It was a distraction.
“Brenden Hendricks,” Jimmy said.
Not a question.
“I’m impressed. Mr. Streb told me he spoke with you but didn’t give specifics.”
“I have other sources,” Jimmy said.
“Meaning Mallory.”
“I don’t divulge. I’m discreet. It’s why I get hired.”
He felt both men were about to respond to that when a waitress appeared. Did Jimmy want anything? He took a quick look at the beverages in front of the two lawyers. Streb with a tumbler of whiskey, Brenden with a glass of red wine. Jimmy decided to add to the eclectic mix and ordered a pint of Guinness. Old-fashioned place like Jameson’s, located on the East Side, it just made you feel that much closer to Dublin.
The three of them were studying lunch menus when his drink arrived. They ordered. Burgers for all.
Then they were left alone. Together, ready to get down to business.
“Thanks again for meeting with us on such short notice,” Streb said.
“Your timing was good. Plus, I’d do anything for Mallory.”
“I only worked with her for a couple months before…” His voice trailed off.
“She was shot. It’s okay. It happened. She’s healing. She’s determined to get back to work. My sister is nothing if not unstoppable.” He paused. “Kind of a McSwain trait.”
“Noted. You’re loyal.”
“Loyalty is for dogs. Love triumphs. Family rules.” He hesitated whether to further add to his philosophy. Then he spoke because he didn’t believe in unfinished thoughts. “Business comes a distant third.”
Streb and Hendricks exchanged looks, almost like they were signaling their agreement. But not about what Jimmy had said. About the reason for their gathering, for wanting to hire him.
Jimmy took a deep sip of his Guinness. “Want to clue me in to what’s going on here?” He looked first at Streb, then at Hendricks. Letting his gaze linger longer on Hendricks. Saw deep blue eyes and wished he hadn’t dived into them. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Feeling Brenden give off a mutual vibe. A momentary stare. Jimmy warned himself to keep things professional.
Streb set down his whiskey, cleared his throat and said, “We have an unusual, uh, client.”
“So I gathered.”
Streb continued. “As you may be aware, Jimmy, our firm represents clients of considerable wealth. The kind who value their privacy.”
“Rich white men,” Jimmy said. “I know. Not my first rodeo.”
“I prefer not to generalize, but, uh, yes, in this case.” This coming from a man who thought Jimmy fit the profile of a modern-day Sam Spade, minus the long trench coat and hot dames. Streb drained his glass of whiskey, maybe instilling within himself needed fortitude. A troubled case already. “Can we keep such judgments to the sidelines and concentrate on the game playing out? I assume you understand sports metaphors?”
Jimmy frowned. “Foul ball.”
There was a pause in the action, which coincided with Brenden stifling a laugh.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to insult you. I mean, you are…”
“Gay? Yeah. Mets are having a terrible season. Can’t wait for the City of Angels revival.”
There was a pregnant pause. “Point taken.”
“Listen, gentlemen, this is about business. As you said, let’s forego the generalizations of my world and I’ll put a hold on stereotyping white men who still think they control the free world.” He leaned forward, tempting him, taunting him. Streb quieted, nodded, refused another drink when the waitress came by.
“My apologies, Jimmy.”
“Moving on.” He leaned back, drank his beer. “Tell me about the client.”
“Why don’t we let Brenden take the lead here.” Turning to his associate, he told him he had the floor.
Jimmy knew little about this new associate at his sister’s firm. Only truth he knew was that he had assumed the job vacated by Taylor Smith, who had claimed to love, promised a future, then betrayed Mallory. He left town, tail between his legs after the shooting. It wasn’t right to take out his resentment on Brenden, so Jimmy decided to remain open minded. He’d made good money in years past from Mallory’s influential firm. You didn’t burn a bridge just because some jerk crossed it the wrong way. What he didn’t like was how he’d now involuntarily leaned in closer to hear what Brenden had to say. As though he wanted to be a part of the man’s universe.
Cute.
Too cute. In that preppy way.
“Mr. McSwain,” Brenden began, “My client insists on the utmost discretion.”
“That’s where the private part in my title comes in. No worries. And, please, it’s Jimmy.”
“Thanks, and, uh, thanks.”
Jimmy thought he detected a flush of heat hitting Brenden’s cheeks. Maybe the wine. Or not.
“Chaz Portney currently lays in a coma. Fell down the stairs at his Westchester home.”
“Accident?”
“So the police say.”
“You don’t?”
“His wife doesn’t.”
Jimmy paused, drank, thought about the phone call this morning. “I thought this was a case about a will. Now we have a question of a possible attempted murder.”
“It’s even more complicated than that,” Streb said.
Jimmy straightened up, waiting for the complication of the shoe drop. “Keep talking.”
“See, here’s the thing. Chaz is a bit of an enigma.”
“That’s just a big word for meaning he’s a liar, or a cheat. At least, in my business.”
Brenden then said, “To get to the heart of the case: we’re, uh, in truth…we’re not sure the man lying comatose in the hospital bed is Chaz.”
His words—and tone—proved to be an interesting twist for sure. But more questions would have to wait. Their burgers arrived and the three men took a moment to dig in. A bite, dipping a fry into ketchup, Jimmy asking for BBQ sauce instead. The break from their talk was welcome, the food giving them fuel to navigate what had gone from a simple case to a complex one in a matter of seconds. Jimmy put down his burger for a moment, question in his mind on pause, now set to play.
“How do you not know he’s not your client? Is he a twin?”
“Simply, yes.”
“Where is the other one?”
“Good question,” Streb said. “There’s a lot of money at stake. Millions.”
“Is the so-called Chaz expected to recover?”
“Too early to tell. The next few days will reveal more.”
“If he survives, that renders the will issue moot. No one can lay claim to it, there’s no need. If he dies…then we have a bigger pickle.”
Brenden took a large bite of the gherkin on his plate. Distracting Jimmy. Their eyes briefly locking before the lawyer said, “Assuming it’s him. Yes.”
This was more than puzzling and Jimmy waited for whatever more they had to share.
Streb finished his burger, pushed his plate away. He checked his phone. “I’m sorry, I have another appointment. My apologies. Hendricks here will answer any additional questions, as well as settle the bill. I will leave you two men to your own, uh, devices.”
It was an abrupt departure, and a telling one. Was it the pickle? The portly Byron Streb had relinquished control of the client, giving his associate free reign over the rest of the meeting. But in doing so it seemed dually motivated. Because what Brenden said once the two of them were left alone gave Jimmy an indication that not only was the case complicated, but so, too, was the dynamic between the two of them.
Brenden Hendricks announced, “Jimmy McSwain, you are so completely hot.”
* * * *
Where was that waitress when you needed her? Their drinks were nearly empty and a silence had fallen between them. Not the comfortable kind. It was all eye contact now. Any kind of distraction would help but none seemed forthcoming. Jimmy had to address the elephant in the room. Brenden Hendricks was no doubt gay, and he’d just shamelessly flirted with Jimmy—in the middle of doing business. A sense of regret washed over him, not because of Brenden’s inappropriateness but from Jimmy’s earlier judgment on the cute-o-meter. He hoped his stare hadn’t encouraged this. It’s the last thing he needed.
Two men. Attracted to each other. One admitting to it. Jimmy realized he had to respond.
“Uh, thanks. I’d rather keep things focused on the matter at hand. The client’s name?”
Silence. Then, “Chaz.”
“Right, Chaz Portney. Like a complaint.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Philip Roth. Portney’s Complaint. It’s a novel.”
“I don’t really read much.”
Which meant not at all. Jimmy was trying to decide if his attraction to this guy went beyond the superficial. Lawyers were not the easiest group to trust, even their motives clocked at an hourly rate. Then again, neither were cops to be trusted, his mind quickly conjuring an image of Frisano, former captain of the 10th Precinct, also his on-and-off again lover. A man whom he’d once thought would be his last embrace. But that relationship was history, a pained memory, and while Jimmy had tried to move on, the truth was that he wasn’t ready. Closure had yet to unlock his heart. He’d shunned any entanglements this past summer, not pursuing the personal, the emotional, or sexual. Living a monk-like existence while hiding at his grandmother’s cottage and concentrating instead on his family; it suited him. His heart was open to them, but the artery that fueled a romantic path remained clogged.
The silence between the two men was made worse by empty plates and empty glasses.
“I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable,” Brenden finally said.
“It was a compliment. Guess I’ll say thanks.”
Brenden switched gears as quickly as he’d, well, switched gears. “Will you take the case?”
“I still don’t know what the case entails. A man who is not who he is supposed to be. But could be.”
“Talk to his wife, Rebecca. She’ll explain it all.”
Jimmy allowed a smile. “Like Clarissa.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It was a TV show. Clarissa Explains It All. On Nickelodeon.”
“I don’t really watch television.”
Doesn’t read. Doesn’t watch TV. “What do you do?” Jimmy asked.
“That one I get. I do like music. Mostly, though, I work, and I date. Do you?”
“Yes, I like music.”
“I meant the other.”
“Yeah, I work. Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”
“How about Friday night?”
“What about Friday night?”
“You make things difficult, Jimmy. Do you date?”
Jimmy had known what Brenden was getting at, but he wanted to make Brenden work for it. Mostly because he wasn’t sure of his answer. Business and pleasure seldom blended, Frisano the example that jumped foremost into his mind. Again. Theirs had started with combustion, endured by heat, fizzled out with hurt. They hadn’t even had one of those Dear John moments. Jimmy had said he needed space, by text, and Frisano hadn’t disagreed. Or responded. Truth be told, Frisano was the one who had ended it without even saying so. Cheated. Allowed a case to alter his axis by helping a man going through a tough time. Helping himself too much by screwing him. The sight of a shirtless Frisano wrapped in the arms of Elliot Chase at the entrance to his building was seared in his brain. Probably deeper.
“Uh, Jimmy, you still here?”
Jimmy realized too much time had elapsed between the question and lack of answer.
“Tell me the question again?”
“You know the question.”
“We should probably keep things professional.”
Brenden nodded. His smile, though, appeared deflated. “So don’t take the case.”
Jimmy laughed. “Not sure Mr. Streb would appreciate your approach to client relations.”
“Tell you what, Jimmy. I’m gonna give you two business cards.” He reached into his lapel pocket, then placed the two rectangular cards before him. Jimmy leaned in and read the name Rebecca Portnoy, complete with her address, email, and phone number. The other was Brenden’s business card, which provided his work address—which Jimmy already knew—along with his office phone, fax and email. Before he could say anything, the waitress appeared with the check.
“Perfect timing,” Brenden said, taking hold of the pen. He turned his business card over and jotted down an additional number. Finished, he leaned over and stuffed it into Jimmy’s shirt pocket with deliberate intent, finishing his transaction with a lingering brush of fingers against the triangle of Jimmy’s open shirt. The young lawyer’s eyes stayed focused on his opponent like he was about to give an opening statement in court. Relishing this first cross-examination, the hopeful verdict. “I’ve got to tell you, Jimmy, with that beard, that chest hair visible beneath your shirt…it’s all very sexy. What I would let you do to me all night is already making me hard.”
