Summer is winding down. For Jimmy McSwain, it’s been a quiet couple of months, leaving this apprentice private investigator with little to do. Be careful what you wish for.
Jimmy is asked by his boss to accompany his wife Beatrice to a fancy art gallery opening down in Manhattan’s Soho district. The drama begins when the artist who goes by the name Rico pulls a disappearing act on the night of his big debut, leaving the owners of the Barrister Gallery stunned, not to mention the hoity-toity snobs expecting to meet the man behind the “Beauty at Death” show.
The owners claim Rico has been kidnapped. Jimmy thinks their reaction is a bit extreme. Nevertheless, he agrees to take the case, even as he begins to suspect he hasn’t been told the whole story. Especially when the Barrister owners say no cops.
With a growing sense of menace, Jimmy finds himself doubting his ability to solve the puzzling case. How does he find the truth when all he’s heard is lies? He fears someone could end up hurt -- or worse, dead -- on his watch.
“Tell me about the robbery.”
Jimmy did. His meeting with Ralphie, the cry for help once they’d hit the streets, racing across the street to stop the encounter from escalating. Guy had a knife, he’d punctured a small hole in the priest’s side, he guessed as a warning that he meant business. “Turned out, there was over three thousand dollars, cash, in Father McCandless’s satchel. I grabbed the guy and his knife while Ralphie helped the old priest. Then the police arrived. They took our statements. I told them I was a private investigator, but of course I had no real proof of that. Told them I was an apprentice, one of them laughing saying I was more a cadet than a rookie. But I got cred from the other cop, credited me with saving the day.”
“Charity, print up some business cards for the kid. Simple. Name, firm, his phone number.”
Jimmy looked surprised but pleased. It was something concrete. Finn always kept him on edge, never knowing what his mood would dictate or what leeway he’d give Jimmy on any certain day. It had been almost six months and so far, the arrangement had gone well, two big cases and a couple that filled the days but eventually drained the bank account.
“Now, I’ve got two matters to discuss. Charity, you can get started on your tasks. Jimmy and I can take it from here.”
She excused herself without further word, closing the door behind her. Silence hung in the air, the smell of whiskey pervasive in the small room. Windows were shut, the hum of a small air conditioner in the window doing a so-so job of cooling them down. It was a bare bones type of office, and so far, a bare bones conversation. Time to add some flesh.
“Guy named Maurice Gurman contacted me. Lives in a condo in Riverdale. Know where that is?”
“The Bronx, west side. Almost Westchester.”
“Been doing your research. Good. So, this Gurman guy is running for condo board, but so is this other guy, and from what Gurman tells me, he’s corrupt and will misuse the money. Says he’s got a crooked past, worked in finance but doesn’t anymore. Not sure of the reason but it seems, unsavory -- his word. So, that’s a case I’m inclined to accept. Not exactly TV show worthy, but simple enough and doesn’t appear dangerous. But you never know with human nature.”
“I can look into it,” Jimmy said, his voice flat.
“Yeah, except I kind of figured you’d hate this one so I’m gonna take it. Close enough and won’t require much in the way of legwork. I’ve still got my mind and can see through bullshit like someone ate a plastic water bottle.”
“Colorful,” Jimmy said. “I’ll stick to midtown, maybe nose around the 84th as well.”
“How about Soho,” Finn said.
Finn didn’t just ask random questions. From the corner of his desk was a small postcard, the front adorned with a painted pair of eyes and a single name. “Rico,” it stated. Nothing else, no other words, not a hint of what it meant. Jimmy knew, though, to lean over and just pluck it off the desk. First requirement of being a private eye was curiosity, and to stand on ceremony and wait to be asked was tantamount to letting a crafty criminal slip through your fingers. Or, in this case, an invitation.
“The Barrister Galley?” he asked, flipping the postcard to the other side. “Sounds like a law firm had a baby with an artist.”
“Harrumph,” Finn said. Sometimes he didn’t find Jimmy funny. “It’s on West Broadway. Never heard of such a street. Thought Broadway went diagonal, both east and west.”
“The famous one does. West Broadway is a small street that cuts through the heart of Soho, runs north to south from Houston to Canal.”
“I knew I had the right person. There’s some fancy opening there, tomorrow night.”
“And I guess I’m going? It says it’s by invite only, and the RSVP date has passed.”
Except Jimmy knew an ambush when he saw one. This entire pretense of a staff meeting, getting Charity to print up business cards for him, it had all been a ruse to corner Jimmy into not being able to say no to any request, let alone something as far afield as being told he was going to a trendy downtown Manhattan art gallery. Especially when considering the source. What was in it for Finley Sullivan? Jimmy’s still to-be-honed detection skills had to think for a moment, but then it was like the light bulb had gone off. Two detectives to screw it in.
“You don’t want to go,” Jimmy said.
“I figure, you know, it’s that artsy-fartsy stuff and ...” his voice trailed off, a rare moment of indecision hitting Finn’s voice box.
“I know what you figure. Because I’m gay I’m into the fru-fru shit.”
“You said it, not me.”
Jimmy sighed, resigned himself to his fate. Knowing there was no getting around either going to this event or Finn’s lame attempt at stereotyping. “Can I bring a guest?”
“Oh, you misunderstand. You’re the guest, McSwain, and you better treat your date right. Or you’ll answer to me.”
