Stage Fright Page 3

  “Prometheus.”

  Crais looked impressed. “A violent image.”

  Violence holds a certain power over people. They watched the evening news, wanting to know what had happened that day, relieved to know the victim’s whose lives—and deaths—were splashed across the broadcast were not theirs. They were home, tucked safely into their beds. It was like the old adage: check the obits in the morning to make sure you’re not there; then get on with your day. That’s when Jimmy took hold of the shot that had been poured for him but which so far he’d ignored. He kicked it back in one gulp. When he set the glass down, he stared directly at his client. “So, Casey, what I’m to take from your remark is that you’re not meant to die peacefully in your sleep at some ripe old age. You believe someone is out to murder you, and based on this note, soon. Which begs the question why.”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t need the Calloway Foundation’s money to hire you.”

  Casey Crais, running a nervous hand through his hair, then excused himself, claiming he had a rehearsal to attend. Jimmy was left alone inside the Rum House, the only person there other than the bartender. It was mid-day, people had lives. He did too, with a case to investigate. He slapped down one of the hundred dollar bills Welly had given him. He got change and a receipt, left a decent tip before exiting the cool bar for the warm air.

  He stared across the street at the Calloway Theatre. Its marquee was dark at the moment.

  But by tomorrow night the theatre would be lit, alive and ready to lure curious patrons of the arts to its seats. Triskaidekaphobia appeared destined to open up a Pandora’s Box of fears for all involved, and Jimmy knew even he wasn’t immune to its lure.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Later that same day, the sun had begun its nightly wane, the western sky streaked with orange. It was a burning reminder that beauty existed, soaring high above them. On the darkening streets of New York, danger lurked in corners, and so Jimmy was glad to slink into the safety of a familiar world. He arrived at his mother’s apartment building one minute before six o’clock, and as he unlocked the street-level entrance his phone rang. He knew who it was without having to look at the Caller ID. He answered it anyway.

  “Yeah, Ma, I’m walking up the stairs even as we speak.”

  Maggie McSwain expected punctuality, and not just from her employees at the theatre.

  Five floors later and barely a breath out of him, Jimmy at last entered the apartment of the walk-up tenement building at Tenth Avenue and 48th Street. He’d grown up here, he knew every nook and cranny of that stairwell, the scuff marks he’d caused seared into his memory. He noticed his two sisters were already seated around the dinner table. His mother held a spatula in her hand, and he hoped that was for serving food and not for striking at him for his tardiness. It was two minutes after six when he closed the door behind him.

  “Where have you been?” Maggie asked, her tone gentle but expectant.

  “Ma, I’ve got a case. Doing some background checks. I lost track of time.”

  “Monday dinner, Jimmy,” said Mallory, his oldest sister.

  “And a night before a first preview,” said Meaghan, his youngest sister.

  A double tradition. It wasn’t easy being caught in the middle of these two willful women, especially when you had a force of nature like sixty-six year old Maggie McSwain lording over them, training them. He kissed his mother’s ruddy cheek.

  “You look good, Ma.”

  “Sit, you liar,” Maggie said. “I’ll get you a beer. And don’t listen to your sisters.”

  Few things excused being late, but even the iron-willed Maggie Byrne McSwain had to respect hard work, and Jimmy knew she would never interfere when he was involved in a case. That notwithstanding, Monday had always been family dinner night for them, mostly because it was usually Maggie’s dark day from the theatre. Most shows played a schedule Tuesday through Sunday, Triskaidekaphobia soon to join the ranks. Another long-held tradition was being enacted tonight as well; because no matter the day of the week, the McSwains always gathered for a meal the night before Maggie was scheduled to return to work. After a summer off, time spent mostly upstate at their grandmother’s lake cottage, the new theatre season was gearing up, and so were the McSwain traditions.

  Jimmy accepted the beer, a chilled Bass Ale from a six-pack he’d bought last week at the local deli. He took a healthy pull as he eased into his regular chair at the table. Mallory sat across from him, still dressed in her usual dark business suit; she was a lawyer for a Madison Avenue firm, and liked to show off her fancy clothes. A glass of red wine sat in front of her. She was stylish and pretty, her hair salon perfect, her pose so East Side and so unlike the girl who’d grown up with scraped knees on the uneven sidewalks of Hell’s Kitchen.

  “Where’s the boy?” he asked her.

  “Out of town. Taylor is working a big case, went with a senior partner to dig up dirt.”

  “Ah, corporate lawyering. Big case, big expense account.”

  “They’re in the Bahamas,” Mallory said.

  “And you’re here, a reminder of where you came from. That your second glass?”

  “You’re a jerk sometimes, Jimmy.”

  Meaghan sat there saying nothing, looking miserable. She couldn’t have a beer or a wine. She was four months pregnant and still looked like she hadn’t gotten over the frequent bouts of morning sickness that had plagued her all summer. “Hey, you two done bickering yet? My baby is kicking inside me and I think it’s your fault. Ma, tell them all this negative energy is affecting his prenatal growth.”

  Jimmy and Mallory gave their little sister an odd look. She was using big words. For her. Psychology-like words. Jimmy said, “You reading books now, Meaghan? What To Bitch About When You’re Expecting?”

  “Leave your sister alone, both of you,” Maggie said, setting down a salad in the center of the table.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Mallory replied.

  “I could hear your thoughts,” Maggie answered.

  So it was with the McSwains, harmless banter from a tight-knit group, which left Jimmy smiling behind his beer. He’d have it no other way, the three ladies in his life, none of whom he could do without. Then his eyes fell to the head of the table, where a plate was set, a glass of beer before it, untouched. The foam had gone from the top of the glass. Still, it was another McSwain tradition, and the sight of a tradition come to life brought Jimmy back fifteen years to when his father would have sat at the table in his shirtsleeves, drinking that beer before it lost its fizz, telling his family to stop arguing, even if he was only half-paying attention. Joseph McSwain had been an NYPD cop. He could handle most things on the beat. His fiery wife and two impulsive daughters, they were another story. Jimmy—or at least the fourteen year old version of himself that continued to live inside of him—visualized his father sitting at the table right now, another ghostly presence encompassing him. The rest of them had been allowed to grow up; Joseph had remained the same, locked in time. Jimmy blinked and the image faded, like it always did.

  Maggie set the rest of the dinner before them; a ham steak with steamed potatoes, along with almond-topped green beans. Nothing to write home about, but then again, he was home and it was just what he expected when he’d walked up those long flights of stairs, just what he craved, too. Sometimes tradition added its own spice, the best flavoring. Eating, though, had to wait until one last ritual was observed.

  “We thank the good Lord for the food on our plates, and for the company that we keep,” Maggie began, her hands clasped, her head bowed. “We thank the good Lord for our lives and for the memories of those who cannot be with us. We send our unwavering love to our departed husband and father, Joseph. We also ask that you, good Lord, shine a light upon the stage, keep it burning bright as we begin another chapter in this life we call theatre. Here’s to a healthy run, to good reviews, and, no matter the challenges, smiles along the aisles.”

  Smiles along the aisles. It was Maggie McSwain’s mantra to her ushers.

  Then they dug in. Jimmy let his sisters direct the flow of conversation, as he put bite after bite of food in his mouth. He chewed methodically, his mind darting in and out, only hearing key words like “Rocky” and “Lamaze,” “class action suit” and “Connecticut,” all examples of what different lives his two sisters led. Meaghan, red-headed and freckled, was an unattached soon-to-be single mom, whose baby father was now an out and proud gay man whom Jimmy had saved this summer from a life sentence for murder. Mallory, shoulder-length dark hair done by a stylist, leggy, pretty, dined at high end restaurants owned by celebrity chefs, worked in a high-rise office on Madison Avenue, lived near Sutton Place, and dated guys with country club memberships and perfect hair. One had gone to college, the other not. Jimmy had gone to the police academy, just like his father.

  Unlike his father, he’d chosen a career in the private sector.

  Jimmy drank down the last of his beer, his bottle as empty as Joseph’s glass remained full. He considered getting up and cracking open another. He wondered what his father would have done. He wondered that a lot. He also wondered, and the feeling increased as he stared at the empty seat at the head of the table, if he would ever learn the truth about why that seat had been empty all these years. Would his father want him to pine, almost daily, for his killer? The answer was a resounding yes. If Officer Joseph McSwain had taught his son one thing, it was that you finish what you started.

  Only death could stop you.

  Jimmy thought about his father’s murder, and then he thought about his new case. They represented the difference between surprise and suspense. Did you want to know you were about to die, or did you prefer for it to happen unexpectedly? A sudden gunshot at a deli, or a threatening message leaving you constantly looking over your shoulder? The old Hitchcock debate fused in his mind: if a bomb was hidden under a table, did you let the audience know about it? Or did you keep it hidden and just let it go off at some point? Did you go for the sweaty fear of the ticking time clock, or the explosive shock of fresh carnage?

  “Uh, Jimmy, you with us?”

  “What…oh…owww,” he said, realizing his mother had just poked him in the elbow in an effort to get his attention. “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”

  “You thinking about anyone in particular?” Mallory asked. “A certain cop?”

  “A certain costume designer?” Meaghan added.

  Neither, he wanted to say, but he didn’t want to give his sisters the satisfaction of getting under his usually thick skin. Only the tines of a fork had effectively done that. The last thing he wanted was for the muddied relationships of his past to be dissected during dinner. Fortunately, Maggie sensed the shift in her son’s mood.

  “Tell us about your new case, if you can.”

  “Actually, I was hired by Welly Calloway,” Jimmy said.

  She furrowed her brow. “Something I should know about this new show coming in?”

  “Just a simple security matter, nothing to worry about,” Jimmy said, not wanting to cause his mother undue alarm. “Welly asked if I had time to help out and I said yes. A quick paycheck, just till opening night.”

  “So you’ll be around the theatre often,” Maggie said. “I get to see my son, that’s nice.”

  “Ma, I live here, you see me all the time.”

  “Hmmph,” she answered, and then started clearing the plates from the table.

  “I’ll do that,” Jimmy said, taking control of the cleaning.

  That was tradition too, and not something he would have seen being done by the old-school Joseph McSwain. But Jimmy was evolved, a man of the times. He could help out at home just as much as the next person. His sisters retired to the living room, where he heard the familiar strains of the Jeopardy! theme in the background. Dirty plates in hand, he walked into the kitchen, but noticed he wasn’t alone. His mother had one of those looks on her face.

  “Ma, I don’t need help.”

  “I’m not talking about the dishes,” she said. “You going to be okay, backstage?”

  He placed the dishes in the sink, ran warm water and tossed in some soap. He watched as bubbles foamed and popped. What he didn’t do was look at his mother’s inquiring face, even as he felt her comforting hand upon his shoulder.

  “Jimmy, I know Remy will be there.”

  “Remy is a non-factor. He’s the past.”

  “I never understood what happened between you two.”

  “It’s best that way,” Jimmy said, starting to aggressively wipe the plates clean.

  Maggie leaned over, kissed his cheek. “You shaved,” she said.

  “I had a meeting. Had to look the part of a professional.” He paused. “Ma, I’m fine.”

  “I know how you get, at the start of a new case. You start thinking about another case.”

  Jimmy held his tongue, words stuck in his throat. He turned to her, smiled and again said, “Ma, I’m fine.”

  She patted his arm, offering up her own smile. “You staying here tonight?”

  “It’s tradition, right? Night before a first preview.”

  She nodded. “But you’ll go out first. I know you, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy McSwain finished washing the dishes, and he even dried them and put them back on the same shelves they had belonged on since he was a kid. Not much changed in the McSwain household, not his duties, not his sisters’ endless teasing, not his mother’s wisdom. He stayed for Final Jeopardy! and guessed wrong at which U.S. president’s home was called Lindenwald, and then he departed, grabbing his keys from the bureau. He swept out into the darkness of a Manhattan night, shadows of the past trailing after him just as they always did. The earlier orange horizon had given way to a purple glow, like the sky was bruised.

  § § §

  He went, unsurprisingly, to Paddy’s Pub, run by his uncle, on Ninth Avenue at 45th Street. Paddy catered to the locals, both neighborhood and theatre, which meant Monday was an exceptionally busy night. Most shows were dark, so tonight represented the weekend for many of the denizens of Hell’s Kitchen, and as such Jimmy had trouble finding a spot at the bar. But he was family, so Paddy shooed away a drunk with an empty glass who was just taking up dead space in the near corner of the bar. Jimmy settled down on the stool, accepting the pint of Harp before him.

  “How was dinner?” Paddy asked, his white hair and florid face as Irish as ever.

  “Ma was in rare form, traditions to the hilt.”

  “Calloway reopens tomorrow, you expect different?”

  “No, and actually, I took comfort in it. No coincidence familiar and family share the same etymology.”

  “Now you’re getting uppity on me, fancy words like that. Drink your beer, take a load off of that overtaxed mind of yours, Jimmy.”

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  Jimmy took a quick sip while surveying the lay of the land. All of the seats were taken along the narrow bar, men and women alike tossing back drinks, talking animatedly, laughing when the mood struck them, which grew exponentially with the passage of time and drink. The sounds were raucous, fun the night’s theme. Jimmy wasn’t part of it. He’d suddenly folded inside himself, oblivious to the folks partying around him. He stared at the screen above him, where the Mets were playing the Phillies. Several spectators were wearing horned masks. The so-called Dark Knight was on the mound. Jimmy turned away, not even interested in the score, sipped at his beer and thought about heroes. Some wore uniforms while others wore disguises, all of them bonded by the need to save those who couldn’t help themselves. Jimmy could have been a hero, like his father, donned the uniform, worn the shield, kept a gun at his side and protected the innocent from those with deceitful motives. He supposed he was more like Batman, operating on his own terms, his own turf. If needed, he could seek an assist from the police. But there was no signal lighting up the night sky for him.

  It was like his thoughts conjured reality. The front door opened, allowing a rush of warm air inside. The ladies at the bar turned their heads, their gazes lingering as the recent arrival made his way along the length of the bar. Jimmy couldn’t help but notice the man too, and even though he wasn’t dressed like a cop Jimmy knew for a fact he was one. The way he carried himself, stiff, proper, his stride stuffed with authority. It was an attitude ingrained by your superiors, but not every cadet pulled it off successfully. This man had probably been valedictorian of his class. Jimmy swallowed a mixed knob of emotion, washed it down with a fresh beer. His eyes blinked, wondering if the man were a mirage.

  “Hey, Jim.”

  Jimmy held his glass to his lips, wanting to take another sip, wanting to say hello, too.

  Silence stalled him, as though that knot remained lodged in his throat. “Frank, hi.”

  Francis X. Frisano, captain of the 10th Precinct in Chelsea, as ambitious an NYPD cop as the academy had ever turned out, one who was so easy on the eyes that staring at him seemed almost second nature. He was dressed for the heat, a simple pair of blue jeans and a tight V-neck shirt which showed off the contours of his broad chest, a generous sprig of black hair peeking out; his arms were corded with muscles, the forearms wrapped in thick dark coils. But it was his face that Jimmy focused on, the fire that lived in his eyes, the shadow of his heavy beard evident in the dim lighting of the bar. His black hair was slicked back in a no nonsense look that gave off the impression he’d just come from the gym. From the gym to Jim.

  “What brings you to Paddy’s?” Jimmy asked.

  “Thought I might find you. Mind if I take a seat.”

  The high stool next to Jimmy was free. He nodded, and watched with wary trepidation as Frisano settled down. His arm brushed against Jimmy, the coarse hair eliciting a sharp current of electricity between them. Jimmy pulled it back, as though he’d been shocked. It didn’t matter, he could still feel the heat pulse between them. A fierce attraction to Frisano had occurred from the moment he met him six months ago, and it had reached a fever pitch this past summer when they indulged their passion in secrecy. Though whatever existed between them had ended before it could gain traction, there was no denying the heat that remained simmering in their eyes. Jimmy had to wonder why Frisano had come looking for him. Was it business, or, at this late hour, the hope of a booty call?