“And who does Frisano work for?”

  Jimmy took his point, though it was hard to swallow. He drank his beer, felt it lodge in his throat. Finally it went down hard, and his throat was left searing. Maybe it was the sourness of the sauerkraut talking back. He pushed the glass away. “Okay, Ralphie, let’s get you back to Brooklyn. I’ve got another case I’m working and I need to be back by six and get an update.”

  “You can go. I like this place. Think I’ll stay.”

  “It’s a long way back home.”

  “I can always call a car service. They know how to go from different boroughs.”

  “I don’t feel right leaving you out here.”

  “Who knows, Jim, by myself I might just learn something you can’t.” Ralphie patted his arm, smiled. “I might be an old dog, but there’s always some new tricks up my sleeve. Go on, git. Thanks for getting me out. Thanks for getting my blood pumping.”

  “Just as long as none of it gets spilled.”

  “Thirty-five years on the force, I was never shot at. I’m a survivor.”

  “Your mouth,” Jimmy said, looking up to the heavens.

  Jimmy thanked him, slapped down a couple twenties on the bar and headed back out into the bright sunshine. It was going to be a long journey back to the city, and he considered just how to do it. He could cab it, but he wasn’t on Welly’s clock, so it wasn’t a legit business expense. The subway was his best option, but then he realized he could skirt the system by grabbing a city bus first. He walked, returning to Jamaica Avenue and making his way toward one of Queens’ busiest thoroughfares, Woodhaven Boulevard, that cut north and south. He hopped a Q53 Limited, which soon was bouncing its way up the rough road toward Queens Boulevard. Thirty minutes passed before he was off the bus and on the R train to Manhattan. It ran local and so it was another forty-five minutes before he got off at 49th and Broadway. He was at the front of the train, which enabled him to use the exit at 47th Street. He came topside, where the darkened marquee of the Calloway Theatre loomed down the street.

  It was just a few minutes before four o’clock, and as Jimmy approached the theatre he saw the marquee lights magically turn on. If that wasn’t an indication of the show going on, nothing was. Jimmy pressed the buzzer on the stage door, heard it release. He walked the length of the side alley, then entered the theatre. Elena, the daytime doorperson, was on duty. He kissed her cheek, took a piece of candy she always had on offer. A Hershey’s kiss. Seemed a fair trade.

  “Anything going on?” he asked.

  “All quiet. Heard about the drama last night.”

  “And that wasn’t even on stage.”

  It was a cheap joke but Elena laughed anyway.

  “Anyone around?”

  “You looking for anyone specific?”

  Good question, was he? Crais? Calloway? Or had he thought about seeing Remy? Like he said, the drama on stage was nothing to what he’d experienced since taking this case, all sorts of colorful characters were suddenly peppering his life. “Guess I’ll just take a look around, that okay with you?”

  “Welly told me you have full access.”

  Jimmy thanked her as he stepped toward the wings of the stage. He grabbed a second kiss. All was quiet, the ghost light in place giving off its haunting glow. He stared upward, checking out the darkened lights above; all looked normal, nothing balancing precariously. At the lip of the stage he stared out at the theatre, the empty seats up, as if saying they were closed off from the patrons who would soon descend upon their cushions. He thought then of Merline at Atlantic Ave Lab and her poor put upon chair, grabbed for his phone to see if any text had come through from Manny. All was quiet from them, just a text from Meaghan, his sister, that said she wasn’t coming in tonight. Several months pregnant, sometimes she didn’t have the energy. That’s when he noticed he had two voicemails, no doubt left from when he was traveling underground. He played the first one, heard his mother’s voice.

  “I don’t know if you’re allowed to double dip, but I need a sub usher tonight.”

  Then heard, “Never mind. The Belasco’s closed, so Kevin will do it.”

  He deleted both messages, glad he didn’t have to say no to his mother. He really did need to concentrate on the job Welly had hired him for. At last, he turned away from the auditorium, thinking he could go home first, shower and refresh himself before settling in for a long night in the darkened house. He stopped when he heard a sound. A murmur, or mumbling. He looked about, but the darkness, even with his eyes adjusted, wasn’t giving up any secrets. He moved toward the stage left wing, and there he saw shadows accompanying those muffled sounds. He stepped lightly, not wanting to scare whoever was here. It could be a simple explanation, an actor rehearsing his lines by himself. Or a stagehand talking in his sleep during a nap. What was really happening was not among the choices his mind had given him.

  He saw Casey Crais, leaning against the far wall. His pants were down around his ankles.

  Another person knelt before him, and what he was doing was pretty easy to discern.

  “Do it, yeah. Don’t stop…uh, uh…”

  Someone was servicing Casey Crais with an energetic, heated blow job, Casey assisting by thrusting his hips forward, a face fuck. Casey’s cock probed deep inside the man’s willing mouth. It’s funny, Jimmy hadn’t even considered the question of whether Casey Crais was gay or not. His sexuality didn’t matter to the investigation. Or did it? Was it a jealous lover who was taunting him? Someone who thought they deserved a cut of his money? Jimmy was about to retreat when his eyes zeroed in on not Casey but the man bobbing before him. Recognition washed over him.

  He nearly gave himself up, taking in a sharp burst of air that made him hiccup. The person was none other than Jimmy’s ex-lover, T13’s costume designer, Remy St. Claire. If anything, Jimmy recognized the man’s technique. He felt a stirring in his loins, the excitement of a voyeur combined with the bitter taste of what was. He backed away quietly, not wanting to be near when the sounds of climax occurred. It was almost like he’d disappeared into himself. Jimmy had a talent for that, hiding within the wounded reaches of his soul.

  He hopped off the edge of the stage, and allowed the darkness of the house to swallow him.

  Fifteen minutes later he was back at his mother’s house, the clothes of earlier today shed, the cascading water of a hot shower and a bar of soap cleansing him not just of the sins of the day but of yesteryear, of when his father’s shooting left him devastated, when betrayal claimed his heart as Remy walked out the door with the slam of finality. Both instances were back, invading his mind and body, which suddenly had Jimmy imagining the shower scene from Psycho, saw his own blood swirling down the drain as those things called memories attacked him.

  He hated this case already.

  He wasn’t sure he could last until opening night.

  As the hot shower continued to pelt him, he took hold of his hard cock and sought release. Frisano’s handsome face was the one that pushed him over the edge.

  § § §

  Triskaidekaphobia’s second preview performance went off without incident, and since there was no celebration scheduled for that night, the cast and crew were gone from the theatre thirty minutes after the curtain came down. Jimmy stuck around at the request of Wellington Calloway, who said he had something he needed to discuss with him. The old man was the boss, Jimmy did as he was paid to do.

  He’d been asked to wait outside the front of the theatre, and the moment he stepped from the stage door area, a familiar looking limousine parked at the curb, almost as if it had been lurking. Welly’s driver, a man dressed in black named Markson, was waiting beside the door. That’s when the back tinted window powered down to show a disembodied version of Wellington Calloway’s head. He waved Jimmy over.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I have a late appointment. Thought you wouldn’t mind tagging along for a bit. Unless you have plans.”

  “I’m standing in front of a darkened theatre at midnight. Think I’m free.”

  Jimmy got in, where he sat opposite Welly in the spacious back of the limo.

  “Drink?”

  “Am I on duty?” Jimmy asked.

  “Yes. Which means you do as I say, and I say you join me.”

  Welly served up the honors, pouring a couple fingers worth of Glenlivet in two crystal-cut tumblers that he grabbed from a side panel near the door. He passed along one glass to Jimmy and the two men raised them in a silent toast. Jimmy took a sip and savored the taste. Higher end than he usually drank, though mostly it was beer that went down his gullet so anything might have been an improvement. He felt the jerk of the limo as it started off, the liquid inside his glass splashing about. He stared at the side window as they continued west along 47th Street, turning down Ninth Avenue. He was blocks from home.

  “Going south?”

  “I hope that’s not a metaphor for your investigation,” Welly said.

  “Just a directional observation.”

  “I am meeting an old friend in Lower Manhattan, Foundation business. I can drop you off anywhere along the way. Our talk shouldn’t take too terribly long.”

  Jimmy took another sip. “What’s on your mind?”

  “No drama tonight.”

  “Only on the stage, how it’s supposed to be.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “Not sure. I still have to ascertain whether someone’s playing a joke.”

  “And the likelihood of that?”

  “I’ve sent both letters to a lab I know. I should have the results tomorrow morning.”

  “In time for a ten o’clock meeting?”

  “Perhaps,” Jimmy said. “Where, and with whom?”

  “The Calloway Foundation offices at 50th and Seventh. Fourteenth floor.”

  “Not the thirteenth?”

  Welly Calloway grimaced. “I suppose in reality it is. An unintentional coincidence.”

  “Who’s going to be there?”

  “Two advisors from Calloway Industries,” he said, his response cagey.

  “What do they have to do with T13?”

  “They are the money behind the production.”

  “And they want an accounting of what’s going? Do they know about the threats?”

  “They do.”

  “I’ll be there. I’ll have whatever information I can have.” Jimmy paused, drank down more of the whisky, watched as Welly did the same. The old man finished his, a trembling hand setting the glass down between his legs. Was it illness, or worry?

  “Is there something else I should know about, Welly?”

  “Let’s wait till this meeting.”

  Jimmy nodded. “A mere hours from now,” he said. “What can change?”

  “Time clicks forward too quickly sometimes.” There was a wistful tone to the man’s voice. He gazed out the dark window at the even darker night. They were nearing 23rd Street and Ninth, a red light pulling them to a stop. This seemed as good a place as any to slip out. Jimmy said so, and Markson was instructed to pull to the curb. As Jimmy opened the door, he felt Welly’s aged hand upon his arm. He turned back, curious to know if he was finally going to tell him what was really going on. Mouth open, the truth was just a syllable away. But then Welly closed up, offered up a smile in return.

  “You have no idea how much I trust you, Jimmy McSwain.”

  “I hope I can live up to your faith, sir.”

  “So far, you’re the only one who has.”

  With that, Jimmy emerged into the Manhattan night, the sights and sounds of Chelsea alive even at this late-hour. Men walked with men, hand in hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And wasn’t it? Jimmy had never had a hang-up about his sexuality, because to him he had known nothing different. To see two men in love—to see any two people in love— wasn’t that the only defense against the rest of the nonsense you had to deal with in this world. Go home, slide beside the one you love, close out your troubles. Safety, security, they were among the few things in life money couldn’t corrupt. You just had to feel it, trust it. Jimmy watched as two gym bunnies kissed before the front entrance of a building before the one led the other inside and upstairs. Still hand in hand, a happy laugh trailing after them.

  Jimmy’s mind took him back to what he’d witnessed earlier today at the theatre.

  Were Casey and Remy a couple, or was it just sex, a release? And should he care?

  Only if it related to the case he was working. Casey he could ask. Remy, not so much.

  The empty night stretched out before him. Jimmy walked alone, not even sure where he was going. He was straying farther from his home, continuing toward downtown. He reached 20th Street and 9th Avenue, knew that down the street was a gay bar where he could grab a beer and maybe a cute guy’s ass. Maybe he too might be kissing a guy in front of a building before being led upstairs to a darkened apartment? Within an hour he could be in the needed throes of pleasure, his troubles, for the moment, forgotten.

  He ended up walking past it; he just wasn’t in the mood for cruising.

  At last he came upon a destination that perhaps his feet had figured out before his mind had. He was standing in front of the 10th Precinct, a series of squad cars parked at a sideways angle evidence of a quiet night in the neighborhood. It was only Wednesday, perhaps the criminals out there were dealing with the hump day, staying home and plotting their weekend transgressions. Which meant that the activity in the precinct would be quiet, too, which translated to a simple truth he knew deep inside: Frisano would not be on duty. What captain worked past midnight? Still, that didn’t stop him from pulling open the door and entering.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

  “Wren,” he said to the young blonde woman sitting behind the dispatch desk, “aren’t you ever off duty?”

  “I could say the same about you, Jimmy McSwain.”

  “Like cats, private investigators are nocturnal creatures.”

  “And just as ornery. What can I do for you?”

  “Not sure. I was just passing by.”

  “Working a case?”

  “Not directly. Got a couple things going on, you know the drill.”

  “Frisano ain’t here,” she said.

  “Maybe I was looking for Barone.”

  “He’s not as cute.”

  Roscoe Barone was a detective with the 10th, as grizzled as he was homely, and unbearably straight. So was his partner, Larry Dean, both of whom had helped Jimmy on cases and who also kidded him about his sexuality. Frisano wasn’t straight, but that didn’t mean he was out. Jimmy’s eyes darted about the quiet squad room, seeing who might have overheard Wren. Jimmy could care less about his own reputation, but Frisano on the other hand kept his sexuality under lock and key, his ambition his first priority. The only people who stared back at him were the most wanted suspects posted upon the bulletin board. Still, they seemed to judge him all the same. Wren didn’t seem to share the same expression.

  “Guess I should let you get back to work,” Jimmy said.

  “Even the bad guys are letting me catch some zzz’s tonight.”

  “Not a bad idea. I’ve got an early meeting.”

  Jimmy turned around to go when Wren called back to him. “You should call him.”

  He knew who she meant. “Maybe some time.”

  “Forget some time. Try now. Live, Jimmy. The night can be dangerous out there alone.”

  He nodded, tried a smile, and then left. Back outside, he felt the cool air invade his body as he walked back toward Eighth Avenue. From there he could catch a cab. He could be home in a matter of minutes, either to his mother’s or his office. Or he could just slide onto a bar stool at his uncle’s pub and wait until his body clock caught up with the late hour. But then Wren’s words hit him, hard, almost like she was following through on something she might have interpreted from Frisano.

  He took out his phone, the time staring back at him. 12:52 a.m.

  He could call, or he could text. Texting seemed the cheap way out, too passive.

  So he hit Frisano’s contact number, not even sure why he was doing it. The hot cop might work in Chelsea, but he lived in Brooklyn. After a long day of investigation covering three of the city’s five boroughs, Jimmy wasn’t up for a repeat performance. Frisano might even be asleep, his phone turned off.

  No way. Not Frisano. He lived for that next call. Usually meant the NYPD needed him.

  Frisano thrived on being needed, Jimmy had learned. When night arrived, when the world left him to be himself and not be subject to the cop life he was born into, that’s when he most liked being needed.

  Did Jimmy? So independent, but on some nights his body craved more than what his mind did.

  “Jim,” he heard, the voice on the other end not sounding sleepy at all.

  “Uh, hi.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just…sorry, it’s late. What I have to say, it can wait.”

  “I’m awake, I’m up. Just got home, uncorked a nice Merlot. Can’t finish the bottle alone.”

  “Brooklyn’s a bit far…”

  “Jim, I’m at Eighth and Eighteenth. I got a place, a studio. Where are you?”

  Jimmy looked up at the street signs, noticed he was only a block away and said so. It was like the world was telling him something. Of all the street corners in Manhattan, he ended up just one block from where destiny wanted him. Silence fell between them before Jimmy heard his own voice answering back that sure, he’d come over, a glass of wine sounded good about now. It wasn’t the wine which drew him to the doorstep of the apartment of Francis X. Frisano. It was the man himself. He thought about his shower earlier, thought how nice it would be to turn it into reality.

  Jimmy pushed open the door after it was buzzed, and he walked up the three flights, where he soon stood before the door of apartment 3D. He didn’t have to knock. His shuffling, hesitant footsteps gave his encroaching presence away. But funny thing was, his feet didn’t go into retreat mode, nor did they stay stubbornly in place. Jimmy McSwain stepped over the threshold, and fast into the arms of a man who set his heart beating. At the sight of him standing in a pair of shorts and sleeveless muscle T-shirt, those strong arms coated in dark hair, Jimmy thought it skipped a beat, maybe more than once. Weakened but also thrilled, he was a mix of contradictions as his lips met Frisano’s in a heated explosion of desire.