A recent graduate of the NYPD’s cadet academy, Jimmy McSwain dreams of anything except being a cop. He has a complicated history with the police, and it isn’t from a rap sheet. Years ago, his police officer father was gunned down during an off-duty incident, leaving Jimmy bitter that his killer was never found.
Now, trained in the art of law, Jimmy decides to embark on a new career: that of private detective. But he just can’t get his own license; he needs experience. What happens will lead Jimmy into a part of New York he doesn’t know, realizing he’s the stranger in a neighborhood that lives by its own rules.
His mother, Maggie McSwain, is skeptical about his job but there’s nothing she can do to stop her headstrong son from entering this shadowy new world. As a warm spring settles over the city, a twist of fate has Jimmy taking on his first case, one that is a time bomb ready to explode.
What he can’t leave behind is the memory of his father, and the silver shield which he earned only out of respect. Can he live with his decision?
Pulling down his sunglasses, Jimmy squinted, seeking numbers on the buildings across the street. His vision was good, and he could make them out, all odd-numbered, just like back ... not home, he had to stop thinking he wasn’t where he belonged. Get that out of your head, keep your confidence. A trait he knew was a work in progress. He’d spent too much of his early “adulthood” unfocused, a drifter of sorts. That’s why today was so important. Don’t screw this up.
He sat there for ten minutes or so. An older gentleman took up near him on another of the benches, where he lit up a cigar. Jimmy was thankfully upwind of the smoke, but still it was strong enough to stink up the air. Thinking of getting up, he forced himself to stay. He pretended to be on his phone, but really, he was focused on a building across the street. He noticed the windows on the second floor; an air conditioner sticking out of one of them. Curtains open. Beneath them was a dry cleaner, Liana’s Wrinkle-Free. The only wrinkle in that was its inherent promise.
A half-hour passed, the cigar-toting man trundled off, leaving Jimmy alone once again. But maybe not. A police cruiser passed by, maybe for the second time. 47th Precinct. Maybe that would have been his placement? Too many maybes hitting him, doubts not welcome. He didn’t want to stay too long, which bordered on being suspicious. Especially with his sunglasses down, as though he was scoping something out, which of course he was. Another blue-and-white turned the corner down McLean; or perhaps it was the same one, looping around and checking out this stranger who was loitering on the street corner.
About to get up on his own, he noticed some activity across the street. First, the upstairs curtain went down over the window. Was the sun too strong, or was someone getting ready to leave? Lunchtime, perhaps? It was an idea he’d had, that’s why he was glad he’d arrived when he had. Standing up, phone to his ear as though he’d just gotten a call, Jimmy watched as the door to the building next to Liana’s entrance opened. Out stepped a man, and from his first step Jimmy knew he’d found his mark.
The guy was older, probably mid-sixties; or he could be younger in age and just in a bad way. Thick-bodied, around six-feet tall with a gut hanging over his belt, gray trousers and a blue dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves completed his look. Thick hair cut military-style, silver gray with a touch of black remaining. Pretty ordinary-looking guy, grizzled, gruff. What distinguished him was his walk, his gait. He had a bad limp, left leg, and it hindered him, keeping his progress to wherever he was going to a snail’s pace. Jimmy could see him grimace a couple of times.
He’d have to play this cautiously. Certainly, his own New York speed would outpace his, and that was the last thing Jimmy wanted. So, he hung back, pretending the call was impeding his progress. Still, he kept an eye on the guy. He crossed one street, ambled a bit further. Didn’t seem like he’d be going too far. And in fact, he wasn’t. On the corner of 241st Street and McLean, there came a neon sign, a couple of letters blinking. Straight out of the movies.
Neamh. The A and H were the failing letters.
Beneath it came the explanation: pub and restaurant. His target went in.
Now came this interesting part. Time to turn his idea into reality. No going back now, Jim, right?
The interior still didn’t define the pub’s name. Neamh. Clues abounded, though. Of course there was a long wood bar, brass piping lining its length. Stools, tables, chairs. What distinguished it was all the plants. Ferns, hanging or potted, flowerpots in the windows, small vases with a green carnation placed on each table. Real or fake, he couldn’t be sure. How could nature thrive in an atmosphere that smelled of stale beer?
Still, Jimmy saw about a dozen people in the bar; six men sidled up to the bar; and at a table by the front window, two women were splitting a bottle of white wine. An interesting mix. Widescreen TVs were placed all around, as expected, plus a dart board, a pool table. Had all the accoutrements required to qualify as an Irish pub, including a red-headed barkeep behind the bar. She looked to be about forty-five, but again, you never know with people who lived hard and, presumably, drank hard. Maybe gardening kept her strong.
“What’ll it be?” she asked, her accent thick, even more than Ma’s.
“Smithwicks,” he said, taking a seat at the bar.
Three stools away from the guy he’d trailed. Good, not so close as to arouse suspicion.
Until something happened. Something he should have seen coming.
As the draft was put in front of him, Jimmy heard, in the thickest Boston accent ever, “Three stools away is way too obvious.”
