Playing Jacks

iix. Life is a Lie, part 2

Despite his intentions otherwise, morning found Jacks in his father’s doorway.  The office is littered with red, white, and blue posters.  They’re stacked against the bookshelf, a few sliding away from their rigid post until James Mancuso’s face peers up from the floor at the men in the room.

“The dinner did well,” James’ guest notes, pushing a paper across the desk.  “We’ve got more than enough funds to continue your campaign.  Mark my words, Mr. Mancuso.  Given another year, we’ll be addressing you as Representative Mancuso.”

Jacks leans against the doorframe, taking in the scene with cynicism. “Dad, you called?”

“Yeah,” James agrees with a frown.  Levering himself up from the plush desk chair, he shakes his guest’s hand and escorts him to the door, leaving Jacks to inspect the campaign posters and the scatter of papers over his desk.  Tilting his head, he notes a spread sheet.  Jacks eyes squint at the names and numbers. The amount of one contribution is staggering.

“Thought you were out, dad,” Jacks accuses, not even bothering to lift his eyes from his study.

Falling into his desk chair, James leans back to stare into the ceiling and admits, “The Family want to control us, control me.  This is their means.”

 Tossing the packet of papers back across the desk, Jacks blatantly asks, “What do you want, dad?

“There are some men you just don’t want to owe, Jacks,” James rumbles, pivoting his desk chair to peer out his window and into the manicured lawns beyond.  “You helped your brother.  What do you say, Jacks?  You’ve always had a talent for making people’s problems disappear.”

 With a soft curse, Jacks paces away from the desk and rakes both hand through his short, black hair.  His eyes look skyward in exasperation. “What’s this guy into?”

“Among other things, he runs a chop shop- cleans up stolen cars.   He’s sweet on the high end sportsters.”

Popping his neck, Jacks sighs deeply. “I don’t know, Dad.  I’ve got my own business to take care of.”  Reflexively, his eyes jump to the pool house just beyond the office window.  Everything he needs to fix his life- right there.

“She’s gone,” Jeremy says from the door.  He leans against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Gone?” Jacks growls, turning on his brother. “Where’d she go?”

Jeremy shrugged. “After the argument I heard from the pool house yesterday, I didn’t think you’d care.”

Jaw tight, Jacks inspects the floor.  He shouldn’t care.  He knows he shouldn’t.  He’s not staying and she’s got a life- one screwed-up-going-to-get-her-killed life.  Just because he’s managed to steal a few kisses doesn’t mean it has anything to do with him.  But he can’t help but ask, “That other guy?”

“He’s an FBI agent: Thomas Keaton.”  Jeremy scrutinizes his brother’s terse features and adds, “She ought to be safe enough with him.”  The words were more jab than comfort.

With a quiet curse, Jacks hits the door on his way out.

Agent Callan paces between his partner and the wall and back again.  “We know who it’s not.”

“True,” he agrees, kicking his feet up onto the desk and crossing his ankles.  “In fact, if you’re going for numbers, we can ID near billions of people who definitely did not commit the murder.”

Callan turns on his partner with a curse. “You’re a smartass.”

Holding his hands up into the air, his partner surrenders the mock argument. “I’m just saying . . .”

“We’ve got two videos.”

“And they definitely appear to be the same man,” his partner agrees. “The shoe imprint matched.”

“What about license plates?  Have we run all the license plates in the areas?  See if any matched?”

“Sometime I wonder if you think I’m a dolt,” his partner grumbles. “Working on it.  The results aren’t back yet.  Still looking at little fuzzy numbers in photographs.”

“Well, throw some my way.  Let’s see if we can find anything.”  Sinking into his desk chair, Callan frowns at the task in front of him.  “Quick,” he mutters to himself. “Before someone else dies.”