Thursday, June 13, 1968. New York. A city of crimes, secrets, and steady revenue for a private investigator like myself, taking on cases the NYPD are too busy or too lazy to care about. Grace Jones, a woman whose abrasive language betrayed her petite and fair stature, had reached out to my office. Through her colorful use of expletives, she explained that her husband, Thomas, had run out on her. She told me he had a history of wandering eyes and his recent “overtime” at a small construction company smelled of a cover story. She wanted me to track him down so she could serve him the divorce papers. Pretty cut and dry case. Dime a dozen in New York.
Grace’ story provided me enough information to get started. Everyone always says that women love to gossip but men are just as bad at keeping secrets so, naturally, I sought out his construction crew. I found the crew he worked with and waited to catch them during lunchtime. I began asking questions. They were cautious at first, wondering if perhaps I was a cop. Thankfully I found common ground with them. Many of the men here were Vietnam veterans, an attribute I shared with them. That bond was enough to have them open up. I got a lot of good information out of them. When I asked about Thomas’ overtime, they laughed at me like I had just put on a star performance at a clown show. They told me their company was struggling to secure contracts. Larger construction firms were soaking up every job by offering lower building costs,an advantage smaller companies couldn’t afford. Then I got the juicy bit: Thomas was working a second job at a lounge downtown in the evenings. The lounge’s singer, Patty, was often seen talking to Thomas and the crew believed she was his mistress.
Later that night I headed to the lounge. The place may not have been as busy as it could be on a weekend but I was still surprised to see a lively bar scene. Mainly older folks who had nothing better to do the next day. Must be nice. I walked up to the bartender and asked for Patty. The older gentleman asked if was a new customer. I didn’t lie, after all, I’ve never been here before. I was to meet her, privately, in a room upstairs. Hmm, fancy.
For a moment I thought I was to meet this Patty in a more… exotic… room but it was merely a standard office. A desk, two chairs, filing cabinets adorning the walls. I didn’t have to wait long. Patty walked in, wearing a striking red gown, freshly applied makeup, and her dark hair perfectly framed her gentle facial features. She was ready for her performance later this evening.
Here’s what struck me as odd: she immediately asked how much money I was looking for. I told her that I wasn’t looking for money. I was searching for Thomas Jones, and that my investigation led me here and to her. Another detail to point out; Hearing his name shook her.
In a panic, she asked me if I was a cop, but I couldn’t lie. She stressed that she had nothing to do with Thomas’s death and was just a middleman for a money lender.
Death. Now that’s a twist I wasn’t expecting. She was scared. She urged me not to look into Thomas any further. She claimed her boss had connections with very dangerous people and the police. If they knew I was snooping around, I would be next on their hit-list. And she gave me the answer to my investigation’s main question: if I wanted to find Thomas, I would find him somewhere in the bottom of the Hudson River. Before parting ways, Patty gave me her boss’ name as a warning – John Russo. I was acquainted with Russo. Not in person, I’ve never met the man. But his reputation preceded him. A local mafioso and ruthless loan shark, he wasn’t someone you’d want to cross on a good day.
On the drive back to my office I started connecting the dots. Thomas wasn’t cheating on Grace, he was borrowing money from Russo, behind her back. Patty was the middleman for Russo’s loans which is why Thomas was constantly seen talking to her and he visited her so often his coworkers believed the infidelity rumors. But the thing about the mafia is—if you burrow from them, you better pay exactly when they are expecting to be paid. When he didn’t pay up, they made sure to make an example of him. With the mafia involved, this was as far as I was willing my investigation to go. There was no good reason to die for a dead man.
I called Grace to meet me in my office to deliver the news though there was just one question that lingered that I couldn’t not figure out—why did Thomas need that much money that he’d reach out to Russo? Why take such a risk?
Grace walked into my office with a determined gait. I’m sure she believed I was about to give her the exact location where her seemingly sleazy husband was staying. Before delivering the news, I asked her one final question: Did Thomas ever mention needing a lot of money? Why he would pick up extra shifts at work?
Grace provided the last piece of the puzzle. A year ago Thomas claimed he wanted to take her to France for their anniversary. This was not a cheap trip, especially in a struggling construction worker’s pay. He had over-promised and instead of honesty, he sought out and took a loan from Russo. With the larger construction companies taking all the building contracts, he struggled to pay back what he owed. When he could no longer afford the payments, he ended at the bottom of the river.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jones. Your husband left the country with another woman. Got a second job to pay for the trip he had promised you.”
Lying to Grace didn’t feel to well. She deserved the truth but I couldn’t risk her going to the police and confronting Russo. It was safer for her to believe her husband left and give her a chance to find love again than to lead her to certain death. I took her money and wished her well. White lies are harmless, but this one didn’t feel too good.
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