The Second Life of Nick Mason

20

Nick Mason didn’t want to talk to the man who put him in prison, the man who got his friend killed, but Jimmy McManus wasn’t giving him any choice.

McManus wasn’t dressed in his badass black today. Instead, he had on a gray ribbed muscle shirt and tight jeans. But it was the same jackass face, the same thinning hair tied back in a ponytail. His mirrored shades were perched on the top of his head.

“I thought that was you the other day.”

“Take your hands off me.” Mason could feel the nervous tension in the man, practically radiating from him like heat waves. It was the same hair trigger that made him come out of the truck, shooting.

“Hey, we’re cool,” McManus said, putting both hands in the air. “I just wanted to have a little chat. We’re cool, right?”

“Are you fucking following me, McManus?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” the man said, circling around to stand in front of Mason. “Call it a lucky accident.”

Mason didn’t respond. He waited for the man to get the hell out of his way.

“You gotta understand,” McManus said, “last time I laid eyes on you, you were heading to prison. Parole was so far off, you were living on Buck Rogers time. But you ate your jack mack and did your time standing up with your mouth shut. I always respected that, Nickie. Same thing I would have done.”

Mason stopped trying to step around the man. “You got two seconds to get the fuck out of my way.”

“Easy, Nickie. Come on.” He moved a hand toward Mason’s chest but stopped just before touching him.

“One…” Mason said.

“I’m still connected, Nickie.” He dropped his voice down and took a look around the street like he was sharing a big secret. “I know the people who fucking run this town.”

“Two…”

McManus stepped back. “I just want to know what your angle is. How did you get out? What are you doing on the street?”

“I make you nervous?”

“Yeah, maybe, Nickie. That’s not a good thing. I don’t need any loose ends in my life. It’s the loose ends that hang you.”

Mason looked him up and down. If he was a real player, he wouldn’t be dressed like some fucking Jersey Shore musclehead. He’d be clean and correct and he wouldn’t walk around bragging about it.

“I’m gonna say this once,” Mason said. “Then I never want to see your face again. I did five years. I didn’t give you up then and I’m not gonna give you up now. As long as Eddie’s around, I’m not gonna do anything that jams him up. So you better hope he lives a long life.”

“I’m still nervous. Why don’t you reassure me a bit more?”

“Fuck your reassurance,” Mason said, pushing past him.

“I’ll be seeing you,” McManus said behind his back.

Quintero wasn’t happy. Mason was late again.

“Maybe you work on early for next time,” Quintero said as soon as Mason got to the park, “because this is the last time you’ll ever be late.”

Beyond him, the same hundred sailboats were anchored out in the open water. The fog had long burned off and it was a perfect summer day in Chicago-a cloudless cobalt sky, the lake glittering in the sunlight.

It was one of those days that feels like a gift. But here I am, Mason thought. This is how I have to spend it.

“I got held up,” Mason said. “Not everybody’s throwing a party about me being back on the street.”

“We got a problem?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“You put some clothes together, so you’re always ready,” Quintero said. “You answer the phone and by the time you hang up, you’re already out the door.”

“Fuck that,” Mason said, looking away.

Quintero shook his head and then pulled up the back of his shirt. For one second Mason thought he’d pushed him too far and was about to take one in the head. But it wasn’t a gun in Quintero’s hand. It was a manila envelope.

“You may have passed your first test,” Quintero said. “With some help. This one’s gonna be harder.”

Mason took the envelope and looked inside. There were two sheets of paper. One was a copy of a police mug shot. A black man, front and side, holding a placard with his name on it. Tyron Harris. His hair was cut tight to his head and he had a small mustache. The look on the man’s face was calm and cool like the whole experience was just a mild annoyance. On the second sheet of paper was a list of Chicago business names and addresses. Dry cleaners, liquor, electronics, and a half dozen more.

“Harris was the man who was scheduled to meet Jameson in the motel. I don’t know where he lives, but here’s a list of some businesses. He either owns them or has a piece of them.”

“What’s the job?”

“Find him,” Quintero said. “Watch him.”

Mason knew there’d be more to this job. He didn’t have to ask.

“If you knew he was going to meet that cop in the motel room,” Mason said, “and you wanted them both, why didn’t you just wait? We could have taken them both out together.”

I actually said that, Mason thought. This is how my mind works now.

“Harris would have come with at least four men,” Quintero said. “Maybe five. Two men in the room with him, another on the door. One in the parking lot. Maybe one more on the street. He’s still alive because he’s careful. After what happened to his new business partner, he’ll be even more careful. Get to work finding him. Call me on my cell, let me know what’s going on with this guy.”

Quintero took one step past him, then stopped. “One more thing,” he said. “Let me know if the piece of shit following you is a problem. Your problems are my problems.”

“He’s nothing.”

Quintero shook his head in disgust. “I’ll decide if it’s nothing.”

“I’m more worried about Detective Sandoval,” Mason said.

“How does a detective get on you that fast?”

“It’s a personal thing. We have some history.”

“You need to be clean when you’re doing this next job, Mason. Every minute.”

Mason looked out at the water.

“Now get to work,” Quintero said. Then he walked away.