Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of CSI:NY; they belong to Anthony E. Zuiker and CBS.

Author's Note: Seriously, I am awed by the responses I've been getting. I didn't think people would enjoy this this much! I'm going to try hard to live up to the rave reviews. You guys are all amazing!

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CHAPTER THREE

Lindsay Monroe left about two hours ago, and I'm still in my office tryin' to figure out where I want to start. She's given me a list of places Messer would hide out, along with his address in the Bronx.

Stella comes into my office with a mug of coffee. "So, Sassone, huh?" she says.

"You been eavesdroppin' through the door again, Stel?" I accept the coffee as she sits down.

She smiles. "No, honey, course not. That woman just likes to talk, that's all, and unlike with you, she needed a sympathetic ear."

I shake my head and smile. "Yeah, Sassone," I reply.

"Look, Flack, I know you don' have a badge or anything but..." Stella's tone is serious. She gets that motherly tone sometimes. "But you will have some sort of integrity while you're on this case, right?"

"What are you talkin' about, Stella?"

"I'm talkin' about what you might do if you ever get Sassone in a room alone," she says. "You know what I'm talkin' about."

"You think I'm not gonna let him live long enough to see the inside of a prison cell," I say. Damn, her coffee is good. The best in Manhattan, I swear. But even the coffee can't take my mind off of Sassone.

"Exactly," she tells me. "I know you hate him. I would too."

"You have no idea how I feel about him," I shoot back.

"Yeah, Flack? That's what you think? Who's been with ya since day one of all this, huh?" she demands. "I think if anyone in this city knows how you feel about Sassone and what you'd like to do to him, it's me." She gets up, storms for the door.

I hate seeing her like this. I hate fightin' with her. "Stel-" I start, but she whirls around, glaring at me.

"You just promise me that you'll be careful, and that you'll be good," she tells me before slamming my office door. It closes hard enough that one of the hinges falls off the door. "And I ain't fixin' that!" she yells from the other side of the door.

I wouldn't have expected her to. And I'm gonna be good. I want Sassone dead, but I want it to be long and slow and preferably in a six by six cement hole. I want to see the look on his face when they convict him of everything. As I drain the last of my coffee, I know exactly where to start.

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The Blackjack is a little hole in the wall on Broadway. Everybody that goes there knows it's owned by Sonny Sassone. Everyone that goes there knows what Sassone does. Most of them don't care.

And everyone that goes there knows me.

I step through the doors. They can make me for a PI just by lookin' at me. They know I'm no patron. I'm wearin' my hat, I love that hat, and my trenchcoat, even though it's gotta be pushing ninety-five degrees outside. I like it. Plenty of pockets to hold my gun. The Blackjack has a bar along one side. There's no alcohol on its shelves, but I know it's all in a hidden icebox. There's about twenty tables, and they're all full, even though it's only two o'clock on a Wednesday. There's a piano player belting out some jazz tune on the other wall. He stops as soon as I walk in. In fact, everything stops. I feel about a hundred pairs of eyes on me.

"Take it easy, folks. Go on back to your business," I hear a slick voice say. My skin crawls. I know that voice. And I see him as I look at the booths along the back wall. It's hard to see through the cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke, but I thread my way. The piano player's a black guy, he stares at me as I pass him. "What's your name?" I ask him.

"Hawkes, sir."

I toss him a dollar. "Keep playin,'" I tell him. He obliges me. I step forward, and there through the smoke is Sonny Sassone. He's wearin' a blue pinstripe suit and a black tie. His white hat is tipped sideways on his head. He's got a girl on each arm, and I can clearly see two of his right hand men have bulges in their pockets that belong to firearms. I'm in enemy territory. It would be so easy right now to pop him right here. And the world would be rid of one more gangster. And then maybe I could sleep easier at night. And then maybe...I push the thoughts to the back of my mind and concentrate on the oily fella in front of me.

"If it ain't Donald Flack, Junior," Sassone says. He takes a drag on his cigar and blows the smoke straight at me. I ignore it, but I feel like I'm choking. Like hell if I'll give him the satisfaction, though. "Pull up a chair, Flack."

I grin; I can play this game. "I'm good standin,', Sonny," I reply. I wave my hand around. "Look like you're doin' well for yourself."

"You got nothin' on me, Flack," Sonny says. "Ain't nothing sayin' otherwise that this ain't a legitimate business."

"I ain't here to bust your chops, Sonny," I tell him. I bend down, get right in his face. I hear his boys pull the safeties off their guns. I'm invading his personal space, lettin' him know I'm serious. "I'm here to tell you that I got a job. You're my new case. So you'll be seein' a lot more of me around," I enjoy the look on his face. He's tryin' to act nonchalant, but I can see a tinge of fear behind his eyes. "You have a good day," I tip my hat in his direction before turning to walk out.

"This is about that Messer kid, ain't it?"

I stop, but don't turn around. Doesn't make any sense for me to confirm what he already knows.

"My boys'll find him first, Flack," Sonny calls to me. "And when I find him, he and I will have a nice long chat."

This time I do turn around. "That a threat, Sassone?" I can't resist.

He takes a drag on his cigar. "Naw, Flack. I'm just sayin,' that's all." He looks over at the bartender. "Marty, give my good friend Flack over there a drink."

Marty disappears below the bar and reappears with a cold one. "Sonny, you know this is illegal, yeah?" I call over to him.

The son of a bitch doesn't even break. He just grins that slick oily grin at me and says, "You gonna turn me in, my friend?" We both know I'm not going to. I want him for more than just illegal booze. I drain half the bottle in one stop, then slam the other half on the bar. "Be seein' you, Sonny," I say as I step out into the evening. I'm in a better mood now, I got my first drink in five months. Thank goodness for small favors.

As I leave the Blackjack, it occurs to me: I gotta find Messer first. If Sonny gets ahold of him again...the kid's dead.

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My next stop is at Danny Messer's rundown apartment in the Bronx. There isn't a key to get in, and I can't find the super. So I use my elbow, break the glass on the window near the fire escape and ah... let myself in. The place is really bare. There's a table and two chairs in the kitchen. The linoleum's peeling in a few spots. His sink has a constant drip that's driving me crazy. The carpet in the living room looks like someone tracked half of Central Park through it. The couch and the armchair in the living room are real shabby. The place has definitely been tossed, the cushions are everywhere, there's broken plates in the kitchen. Sassone's boys have been here. Probably looking for him, or maybe lookin' to see if he'd written anything down pertaining to Sonny's less-than-legitimate activities. From the way the place looks, if there was anything written down, Sassone's boys probably found it. But I start to look the place over anyway. I inspect the kitchen first, looking for any popped drawers or compartments. Place looks like it's fallin' apart, but Messer looks like he tries to keep it in decent shape.

I find nothing in the kitchen, so instead of checking out the bare living room, I head for Messer's bedroom. Again, the place is in disarray. I toss the mattresses back on the bed, trying to find the floor. There's nothing in the dresser. I even go through all the clothes that were tossed onto the floor in case he hid something in a pair of socks or in a breast pocket. I got nothin'. I stand and look around the room. I know places like this don't have roof access or storage anywhere else in the building. If Danny Messer had a log of illegal activity, it's not-hold on a second.

I've been shifting from foot to foot while I've been thinkin', and one of the boards under my foot is loose. It could be just that, a loose board...or it might be...I crouch down and start tugging on the floor. The board is definitely loose. I find a spot where it doesn't quite meet with the board next to it and start tugging again. The board pops up. I set it aside.

Tucked below the board is a very small notebook. I pull it out and start flipping through it.

Bingo! This Messer kid takes great notes.

21 May

Sassone asked me to deliver a parcel downtown to Salvador Zabo. I don't ask what's in it; I figure it's safer that way. I know Sassone's a less-than-honorable fella, but he pays me decent. As soon as I get enough money, I'm done anyway. Gonna take my Lindsay and head West, go somewhere and get outta the city. She's a country girl at heart. I'd love to move her out to a farm somewhere, get her outta the city. Safer out west.

The next entry is dated yesterday.

24 May

It's been all over the papers that they can't find Enrique Salvatore. Well, they can stop lookin' cause I know where he is. I saw Sassone's boys haulin' something out of the back of the Blackjack this mornin'. I'm sure it was Salvatore. Later I went to go get my paycheck, and before I could open the door I hear Sonny inside.

"...so the next shipment can be moved anytime."

"And Salvatore?"

"Salvatore should have known better than to try to cross me. He got what he deserved."

I'm not sure what 'shipment' they're talkin' about but I know it's probably not good. Think it's time for me to talk to the cops-

It stops there. But the 's' in 'cops' looks trailed off, like his hand slipped. Chances are he was midway through writing it when the boys came to toss his place. I don't see any blood or anythin' in the apartment, so I'm guessing he got out through the fire escape.

I tuck the notebook into my pocket and let myself out of Messer's apartment. I think it's time Taylor and the boys at the 6th Precinct know what's goin' down.