Author's Note: I just wanted to say THANK YOU to everybody that's reading, reviewing and putting this on alert. I am really glad that you're liking this.

Chapter Four

It's just starting to get dark as Danny and I pull up outside a bar in Brooklyn called Smoky Joe's. "Is Smoky Joe the guy we're here to see?" I ask him as I get out of the car. It's gotten colder out, and it's starting to snow again. I bet the Macy's folks are furious. It's gonna snow all over their parade. I blow into my hands to try to warm them up. Danny pulls his jacket tighter around him. "Actually no," Danny says. "See, Smoky Joe is this old black guy, used to work as a chimney sweep in Harlem. He got tired of cleanin' fireplaces and decided to try somethin' different. The guy we're here to see is just Joe." He frowns. "Hell I'm not even sure if that's his real name. I just know him as Joe."

"And how do you know Joe?" I have to ask.

He grins. "How do you think?" he asks me.

"I don't wanna know."

"You're right, you don't." Danny pushes the door open. Wailing jazz music pours outside, along with a thick cloud of blue smoke. "It's a real high-class place," Danny yells over the music.

"Sure it is." I look around. "So which one's Joe?"

Danny squints to look through the veil of smoke hanging over everything. Then he points. "Back there!" He threads his way through the crowd, and I follow behind him. The place is so packed that most folks don't even give us a second glance. Danny stops in front of a poker game, where a balding man in factory worker garb is sitting. "Well I'm all in, boys," he says, shoving the handful of cash and chips he has to the middle of the table. I see three guys fold instantly, and the fourth follows Joe in. I glance at Danny, who just nods knowingly. We can see what Joe's got in his hand, and he's taking the guy across the table from him for everything he's worth on a royal flush.

"Looks like you're still cheatin', huh Joe?" Danny yells over the music, and Joe looks up from his game.

"Daniel Messer!" He stands up, gives Danny a hug. "Holy hell, boy, I ain't heard from you in a coon's age!"

Danny smiles. "Joe, this is Don Flack," he introduces us. "There ain't a man in New York that Joe doesn't know-or owe."

"And you wonder why I cheat at poker?" he mutters to us, giving Danny a shove with an open hand. "What the hell do you think you're doin', bringin' a private dick in here?" he queries over the screaming saxophone in the background.

"'Cause I need to know if you know a guy!" I yell back at him.

"I know lotsa guys," Joe counters.

"This one looks a lot like Danny," I tell him, and Danny casually makes a rude gesture in my direction. "Brown hair. He's got a scar on his cheek."

Joe thinks for a moment. "Might be Dean Truby," he offers. "Dean's got a decent scar on his right cheek from an altercation with a beer bottle here at Smoky Joe's."

"Lemme guess…you lost a hand to him?"

Joe just chuckles. "Know where we can find Truby?" Danny asks him.

"He used to live up by the old Pepsi-Cola bottling plant," Joe replies. "Ain't seen him in a while-not since he cut himself on my beer bottle."

"Thanks, man," Danny says, handing Joe a twenty-dollar bill. Joe pockets it smoothly. We turn to go, but then I have another thought. "Hey Joe, you heard of anything big goin' down in the city?"

Joe shuffles the deck of cards as he replies, "You'll have to be a bit more specific, Flack." The table chuckles.

"Anything," I tell him. "Maybe something involving a big payout. Anybody been in here braggin' about a new job?"

Joe starts dealing. "You know, now I think about it, there were a few boys in here a couple nights ago talkin' about some big job they was hired for. Dunno what it was, but it sounded like the payout was gonna be a lotta clams."

"No idea at all who put the word out?"

Joe picks up his hand. He's got crap for cards, but somehow I just know he'll end up with the whole pot again. "No idea. Sorry fella." He turns to the table. "All right boys, let's begin."

It's clear he's finished talking to us. Danny and I head back outside. "Ain't that just typical of a gangster," Danny says. "Somethin' big is goin' down, but as usual, nobody knows a damn thing."

"Curse your mobster code of ethics."

"Yeah speaking of cursing…I oughta get back to my fiancé, or there'll be a lot of that tonight."

"Hell hath no fury," I say. "All right, get in the car."

"Hey Flack, what were you askin' him all them questions for?" Danny asks me as we drive back across the bridge.

I fill him in on the Bedford case. "I got a few feelers left in the city," Danny says after a moment. "If you want I can put 'em out."

"Thanks man, but all I got to go on right now is a cigarette, an ash tray, and a knockout of a widow who swears it was murder."

"And a spoiled dandy in a million dollar tie," he adds, and I laugh. "Yeah, that too."

I drop Danny off at the hotel he and Lindsay are staying at and warn him to look respectable, or the hotel staff'll think he's tryin' to rob the place. Then I head back to the office. I'll start the search for Dean Truby in the morning.

"Take care of yourself, kid. These are some mean streets these days."

"Always do."

The scene always changes from that one happy moment, with him smiling that smart ass grin of his, to him lyin' lifeless on a dirty dock on the river, shivering even though it's eighty degrees on the water, all the color draining from his face.

Except this time….he's lookin' right at me. "You did this to me, Flack. Why'd ya have to go and do this to me?"

It's not the first night that he's given me that pitiful look, that sad smile. "I-I didn't, kid, I never wanted-"

He bolts upright, and there's fury in those normally smiling eyes. "It's your fault, Flack. I'm dead, and it's all 'cause of you! I shoulda picked a better hero!" One pale hand reaches for my throat-

I bolt upright in my office chair at the sound of a ringing phone. Stella's not in yet, and the clock on the wall says six AM. Way too damned early. I can still feel Adam Ross's hand around my throat as I almost knock my ash tray off the desk reaching for my phone. "Yeah, Flack," I answer the phone, taking slow breaths to try to calm down.

"Flack, it's Mac Taylor. I need you to meet me up at the Central Park Zoo."

"it's too damned early to be lookin' at lions and tigers and bears with you," I grouse, fumbling for a cigarette.

"Ten minutes Flack. Get your ass up here. There' s somethin' you need to see."

He hangs up and I slam the phone down. I find a match and light my cigarette, taking a few puffs, but the smoke doesn't erase Adam Ross's accusing eyes from my mind. It's that last line that always gets me. "I shoulda picked a better hero." It always gets me...'cause it's true.