Parker 04 - The Fury (16 page)

"When you left," I asked, "was it one act that drove

you away, or did the camel's back suddenly give out?"

"A little of both," Sheryl said. We turned right on

Madison, began to walk uptown, my legs growing sore

with the exertion. I was in good shape, but Sheryl

Harrison looked like she was ready to compete in the

Olympics. "But if there was one thing that I could point

to that destroyed my relationship with my mother," she

continued, "it was the drugs."

I stopped for a moment. Sheryl did not stop with me,

so I had to jog back to keep pace.

"Drugs?" I said, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Well, when I left it was still the crack," Sheryl said

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with the blank expression of a clinical diagnosis. "I'm

sure there were a few other things mixed in there--

meth, weed--but it was the crack that burned her

humanity from the inside out."

"She did this while she raised you," I said.

"I don't think she was as heavily into it while I was

a child, but by the time I got to high school it was like

coming home to a woman who'd turned into a funhouse mirror."

"Jesus," I said.

"I don't think Jesus smoked crack," Sheryl said. For

the first time, I heard a lightness in her voice, as though

she was amusing herself. "And all those people who

call you late at night to ask if God has a plan? I tell them

God didn't have a damn thing for me. He gave me a

treasure map to a pile of dog shit, and I had to clean up

after it myself. Finally I got tired and moved on."

"How long did your mother do drugs?" I asked. "Was

it something she picked up?" I felt slightly off kilter

with this line of questioning. Growing up, I'd experi

enced many forms of addiction of personal evils, both

in my family, my relationships and my friends. I'd lived

through Jack O'Donnell's alcoholism. I'd seen first

hand what external poisons could do to a person inter

nally. One thing I'd never been exposed to on a personal

level was a habitual drug user. Yet both of us had left

family behind to free ourselves from their trappings.

"Let's see...how long did my mother use? My whole

life," Sheryl said. "You know you can pretty much make

your own crack pipe using household materials. My

dad died when I was a baby. One of my first memories

was seeing all these pretty flowers my mother, Beth,

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used to keep around the house. Pretty flowers inside this

metal tubing. One day I brought one to school, and I got

a belt across the back because of it. Turns out those

little roses you buy at any gas station are actually crack

pipes in disguise. You just take off the foil and remove

the rose, stuff about an inch of Brillo pad into the tubing.

That's your filter. Take a rock and put it on the Brillo

pad, then run a lighter over it, constantly rolling the

tube between your fingers to make sure the rock burns

easily. Some kids learn how to build sand castles, braid

hair, make macaroni necklaces. I learned how to build

a crack pipe."

"Do you know if your mother was still smoking it

when she died?"

"I'd be shocked as hell if she wasn't," Sheryl said.

"And I remember there were days when my mother

forget to pay her electric bills, and rather than own up,

she'd just go with Helen up to that cabin. Don't get me

wrong, Henry, in some way I loved my mother. But I

saw her death coming from miles away. It was only a

matter of time before her life ended, and ended badly.

But one thing I do know, that lovely Ms. Helen Gaines?

She was the biggest enabler my mother ever had."

The words struck me like a punch. Helen Gaines? I

knew Stephen had a habit, but Helen?

"Don't look so surprised," Sheryl said. "Based on

where they lived during that time, Alphabet City in the

'80s? Would've been a surprise if they didn't end up

addicts. I mean, I remember this WASPY-looking

young punk always coming by the house to drop off

whatever my mom had ordered. Remember his name

too, Vinnie."

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"Vinnie?" I said, the surprise in my voice evident.

Rose Keller had said that whenever she needed a new

supply she would call some delivery system where

they'd send over a guy named Vinnie. I had no idea how

many Vinnies there were, but it was clear this system

had been in place over a decade and was likely still in

business today. This wasn't just some petty drug deal,

but something much larger.

"Take that British singer, Amy Winehouse," Sheryl

said, "then multiply it by ten and that's how bad my

mother was. So my guess is this. If my mother was

killed while hiding out with Helen Gaines, I'd bet my

husband's Infiniti it's got something to do with drugs.

And Stephen Gaines must have crossed some damn un

pleasant people."

17

Rose Keller was home. This didn't quite surprise me--

most graphic designers worked freelance. So I figured

she wasn't the kind of person who woke up to an alarm

clock at six forty-five, got dressed and grabbed a tall

latte on the way to the office. When I called at eight in

the morning, it was no great shock that Rose Keller

sounded like a bear awoken from hibernation.

Actually, she kind of reminded me of what Amanda

sounded like before her first cup of coffee.

One thing I learned early on when talking to sources:

get them early, or get them late. During the day, everyone

was at work. There was always an excuse not to talk. I

hate to say this, but often a source would agree to talk

to you if only to prevent you from ever interrupting their

private time again. Probably the only time I would

compare my profession to that of the noble telemar

keter.

"I need a favor," I said to Rose. I put the statement

bluntly, accentuating the word
need.
Not want. Need.

And since she was close to Stephen, and aware that I

was tracking down his killer, she might be more apt to

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accept the rather large, not to mention illegal, favor I

was about to ask of her.

"What can I do?" she replied. Good start.

I filled her in on the details of Beth-Ann Downing's

murder, and the disappearance of Helen Gaines. I told

her about my conversation with Sheryl Harrison, and the

confession that her mother had maintained a ruthless

addiction her whole life. The silence on the other end told

me that Rose was well aware of why I was coming to her.

When I finished, I asked if I could fill her in in

person. She agreed, and I was on the next subway down

town to meet her.

Before turning on to Rose's block, I stopped at an

ATM and withdrew two hundred dollars. I had no idea

how much I'd actually need, but I figured better to have

more money and not need it than need more money and

not have it.

When I got to her building, I buzzed up and she rang

me through. She opened the door wearing a tank top and

pajama bottoms. Her eyes were weary, deep bags

settling under them like squished blueberries.

"Morning," I said.

"Is it morning already?" she asked.

I noticed the shades were all drawn, and there were

no clocks in sight. Half a dozen wrapped candy bars

were strewn around, as well as what looked like a

month's supply of Red Bull. It looked like the apartment

was stocked and prepared for a bout of hibernation.

"It's almost 9:00 a.m.," I said.

"Huh. Didn't realize it."

"Listen," I said. "I have a favor to ask of you. A big

one."

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"You said that already. What gives?"

"I need you to order something from Vinnie," I said.

"I want to know who he works for."

Rose sat back in her overstuffed leather couch. The

confident woman I'd just met looked like she'd just

been swallowed up whole.

"I've been clean for a long time," she said. "I've put

that behind me."

"I don't want you to use anything," I said, attempt

ing to clarify things but wondering if that mattered at

all. "All I need is for whoever's playing Vinnie this

week to come here so I can follow him."

"So why don't you call him yourself?"

"They won't know me," I said. "They'll trust you.

I'm willing to bet that whoever these Vinnies work for,

they keep a record of addresses, customers. The runners

might be idiots, but their bosses never are. I intend to

follow this guy, see where he goes, and I don't want to

chance being recognized. They know you."

Rose shook her head violently, as though shooing

away demons that were swirling around. A pang of

guilt thudded in my stomach, and I wondered if my onetrack mind in finding Stephen's killer could hurt others

as well. The last thing I wanted to do was encourage

Rose to relapse, but...I didn't know where else to turn.

And I needed to know where the stream started. Or at

least needed to find the next level.

"I'll do it," Rose said. "But I won't order anything

stronger than weed, and I won't pay for a cent of it."

"Fair enough," I said. "What's the smallest amount

you can order?"

"You don't want the smallest amount, trust me."

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"Why not?"

"They'll know my phone number. Let's just say back

in the day, I never ordered the smallest amount. Not to

mention I haven't ordered in a long time. If all of a

sudden I call up and ask for one tab of ecstasy, they

won't believe me. Somebody who comes back to the

stuff after such a long layoff, it's because they fell off the

wagon. Hard. We want to make the order sound realis

tic. You order a dime bag of schwag, he'll laugh in your

face and tell you it's not worth his time. And then he'll

never take my call again because he'll assume I'm

turning on him. Cops on stakeouts are cheap. You want

a real delivery, an ounce of decent weed will probably

run you a hundred fifty or so, though I've been out of the

game for a while so, you know, inflation and everything."

"Really? Inflation affects drug sales?"

"We live in the United States, don't we? You think

people will pay more than four bucks for a gallon of gas

but won't pony up a Ben Franklin to get high with their

friends?A gallon lasts until the next exit.A good high will

give you stories that'll last for years--if you can remember

it. I'd go with this--order a quarter ounce of mids. Decent

enough stuff, probably run seventy-five bucks. Enough so

it's worth the trip for them, but it won't put a big crimp in

your discretionary fund. That work, champ?"

"Whatever you say. You call and order. When Vinnie

buzzes up, just send a text message to my cell phone. I

won't respond, but that's the signal that it's the right

guy. Then send me one more when he leaves, just to be

sure." I took out my wallet, peeled off two hundred

dollars and handed it to Rose. "In case it's more than

you expect. Or you need to, like, tip him."

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"Tip the drug dealer," she said, laughing. "Right.

I'm sure he'll take it back to the Dairy Queen and divide

it up among his colleagues. What are you, some kind

of nitwit? Didn't you smoke in college?"

"Once or twice," I said, "but I don't think anyone

ever trusted me to handle the business transactions. I

just assumed you tip people in the service industry."

"All right," Rose said. "But after this, no more favors.

I told you everything I know and then some, and now

you have me risking my sobriety for you."

"It's not for me," I said. "It's for Stephen."

"Are you sure?" Rose asked, one eyebrow arched.

"'Cause I've been around a lot of users before, every

kind of drug you can imagine. I've seen too many

friends die because of the pipe or needle. But not every

addict smokes or drinks or inhales. A lot of them get off

on other things. I see a little bit of that in you, Henry.

You're a bit of an addict, too."

I didn't know how to reply to this, but something

about it didn't feel good. Rather than respond, I simply

thanked Rose for helping, and went outside.

I was still thinking about what she'd said when I

found a park bench to sit on that afforded me a full view

of her building's entrance.

Addict. I repeated the word to myself. It was a cool,

sunny day, and if I weren't tracking a drug dealer I

could envision myself sitting here with Amanda,

watching the families play. Young children growing up

in a city that seemed to offer them brief pockets of

respite, small guarded sanctuaries in between the play

grounds for millionaires.

Addict.

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It was an ugly word, one I never associated with