Parker 04 - The Fury (25 page)

"Don't even start. I need to get some action, so don't

look at this as a favor from me to you, but an excuse for

me to get back on the horse."

"Then giddyup, cowboy," I said.

"You know damn well there were no black cowboys,

and no, I don't count Mel Brooks movies."

"Actually I think there were," I said. "I know a little

about the Old West."

"You being cute with me?" Curt said.

He stood up. We'd finished just one beer, but I could

tell he was motivated. And since his motivation might

answer a few questions, who was I to stop him?

"Keep your cell on, I'll give you a call tonight," he

said. We shook hands and gave an awkward fist-bump

man hug that I always felt silly doing but practiced

nonetheless.

We both left the club, Curt hailing a taxi while I

headed toward the subway. I hadn't known Curt to

spend money on cabs too often, he preferred to walk or

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209

use public transportation. That he was willing to spring

for a cab meant his leg was bothering him enough to

forgo the walk to the bus stop.

I arrived home a little past nine. Amanda greeted me

with a hug and a kiss and a plate of cold spaghetti. She

was wearing an oversize gray sweatshirt and a pair of

light blue boxer shorts, and looked absolutely adorable.

Even the rumples of the sweatshirt couldn't hide the

body beneath, and I made sure to squeeze her extra

tight during our hug.

Changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I sat down at the

table and dug into the food. She'd sprinkled a light

sheet of parmesan over the tomato sauce.

"I can warm that up for you," she said.

"It's actually good like this," I said. "I ran some track

back in high school and always ate cold pasta before

meets. It always tastes better cold than reheated."

I proved this by shoveling another forkful in my

mouth and grinning.

As I finished the meal, I couldn't help but think about

how just yesterday a briefcase full of drugs had

occupied the tabletop. Now the owner was dead, and it

frightened me to think that whoever Hector Guardado

was working for, his life was expendable compared to

the contents of the briefcase.

And I wondered, again, why my brother's name was

in a dead drug dealer's cell phone. And why Hector

Guardado had called him once and only once, the night

Stephen was murdered.

And as I sat there chewing and thinking, my cell

phone rang.

Rummaging through the pile of laundry on the floor,

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Jason Pinter

I pulled the phone from my pocket, clicked Send. I rec

ognized the prefix as coming from Curt's precinct.

"This is Henry," I said.

"It's Curt."

"You find anything?" I said, beginning to feel that

familiar rush of apprehension and excitement. Then I

remembered what I'd told Wallace, promising that my

mind was still with the paper. I had to think about all

this information both as a son and a reporter.

"You could say that. Now I know why the name 718

Enterprises sounded familiar. You sitting down?" he

said.

"Yes," I lied.

"Your boys Gaines and Guardado, they're not the

only ones."

"What do you mean?"

"Five bodies, Henry. Christ, what have you gotten

into."

I stood there, listened, feeling dread pour through

me.

Curt continued, saying, "Five young men murdered,

the coroner's reports all suggesting the use of a silenced

pistol. All gunshots from close range, all executionstyle. Assumed that the victims knew their killers. So

if that's true, these guys were all killed just like Stephen

Gaines. Which means all five people were somehow

connected to this 718 Enterprises. And all of them killed

in the past three months. It's not just Gaines and

Guardado, man. Somebody is systematically taking out

everyone who works for that organization."

25

When I was finally able to wrap my head around what

Curt had just told me, I sent an e-mail off to Wallace

Langston informing him of our conversation and what

I'd learned. There had to be some sort of story in what

Curt had told me, and I wanted to let Wallace know my

mind was still sharp, I was still committed to the

Gazette,
and that at some point I'd have a hell of a pageone exclusive for him.

As always Wallace showed excitement for the pos

sibility of the story, but again expressed concern that I

was too often finding myself in situations where uncov

ering a story would put myself or others in harm's way.

The fact was I'd never been to Iraq, never reported on

a war from the trenches, so neither he nor I could state

that any danger I found myself in could compare. Bad

things happened to find me. So be it. If I was still re

porting about cute kittens and big ugly metal spiders--

I mean,
works of art
--I would have impaled myself on

a number-two pencil by now.

And as much as it energized me to think of this as a

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Jason Pinter

story, I knew it helped distract from the apprehension I

had over finding the truth.

Five young men murdered, all with connections to

718 Enterprises. I had no idea what the company did,

but the name and address were clearly a front for some

thing. And somehow, after Helen Gaines brought him

to New York, my brother had begun to work for them.

If only he were alive today. If only I'd waited on that

street corner. If only I'd heard what he had to say.

According to Curt, when the dead mens' bodies were

investigated, a phone number attributed to 718 Enter

prises was found on their call lists. When dialed, the

numbers led nowhere, and in fact each man's cell had

a different number credited to 718. This cemented my

feeling that Stephen Gaines's murder was one part of

something much bigger, much broader, and that not

only did my father's freedom and his son's killer hang

in the balance, but potentially much more.

Amanda was asleep. Nights like this I would often

find myself sitting on the couch in our living room. No

music playing, no television. No noise at all beyond

what the city offered.

It took a few minutes to realize it, but it began to

dawn on me just how strange my world had become.

Nearly ten years ago I'd left the confines of Bend,

Oregon. In part because my ambition drew me to more

crowded, deeper waters. I was tired of living in what I

felt was a small world, confined to a small house made

even smaller still by the discomfort of being around my

parents. I longed for adventure, mystery.

I wanted to make a name for myself, and thought

nowhere better to do that than in the city that never sleeps.

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213

Now, however, I found myself glad for any quiet

that nighttime offered. The fact that my windows

weren't soundproof and I could hear car horns and

alarms all hours of the night only made the feelings

more intense. On those rare nights when I could hear

nothing but the hum of my air conditioner, night as I

knew it reminded me of those old days in Bend. Those

quiet nights I lay restless in my bed, longing for noise

that proved I was somewhere, had
become
someone.

Having been on the front page, having people know my

name and my face, it was everything I wanted but

nothing I'd expected.

Not for the first time I wondered if perhaps I'd be

happier elsewhere, if Amanda and I lived in a place

where I could report in a town where the media wasn't

the focus of the media itself, where good work could

be done out of the spotlight.

Where nobody else would get hurt.

News was in my blood. Had been for a long time. But

was this what I wanted, what I'd dreamed of? At first it

had been. That first day at the
Gazette,
seeing Jack

O'Donnell at his desk, the first time I read my own

byline, each of these was one of
those moments
in your

life that you remember for years. What was happening

now, though, I didn't want to remember. But if my father

was going to survive, and if Stephen Gaines's killer was

going to be brought to justice, I sure as hell couldn't

forget.

It was only a few days before my father went in front

of a grand jury. That jury would more than likely indict

him for the murder of his own estranged son. No doubt

once that judgment was passed along, my father would

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Jason Pinter

go through the same ringer I did when I was wrongly

accused of the crime. Only for him, he would be incar

cerated, a slab of meat lying in a cage for the wolves to

pick at whenever they chose. Even though I escaped

with a pierced lung, my ordeal never made it to court.

I had to get my father out before that took place.

There was one person who had knowledge of 718

Enterprises. One person who likely knew both Hector

Guardado and my brother. One person I knew enough

about to make him listen.

I had to wait about eighteen hours before I could

confront him.

It was going to be a long day.

I sat on the front stoop sipping from a cup of coffee,

one of those great, old-fashioned cups that were made

of cardboard and had cute little illustrations of mugs

with wings on the side. Coffee cups these days seemed

to be tall, sleek models that looked more like tubes of

enriched uranium than something you drank to wake up

in the morning. The deli I got this from had no logo, no

branding, and the bag they gave it to me in had one of

those cheerful INY slogans on the side. Those were

the bags you gave out when you didn't have a Web site,

and didn't have spontaneous MP3 downloading capa

bility.

There was no definitive time when he'd be home. I'd

arrived at 7:00 p.m. on the chance it was an early day.

So far it had not been. Around eight-thirty I went for a

quick walk up and down the block to keep my blood

flowing, and to make sure people in the neighborhood

didn't get suspicious.

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215

Finally at eight-thirty, just as I was beginning to feel

the need to pee, I saw him walking down the street.

He carried the briefcase lightly. It was clearly empty.

As he got closer I could see that his suit was

wrinkled, stained through with the sweat from a day

spent going house to house, subway to subway.

When he got close enough to the point where he

could see me, I stepped out onto the sidewalk. Right in

front of him. He was bigger than I remembered, and the

ill-fitting suit didn't fully stretch enough to hide the

muscles in his arms. The shock of black hair that had

surely been neatly combed that morning now sat askew

on his head, beads of sweat traveling down his forehead

and nestling in the collar of his formerly white oxford

shirt. The man stopped for a moment, eyed me curi

ously, defensive, as though he half-expected me to take

a random swing at him.

"Scott Callahan?" I said.

"The hell are you?" Scotty replied, taking a step

back.

"My name is Henry Parker," I said. "And you're

going to want to talk to me."

Scotty walked in front of me the whole way, like a

prisoner heading toward the electric chair, knowing

there was no chance of reprieve. On the street, Scotty

had told me to go to hell. I responded by telling him ev

erything I knew, how I'd followed him the other day.

How I'd observed him going into each of those houses,

how I knew he was selling drugs.

I had to leave out my stealing Hector Guardado's

briefcase. He didn't need to know I was so close. I

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Jason Pinter

wanted to have leverage on Scotty, but put too much

weight on a person and rather than talk they'll simply

buckle. If Scotty thought I knew so much to the point

where I could incriminate both him and 718 Enter

prises, he'd feel no reason to talk to me. He needed to

feel there was a way out. If there was a chance at

survival, there was a chance to talk his way out of it.

I told him my name, my job. That he could end up

on the front page of the
Gazette
tomorrow. Naturally I

didn't tell him this was a personal investigation, but

chances were Scotty Callahan would not be the kind of

guy who'd consider filing a suit for libel.

We went into a 24-hour coffee shop, somewhere

quiet where we wouldn't be disturbed and didn't have

to worry about being kicked out. Scotty walked with his

head down, and for a moment I felt sorry for the guy.

He was still in his rumpled suit, still carrying the same

briefcase. As he walked, the case flopped against his

side like a fish running out of air.

I led him to the back of the restaurant, where we took