Parker 05 - The Darkness (25 page)

"You'd be a pretty widow," I said. Jack ignored me.

"If I was a grieving widow, I'd sure as hell want to find

the bastards who killed my husband."

"Isn't that the job of the NYPD?"

"Yeah. And they did a real bang-up job investigating your brother's death. Since Stephen Gaines is connected to 718--per your estimation--I have a funny

feeling the NYPD might be taking this whole thing a

little lightly."

"Why would they do that?" I said.

"Easy," Jack said. "For whatever reason, somebody

over there thinks it's in their best interests to let this story

slide. And that's where we come in, little buddy."

"Okay, Gramps. Let's see if we can get in touch with

Mrs. Kaiser."

Jack stood up. I noticed a bulge in his pants pocket.

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"What the hell do you have in there?" I asked, slightly

worried and a little grossed out at the same time.

"This? Just a soda." He took the can out of his pocket.

"You walk around carrying soda cans in your pants."

"Just in the office. Need a little sugar rush from

time to time."

I acted as though that made perfect sense.

"How's the...are you still on the wagon?" I asked. I

wasn't sure how Jack would take my asking. He could

have been offended, he could have told me it was none of

my business, and I wasn't sure if it was. But as long as I

was working with him, as long as I was trusting him, I

needed to know he was all there.

That wasn't the only reason of course. If I found out Jack

was back on the sauce, to be honest it would have devastated me. I needed to see Jack the way he'd been during his

prime. Even if he'd lost a few miles off his fastball, I needed

to see the Jack O'Donnell who'd earned the reputation of

being one of the best newsmen in the city's history. Though

I wasn't sure if I needed it more for Jack's sake, or for mine.

"Two months," Jack said. There was sincerity on his

face, and it made me breathe easier.

"I'm glad to hear that, I..."

"It's not easy," Jack said. "I'm not going to lie to you,

Henry. You do something every day for almost fifty years,

it's not like a switch you can just turn off. It's almost a

part of you. And when you don't do it--drink, I mean--

it's like there's a space that needs to be filled."

"Hence the soda," I said.

"Sometimes the space is literal," he said, patting his

stomach. "Not the exact same, but it helps."

"Like a nicotine patch."

"Kind of like that, only that doesn't rot your teeth."

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"If you need any help," I said, "physical, emotional..."

"Sexual?" Jack grinned at me.

"I'm not into necrophilia, old man."

This time Jack closed his eyes when he laughed.

"Come on, Parker, let's go. Victoria Kaiser is probably

being held by the cops for questioning and protection. I have

a man at One Police Plaza who can put us in touch with her."

"Sounds like a plan," I said. "I'll meet you outside. Just

gotta make a quick call."

"To who?" Jack asked.

"Amanda," I lied.

"What about?"

"We're planning a vacation. Just wanted to see if she

booked it yet."

"That's nice. You could use a little time away. I'll be

waiting in the lobby. Don't take so long that I'll need

to sit down."

"I'll be right there."

Jack left. When I saw him enter the elevator vestibule,

and the doors closed on him, I picked up my phone. I took

out my cell phone, scrolled down to the number I'd just

recently entered and filed under Ray's Pizza. Didn't need

anyone knowing the truth right now.

I dialed the number, and chewed a fingernail as it rang.

Finally a voice answered.

"I recognize the prefix," Paulina Cole said. "There had

better be a reason somebody's calling me from the
Gazette.
"

"It's Henry Parker," I said.

"Oh. Parker. What do you want?"

"What do I want? The article you wrote today,

what's the deal?"

"I don't know what you mean," she said, defiance and

annoyance battling for supremacy in her voice.

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"The cops don't have any idea what you're talking

about. And nobody has seen this drug. Not to mention you

didn't even mention it when we spoke."

"What, I ask a favor of you and suddenly I need to tell

you everything I'm working on?"

"No, but I..."

"I told you there was a quid pro quo."

"Wait...the guy who threatened your daughter...did

he make you write that story?" I waited for Paulina to

answer. "Hello? You still there?"

"I told you there was a quid pro quo," Paulina said.

"That's all you need to know. Goodbye, Parker. Thanks

again."

She hung up.

I sat there, shaking.

Paulina Cole was no pushover. I'd believed her when

we spoke, but for her to do this kind of favor, to write

a story that might have had no factual basis, it went

beyond morally wrong into ethically wrong. Paulina

was a good reporter; too good sometimes. She might

have had a nose for the tabloidy, for the melodramatic,

but she almost never got her facts wrong. So why the

heck would somebody want her to print that? Why

invent a drug if it didn't exist? Why falsely quote a cop

if the story was grounded in a lie? For her to print this,

it either meant she'd fabricated a hell of a story with

somebody else's help...or that the story was true. And

whoever wanted the story written wanted it seen by

millions of people for a reason.

Did that blond guy who killed Brett Kaiser also blackmail Paulina Cole into writing that article? What the hell

did he have to do with this new drug? And if he had

something to do with it, no doubt Brett Kaiser did, too. I

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could only hope Victoria Kaiser could shed a little light

on this, because just like the drug, this story felt dangerous as hell and getting darker.

28

Morgan held the metal bar as the train sped uptown. He

was standing next to Theo Goggins, the two of them

carrying briefcases with enough narcotics to last Scarface

until the sequel.

Morgan admired Theo's suit, and his blue tie was bold

and bright.

"You were right about the tie," Morgan said. "It works."

"You think I'd lie about something as important as

that? I started off making cold calls. First time I got a fish

to bite on a stock, I was wearing a blue tie. First time I

closed an account--blue tie."

"First time you sold stuff that would get you jail time."

Theo smiled. "Blue tie. But I ain't never going to jail.

Only way I go to jail is if you rat on me, and I ain't never

going to give you cause to do that. So you make up a

story, it's your ass they find broken into itty-bitty pieces

floating in the East River."

"Same to you, my friend."

"See," Theo said, smiling, "we're going to get along

just fine."

Morgan's palms were sweaty. His legs shook from

time to time, as he waited for somebody to come up to

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him--maybe a cop or one of those transit workers--grab

him by the collar, rip open the briefcase spilling pills and

dope all over the dirty car floor.

But that didn't happen.

Nobody batted an eye at them.

It was about eight-thirty in the morning, and Morgan

and Theo were on their way to meet their first customer

of the day. Morgan wondered who ordered drugs along

with their morning cup of joe, but he figured there were

enough people in this city who either worked from home

or were unemployed that there was a 24/7 market for

their wares.

Theo was whistling something softly. Morgan couldn't

tell what it was, but he figured trying to guess would

keep his mind off the legal ramifications of being caught

with his goods.

Guessing the tune was impossible. First of all, Theo

didn't seem like a particularly good whistler. Instead

of a clean, high-pitched noise coming from his lips, it

was more like a low rattle punctuated by occasional

bursts of spit.

Theo paused to wipe his mouth, then he said to Morgan,

"You need something?" Morgan hadn't realized that he'd

likely been staring at his partner for nearly five minutes.

"Just wondered what you're whistling," he said.

"A little Jay-Z."

"Cool."

Theo resumed his "whistling." Morgan held the rails,

his mind beginning to wander.

"So what's your story?" Theo said, snapping Morgan out of it.

"My story?"

"Yeah. How'd you end up in the basement of some

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nightclub loading up on this stuff. Not exactly the kind

of job you find on Monster.com."

"I got laid off," Morgan said. "A few months ago."

"How much you owe?"

"Excuse me?"

"Come on," Theo said, smiling. "You wouldn't be

here if you didn't have debts pouring out your eyeballs.

So how much?"

"In total?"

"No, itemize it for me, asshole."

Morgan smiled back. He liked Theo.

"All in all? A little over nine hundred thousand."

Theo whistled. For whatever reason, this time the

sound came through clean.

"Let me guess, most of that tied up in your pad."

"Most of it. Still have almost a million on my mortgage."

"You try to sell it?"

"Yeah. No takers. What about you?"

"Same shit. Only I got laid off a year ago."

"How much do you owe?" Morgan asked.

"Three million."

"You're kidding me."

"Uh-uh," Theo said. "I bought up half a dozen properties in the city. Made the down payments, figured I could

rent them out, have other people pay my carrying costs

and then I'd just sell them down the road and make a

killing."

"Man, talk about bad timing."

"Yeah, tell me about it. My credit is shot. I couldn't

get a loan for a pack of gum right now."

"So who'd you know that got you in?" Morgan asked.

"My uncle," he said. "Used to use. Never dealt, but got

friendly with one of his dealers. I used to be a major

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pothead, and I started buying from his guy after my uncle

quit. Pretty soon I couldn't afford to buy, so my man

asked if I was going through tough times. I told him what

had happened, and he offered to make an introduction for

me. I'm not above this. To me, it's all the same whether

you're selling junk, real estate or stocks. In the end you're

giving something to somebody that they think will make

them happier. And whether it's financial, emotional or

chemical happiness, who the hell are we to judge? Are

the people who get strung out on dope any worse than

people like me who lose everything on some bad bets? I

figure if I can do something to get myself out of this

mess and make some coin, why not?"

"I know what you mean," Morgan said.

"I bet you do."

Theo and Morgan got off the train at Twenty-third and

Park and headed east. The Manhattan neighborhood of

Gramercy tended to be full of young professionals who

enjoyed the area's local bars (both dive and trendy).

Morgan used to come here often for the movie theater at

Kips Bay, and noticed that over the last few years the

population appeared to grow a little more affluent, likely

due to doctors working at Bellevue and small business

owners who moved into vacated storefronts.

They walked side by side, matching briefcases slung

over their shoulders. If anybody looked at them, it was

only because they might have been slightly jealous that

two younger guys had weathered the economic storm,

as that could be the only explanation for their attire and

accessories.

Morgan took out the cell phone from his coat pocket.

It was old, nearly an antique, and he was amazed that this

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piece of junk still even worked. Still, Leonard had given

it to them for a reason.

Right after they'd packed up their briefcases with

specific quantities of various drugs, Leonard had given

them each a cell phone. And this was how it worked.

Before they left the warehouse/club, they'd be given

an address. The address was of their first customer of

the day. The customer had called somebody, probably

some sort of switchboard at another location, and

placed an order. That order was relayed to one of the

courier teams, who were then dispatched to the

location. The customer would also have placed an order

and they were also quoted a price. Once arriving at the

location, Leonard said, they would make the transaction

with the customer.

Once leaving the customer's address, they would call

the number programmed in the cell phone as Home.

After confirming the deal, they would be sent a text

message with the address of their next transaction, as

well as the price quoted to the customer for whatever