The Fury (2009)

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The Fury (2009) Page 10

by Jason - Henry Parker 04 Pinter


  table. The other seat was unoccupied. He was studying

  the board, perhaps planning out moves in his head. I

  crouched down at the other side of his table, cleared my

  throat awkwardly.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Have a seat, young man,” he said, his mouth

  breaking into a smile. He reached into his briefcase and

  pulled out a cloth containing numerous chess pieces.

  “Pick your poison. Speed chess? I’ve got a killer Danish

  Gambit, so hold on to your hat.”

  “I’m not looking for a game,” I said somewhat apolo­

  getically. “I was wondering if you might have seen this

  man before.”

  He looked at the picture, a blank expression on his

  face. He said he’d never seen Gaines, and I believed

  him.

  I spent the rest of the day questioning every person

  I could find in the park, until by the end people started

  to recognize me as having pestered half the lot and they

  began to move away before I even approached them.

  One couple I asked twice within half an hour.

  Nobody had seen Gaines. Nobody had noticed him.

  He was a ghost in his own neighborhood. Or at least to

  these people.

  When people asked what I was looking for, I

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  mumbled something about him having gone missing. If

  they knew I was looking into a murder, they’d clam up

  faster than a vegetarian at a barbecue.

  The sun began to set. So far my efforts had yielded

  nothing. I took a seat on a park bench. Desperation had

  come and gone, and I was left holding a crumpled photo

  of a man I barely knew, who’d lived a life seemingly

  nobody had known. Several days ago none of this

  mattered. Work was good. My relationship seemed to

  finally be on stable ground. And now here I was, bother­

  ing strangers, hoping they might have happened, by some

  ludicrous hope, to have seen someone other than my

  father shoot a man in the back of the head. Or at least knew

  more about Stephen than I did which was next to nothing.

  I was searching for a needle in the East River, with

  no clue which way the current was flowing.

  I was about to give up, to try to think of a new angle

  to attack from, when a shadow fell over me. I looked

  up to see a young woman, late twenties or so, standing

  in front of me. She was reed thin, one arm dangling limp

  by her side while the other crossed her chest, holding

  the opposite shoulder. Her hair was red and black,

  mascara haphazardly applied. Perhaps twenty pounds

  ago she’d been attractive, but now she was a walking,

  painted skeleton. She was wearing a long-sleeved

  sweater, but the fabric was dangling off her limbs. It

  allowed me to see the bruising underneath. The purplish

  marks on her skin immediately caught my attention. My

  pulse sped up. Her lip trembled. I didn’t have to show

  her the newspaper clipping. I knew what she was going

  to say even before she opened her mouth.

  “I knew Stephen.”

  13

  A cup of steaming tea was set in front of me. It smelled

  like mint. She offered me milk, which I politely

  declined. I watched her sit down, a cup of the same at

  her lips. She’d poured both from the same kettle, so I

  didn’t have to worry about being poisoned. I began to

  think about how much more paranoid I’d become over

  the years.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Don’t mention it. I brew three pots a day.”

  I nodded, took a look around.

  This woman, Rose Keller, had taken me up to her

  apartment after I told her who I was and what I was

  doing. She seemed apprehensive, but once convinced of

  my authenticity she was more than happy to help.

  She lived in a studio apartment at the top of a fourstory walk-up on Avenue B and Twelfth Street. The

  floor was covered with gum wrappers, the walls deco­

  rated with posters of vintage album covers and artsy

  photographs, usually of frighteningly skinny women

  shaded in odd pastel light. The room smelled like patch­

  ouli and cinnamon. Our tea rested on what appeared to

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  be an antique trunk, covered in customs stickers from

  every corner of the earth. Portugal, Greenland, Syndey,

  Prague, the Sudan. This woman didn’t look like she

  traveled much. Odds were she’d bought the pieces,

  stickers already applied.

  The bed was unmade, and I noticed a large box

  sticking out from underneath. She saw me looking at it,

  said, “Clothes. I keep meaning to donate them.”

  She was lying, but I wasn’t here to judge.

  “So how did you know Stephen?” I asked.

  “We used to…” She looked away from me. Then she

  pulled a lighter from her sock, took a bent cigarette

  from a drawer. “You mind if I smoke?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  She took out a glass ashtray and set it on the table.

  It was crusted with old butts and ash. Flicking the

  lighter, she lit the cig and took a long puff, holding it

  aloft between two fingers.

  “We used to get high together,” she said.

  “Used to?” I asked.

  “I met him when I moved to the city eight years ago.

  Wanted to be on Broadway, you know? All that kicking

  and dancing. I was voted ‘most likely to succeed’in high

  school. Starred in all the drama shit. Figured I’d come

  here and show those Rockette girls how things are really

  done.”

  “And then?”

  “It’s a tough gig,” she said like a woman who’d given

  up the dream long ago and had come to peace with it.

  “Too tall. Too fat. Too short. Nose too big. Tits too small.

  There’s always an excuse. So I started waitressing in

  Midtown, cool little Irish pub. Some of the actors used

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  to go there for a drink after the shows. Then I’d come

  back here, get high and crash. That’s how I met

  Stephen.”

  “How exactly did you meet him?”

  “Funny story,” she said, taking another long drag. “I

  used to call this guy named Vinnie when my stash

  needed re-upping. Well, his name wasn’t actually

  Vinnie. It was kind of a global pseudonym that all the

  runners used, they’d all call themselves Vinnie. There

  were probably a dozen different Vinnies working at any

  given time, covering different parts of the city. So one

  day I’m outside on the stoop waiting, and another guy

  kind of ambles up and just stands around. I can tell from

  the way he’s walking, kind of looking at the street, side

  to side, he was definitely a user. So I said hi. He said hi

  back. Vinnie rolls up half an hour later, this greaser

  wearing a hat turned sideways, couldn’t have been a day

  over fifteen, and fills us both up. And since it’s always

  more fun to see those bright lights with company, we

  went back to his place.”

>   Rose’s eyes flickered to the walls, then back to the

  table. There was sorrow and pain in her eyes that hadn’t

  been there a minute ago. She was trying to stay cool,

  but I could tell she’d cared about Stephen.

  “It was kind of funny, because Stephen and Vinnie

  had this little, I don’t know, chat. Friendly, like two

  buds. I figured Stephen had used this guy before. You

  know how sometimes you order pizza so often, the

  delivery guy kind of becomes your pal? At first it’s all

  tips and friendly hi’s but then you’re talking about the

  weather. One pizza guy actually asked me out once.

  That’s when I knew I needed to learn how to cook.”

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  “How long did you know Stephen?” I asked.

  Rose sniffed, tapped out her cigarette until it stopped

  smoking. Then she placed it in the ashtray amidst a

  graveyard of used butts. She stared at them for a

  moment, like a woman who’d been trying for years to

  quit and realized just how addicted she was.

  “Just about seven years.”

  “Were you two close?”

  “Depends on when you mean,” she said. Her voice

  had become a little more abrasive. She had feelings for

  Stephen, but there had been some bad times, too. I

  imagined that when two junkies got together it wasn’t

  exactly Ozzie and Harriet. If a relationship between

  two such people could be thought of as “tumultuous,”

  it was probably the best one could hope for. I’d had

  enough relationships that were able to find trouble on

  their own without the uncertainty caused by stimulants

  and hallucinogenic substances.

  “Did you date?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t get

  offended at my prying.

  “Again,” she said bitterly, “depends on when you’re

  talking about.”

  “Were you seeing each other when Stephen got

  killed?”

  “Hell, no,” she said irritably. “See, thing is, after a

  while you get tired of the life. It’s one thing to be irre­

  sponsible and screwing around in your twenties. I mean,

  everyone does it. Most folks don’t settle down by

  twenty-five and spend time worrying about a mortgage

  and a 401k. I didn’t, and neither did Stephen. But then

  you hit thirty, and you’re still renting a studio smaller

  than a shoe box, and guys like Vinnie stay the same age

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  because whoever the dude is who supplies them just

  keeps hiring high-school kids. Funny. I must have had

  half a dozen dealers all named Vinnie, all under the age

  of twenty-one. You know how stupid you feel when

  you’re thirty and some kid is selling to you, and you

  know he’s still in high school and probably makes more

  money than you?”

  “So you were looking to go clean,” I said.

  “Have been for a year now,” Rose said. She stood up,

  picked up the ashtray and brought it into the kitchen

  where she tapped out the contents into a trash bin. She

  came back, put the tray back into a drawer like it had

  never been taken out. “Trying, at least. The hooks are

  a lot easier to dig in than they are to pull out.”

  “What about Stephen?”

  Rose sighed, leaned back in her chair. A wistfulness

  crossed her face. “I thought he was trying to quit. He

  seemed like he was. See, I never really thought Stephen

  had that serious a problem. Just recreational crap. I mean,

  everyone smokes a bit. Shoots up a bit. It’s all about

  keeping it under control. I did that, and then I quit. Stephen

  never quit. And in case you haven’t noticed, addicts never

  stay even keel. They either get better or they get worse.”

  “And Stephen got worse.”

  “Like cancer,” she said.

  I looked again at the skin under Rose’s shirt. I could

  see the bruises weren’t track lines, but destroyed veins.

  Dark blues and black, yellow skin surrounding them.

  Perhaps even an infection gone untreated. Whether drug

  addiction started off as a disease I didn’t know, but sure

  as hell once those hooks dug in, the virus swam around

  in your system until it ate you from the inside.

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  “What do you do for a living, Rose? I mean, all those

  drugs couldn’t be cheap.”

  “Graphic designer,” she said proudly. “I make eighty

  grand a year.”

  She noticed how impressed I was.

  “And your employer, they…”

  “Never knew a thing. Been working for a television

  studio doing Web site design for six years. They figure

  the geeks are wired differently than everyone else, and

  that we were all born in the same freaky nursery. So you

  come in with your hair messed up smelling like stale

  cigarettes and beer, they figure you were up late

  ‘hacking.’ Most people can’t differentiate between a

  designer and a programmer. As long as you know html,

  you’re golden. As if they even knew what the letters

  stand for.”

  “Stephen,” I said. “What did he do?”

  The moment I said it I felt a sadness. The more I

  learned about Stephen Gaines the closer I got to him.

  The more I despised having never known this man at

  all.

  “I know he tried to write for a while. He wanted to

  do culture reporting, trend pieces…” Rose’s voice

  trailed off.

  “Did he get any published?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not sure he ever really tried. He

  just talked about it.”

  “So how did he make a living?”

  “You know,” she said, furrowing her brow, “I’m not

  really sure. But at some point he stopped talking about

  writing altogether. The drugs got a hold of him worse

  than ever. It was all he could do to get up in the morning,

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  and he looked like death when he did. I barely saw him

  after that.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” I asked.

  “A week ago,” Rose said. She sighed again, but this

  time a sob cracked the noise. Her eyes began to water.

  As hard as this was for me, I didn’t know Stephen at

  all. This woman had lost a loved one. A lover.

  “He said he was going to get clean,” she said, the

  cracks in her voice becoming more evident. “He

  promised me. He said he was going to get help. Rehab.

  We spoke on the phone. He swore on his mother. Then

  he stopped returning my calls.”

  Rehab, I thought. My father said Helen Gaines was

  looking for money to help Stephen get help. That part

  sounded like it was true. But unfortunately all it did in

  the eyes of a prosecutor was likely bolster my father’s

  motive in Stephen’s murder.

  “Did you know Helen at all?” I asked.

  Rose nodded. “They lived together. She was dirt

  poor, and Stephen seemed to make enough money to

  pay rent and keep food on the table. I met her maybe

/>   half a dozen times. Kind of quiet, like she was scared

  of life. Made good coffee, but never drank it with you,

  if you get my meaning.”

  “I got it,” I said. “You wouldn’t by any chance

  happen to have her contact information, would you?”

  “I don’t have a phone number or e-mail or anything

  like that. But when Stephen used to write, he’d always

  go to this cabin in the Adirondacks up by Blue

  Mountain Lake. I think Helen’s parents left it to her or

  something. He went up there to work, and Helen usually

  went with him. She was quiet enough, and it’s not like

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  she had anyone else. Not exactly the kind of woman

  who liked to be alone.”

  The Adirondacks were about a four-and-a-half-hour

  drive northwest of the city. I’d never been up there, but

  knew it was a popular spot for camping, hiking and just

  getting away from the world for a while.

  Something a mother might do if her only son was

  murdered.

  “Rose,” I said, “would you mind giving me that

  address?”

  14

  We finished the car rental paperwork by noon, then

  loaded the vehicle up with coffee, snacks and Amanda’s

  iPod. I fought the good fight to bring mine, but lost

  despite a valiant effort. To be honest, it wasn’t much of

  a fight since I learned early in our relationship that

  when it came to playing music, Amanda had the one and

  only vote. The only thing I could do was learn to love

  Fleetwood Mac and early Britney Spears. Though I did

  worry that listening to “Rumors” right after “Oops!…

  I Did It Again” might cause my head to distend like

  when you poured cold water on hot metal.

  It was Saturday. Hopefully we wouldn’t hit much

  traffic, the rest of the city either sleeping off hangovers

  or snacking on fried dough with powdered sugar at a

  street fair.

  Luckily the car had an iPod dock built in. Amanda

  hooked it up and began scrolling through songs. I

  started the engine and pulled into traffic and headed

  toward the George Washington Bridge.

  “You know, isn’t there some kind of rule stating that

  whoever drives gets to choose the music?”

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  “I think that law was considered outdated in the

  1970s. Now the female in the car gets to choose the

  tunes.”

  “What if there’s more than one woman in the car?”

  I asked.

  “Then it goes to the most dominant female,” she said

 

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