The Fury (2009)

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The Fury (2009) Page 20

by Jason - Henry Parker 04 Pinter


  than I’d thought.

  Though his posture was perfect and he betrayed no

  sense of pain, there was still a slight limp evident in Curt’s

  walk. I remembered seeing him lying there in a pool of

  blood, holding back the pain, unwilling to let anything get

  over on him. It was as though he was disgusted at himself

  for showing weakness, taking the maxim “never let them

  see you bleed” quite literally. If he was limping at all, he

  was probably in more pain and discomfort than he let on.

  We shook hands, and Curt ordered a beer. The bar­

  tender poured it from the tap, eyeing Curt while letting

  the foam pour over, a thin smile on his thin lips. Once

  he’d set the glass down and moved away, I said to Curt,

  “Now batting for the other team…”

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  “Don’t even start, Henry.”

  “What? That’s a compliment. Any man who can

  attract players from both dugouts is doing something

  right. Besides, wearing that shirt, I wouldn’t be sur­

  prised if a few new dugouts spring up.”

  “You know, Parker, I don’t even know what the hell

  you’re talking about sometimes.” Curt sipped his beer.

  “How’s the leg?” I asked, slightly apprehensive. It

  would have been easier to ignore it, to pretend he’d

  never been shot and there was nothing holding him

  back. It would have been easier to sit here, drink and

  carry on, pretend he wasn’t limping.

  “It’s getting better,” he said. “Takes a while for the

  muscle strength to build up, since they had to slice

  through some muscle to repair the damage to the artery.”

  Just hearing this made me wince. “Does it hurt?”

  “When it’s cold out, yeah. Gets a little stiff on me.

  Plus, it’s a little numb by my toes, on account of them

  having to go through some nerves, too. Docs aren’t sure

  that’ll ever come back. Not a big deal, though.”

  I wanted to scream at him and ask how that could not

  be a big deal, but I supposed if you took a bullet in an

  artery and that was the worst-case scenario, you tended

  to think on the bright side of things.

  “Tell you one thing,” Curt continued, “I’m going to

  have to start wearing gloves, they got me filling out so

  many forms. Feel like I’m a supporting cast member

  on The Office or something. The black dude who

  stands in the corner with paper cuts on every finger.

  How’s Amanda?”

  “She’s doing well,” I said. “Been a huge help on

  this thing with my dad. Without her he’d probably

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  still be sitting in an Oregon prison claiming not to be

  James Parker.”

  “She’s a good one, my man. Glad you finally made

  amends for all that crap you pulled breaking up with

  her.”

  “It wasn’t like I was just breaking up with her,” I said,

  taking another pull on my drink. “I thought I was doing

  the right thing, being noble.”

  “Nobility isn’t about telling someone what you think

  is right for them. It’s doing the right thing, period.

  Girls’s a grown woman, she can make her own deci­

  sions. What you did was selfish, and it was to alleviate

  your own guilt over what happened to her and Mya. You

  felt like if you broke things off, you could feel as if you

  were protecting them. Just not so. I don’t claim to be

  Mr. Perfect Relationship, but there’s give-and-take.

  You’re with someone, you’re their partner. It was

  selfish, bro, own up to it.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “And trust me, I know

  I screwed up. And I’m atoning for it.”

  “How?”

  “For starters, I cook every Friday night.”

  “You a good cook?”

  “If by ‘good’ you mean she’s able to swallow one

  forkful without gagging, then yeah, I’m a good cook.”

  Curt sipped his drink, then shifted his weight, a small

  grimace spreading over his face. It was a brief reaction

  and certainly unintentional, but for some reason it made

  my stomach feel hollow.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “’Course, man.You sound serious all of a sudden, you

  got a month to live or something?” he said, laughing.

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  I smiled, drank. “You ever feel like I do more harm

  than good? As a person?”

  Curt looked at me. He could tell I was serious. “Not

  quite sure why you say that,” he said. “But it feels to

  me like you might be having a little pity party.”

  “It’s not that,” I said. “I’m over all that. I just feel like

  over the last few years…I mean, look at it. Mya.

  Amanda. You. My dad. Just feels like all these people

  I’m supposed to be close to get hurt. Not to mention this

  guy who got killed the other day.”

  “What guy?’ Curt asked.

  I filled him in on the details of Hector Guardado and

  the briefcase. He sat there, focused, listening intently.

  He nodded when I brought up Detective Makhoulian,

  said he’d met the guy once or twice and that he seemed

  like he was on the up-and-up.

  Often it took a good cop to recognize a good cop, so

  it was reassuring to hear Curt say that.

  Though my first few months in the city I’d been dis­

  trustful of cops—and who could blame me since two

  of them tried to kill me for erroneous reasons—recently

  I’d begun to settle back in, believing that guys like Mak­

  houlian were truly here to serve and protect. Just

  because most of them didn’t like me didn’t mean I

  didn’t have respect for them.

  “And you think this guy Guardado is somehow tied

  in to your brother’s death?” he said.

  “Probably not directly, but I caught Guardado

  coming out of a building where I saw a bunch of other

  drug couriers signing in to a company called 718 Enter­

  prises. I couldn’t find much on them, but I’m pretty sure

  Stephen might have worked for them at some point.”

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  “Selling drugs,” Curt said.

  “That’s right.”

  “And what’s the name of that company you men­

  tioned? 718?”

  “718 Enterprises,” I repeated.

  Curt scratched his nose, downed the rest of his

  beer. “Not sure why, but for some reason that name

  sounds familiar.”

  “That means it’s likely not a good thing,” I said.

  Curt shook his head, thinking. “Give me some time

  tonight, I’m going to go back and dig into some of the

  files, ask around.”

  “Curt, you don’t have to do that, I—”

  “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 B
rooks 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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  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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  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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  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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  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

 

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