a week easy. And that was just the beginning. So I asked
if Kyle would introduce me to his man, this recruiter
guy. Kyle tells me this guy is the one who makes all the
decisions, the guy who’s in charge of everything. Kyle
sets up a meeting, I go in and talk with this guy for an
hour, maybe two, and a week later I’m on the street.”
“But not really ‘on the street.’”
“Nah. Anyone who thinks dealers in NYC sit on
street corners waiting for crackheads to come up to
them is watching too much HBO. This is a business, run
and worked by businessmen. There’s no room for street
hustling or stupidity.”
“Any women?” I asked.
“Not that I ever saw.”
“Guess it’s not all that different from finance after all.”
“No,” Scotty said with a laugh. “Guess not.”
“So you say this whole thing is run like a business,
streamlined and thorough. So let me ask you this…how
did I find you?”
Scotty shifted in his seat. “I don’t know.”
“This recruiter you’re talking about. The head
honcho. You say you met with him.”
“Just once,” Scotty said. “After I had my…interview
I guess you could call it, I was always dealing with mid
dlemen after that. Guys lower on the food chain.”
“Are they the ones who give you the re-ups at the
office in midtown?”
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225
Scotty’s eyes shot up, and for the first time a sense
of fear crept into them. “Who told you that?”
I said nothing. Just stared at him. He needed to know
he wasn’t dealing with an amateur, and that if I’d come
this far there was surely a lot more to dig up.
“Yeah. The Depot, we called it. The main guy was
never there, it’s kind of like as soon as we met him, he
disappeared into thin air and stopped existing. We had
his phone number just in case, but if anyone called it
without a good reason, we knew they might not come
in to work the next day.”
“Did you ever hear anyone mention someone or
something called the Fury?” Scotty looked at me,
confused.
“No, not that I can think of.” He seemed truthful.
“So Mayor McCheese. The Big Kahuna. The Big
Boss. The recruiter. Who was he?”
“Just some guy,” Scotty said. “We never really
learned anything about him.”
“I mean what was his name?”
Scotty had to think for a minute, then he said.
“Gaines. Yeah, that was the dude’s name. Stephen
Gaines.”
26
“You’re a liar,” I said. Panic and rage cut through my
body like a hot blade. My stomach churned, the milk
shake feeling like it could come back up at any
moment. “Stephen Gaines can’t be, he’s…dead.” The
last word came out empty, hollow, as though I was
arguing with thin air.
“I know that,” Scotty said. There was no emotion in
his voice. He was simply telling me the news as he
knew it. “But what do you want me to say? You asked.”
I had no energy to argue with him, and no argument
to counter the claims. How the hell would Scotty even
know my brother’s name unless…unless…
It was too terrible to even think of. Was it possible
that my brother was much higher up on this food chain
than I’d thought? Not just one of the lower men, the
Vinnies, the ones who carried tinfoil and Saran Wrap
around the city like some alternate-universe grocer, but
someone who actually was responsible for a piece of the
action. Perhaps much more than a piece.
Was it possible Stephen Gaines was the Fury?
No, I thought. That was impossible. Somebody
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227
killed him. He was innocent. A man with demons, sure,
but not somebody who deserved to die.
The only way you’re murdered in that kind of
business is if somebody bigger than you thinks you’re
hindering the operation, preventing someone more am
bitious from carving a larger slice of the pie.
Unless…what if he was knocked off by a smaller
dealer, somebody whose eyes simply got too big for
their head? Somebody who felt scalping my brother
would give them street cred, a trophy, to assume the
mantle for their own?
What if my brother wore a target on his back?
Immediately my mind went back to that night. The
night Stephen found me at the Gazette. His face filled
with fright, his body wracked with pain from the drugs
and some secret he was carrying. Is it possible he knew
he had a death wish, and simply needed help? If Stephen
was so powerful, what could I possibly have done for
him?
I’d seen men and women whose lives had been de
stroyed by drugs, by alcohol. Hell, my idol, Jack
O’Donnell, was hidden away somewhere trying to drain
the poisons and impulses from his body. Jack had been
on the sauce for years, yet during that time he’d risen
to the highest ranks of his profession. There were
numerous examples of functioning alcoholics, drug
addicts, people who achieved despite carrying the
disease. I mean, I lived and worked in New York, which
probably had the highest ratio of functioning addicts in
the world. It would only make sense that if a person
worked in that industry, they would be corrupted in
some way, body or soul or both.
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Jason Pinter
When I saw Stephen Gaines outside of my office
building, his face pale, sweat streaking down his gaunt
frame, it was clear he’d been wasted away by both.
Scotty Callahan sat there holding his glass while I
tried to force his words from my mind, trying to will
them to be false. Scotty didn’t seem to care one way or
another. Now that I had the information, it was no
concern to him what I did with it.
And I could tell by the way he sat there eating,
drinking, staring at his food, his mind completely
oblivious to the anguish building inside me…this was
not the face of a man lying to save his ass. There might
have even been a slight catharsis in telling me.
Stephen Gaines wasn’t just some random junkie, but
in fact one of the leaders of this organization—718 En
terprises. No doubt Stephen knew what that stood for,
who worked in it, how widely it reached. Perhaps that’s
what he wanted to tell me. It’s what I would have heard
had I stopped. It’s what he would have done that night,
while a killer roamed the streets waiting for him to come
home.
“You only met him once,” I said to Scotty. “Just
once.”
“Just once,” he said, holding up one finger. Then he
burped, and a shred of pastrami tumbled over his lower
lip. He slurped it back up.
“What about Kyle?” I said. “How much does he
know.”
Sc
otty put down his drink. He leaned over until I
could smell the meat on his breath. His eyes narrowed,
and for a moment my anger and frustration was replaced
by the possibility that this guy might take a swing at me.
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229
“You leave him the hell out of this,” Scotty said. “His
mom is sick. He brings home enough to pay her bills,
and doesn’t want or ask for any trouble. None of us are
trying to get anyone hurt. You want to drag me through
the mud, tell people I’m dealing, it’ll suck but maybe I
deserve it. You screw with Kyle’s life, it’s not just him
but his family. I don’t know you, Henry, but you’d have
to be one heartless son of a bitch to do something like
that.”
“I need to know what he knows,” I said, my voice
trying to explain without any hostility. “It’s my family,
too. My father was arrested for the murder of Stephen
Gaines.”
Scotty sat back at though slapped. The breath seemed
to have left him. For a moment he said nothing, then he
shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“Thanks,” I replied.
“So that’s what this is really about,” Scotty said.
“Finding the truth to get your pops off the hook.”
“That’s right.”
“Then I don’t know what to say. I meant what I said
about Kyle. I’ll tell you anything you want. I know
Kyle didn’t know Gaines any more than I did. He met
him once, for an interview kind of thing. And we both
have to check in at the office, make sure our receipts
match up with what we’re selling.”
“Can you give me the name of whoever handles
that?” I said.
“It’s always different,” Scotty said. “And they never
tell us their names.”
“What happens if you screw up?” I asked.
Scotty sighed, said, “I guess you should ask Stephen.”
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Jason Pinter
We said nothing, as I processed what Scotty had said
and he finished off the last of his cream soda. My milk
shake sat lonely and untouched. If he was desperate
enough for money to resort to drugs, I guess he valued
a free meal when it came his way.
After the plates had been cleared and I’d taken care
of the tab, we both stood up and headed toward the door.
I followed him, my legs feeling rubbery.
The air outside was warm, the night sky a lovely
dark blue. Sometimes I hated the towering skyscrapers
of New York and how they totally obscured the
horizons. But nights like tonight I could stare at the pin
pricks of light, the behemoths sparsely lit, and admire
the grandeur of it all. This was a magnificent city. One
that almost seemed to beckon you to claim it all for
your own, to rise up one of those towers and stand out
over the masses, arms spread, taking it all in. All for
yourself.
And maybe that’s what seduced Stephen. And got
him killed as well.
The streetlight turned green, the red Stop hand
switching to the white “happy walking” person.
“That’s my signal,” Scotty said. I nodded stupidly,
unsure of how to end our little gab session. “Listen,
Henry, I respect what you’re doing. If the guy was a
dirtbag, it might not be worth your time if you didn’t
know him. I know better than anyone that sometimes
you have to do things you’re not proud of to make ends
meet. You tell yourself it’s okay, because it’s the only
way, and it’s only for a short time.”
“If that’s what it takes to help you sleep at night,” I said.
“Judge all you want. At some point you’ll have to
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231
make some tough choices too. And you gave me your
word about this being off the record. I know some bad
people, people who don’t really give pink slips.”
“Your name won’t come up and won’t appear in the
paper.”
“Good. And maybe ten years from now you can look
back and know you did the right things because they
were the only things available. I—”
And then Scott Callahan turned and walked away.
I stared at his back, hands in his pockets, hunched
over, acting like the weather was far colder than it actually
was. And then he turned the corner and was gone.
Sometimes people forget about the weight on their
shoulders until you point it out.
My legs felt weak, and I debated just hailing a taxi.
Then I remembered how long it would take to get back
uptown, that I’d probably have to take on a second job
to pay for it, and headed toward the subway. Consider
ing prices of everything from milk to movies had sky
rocketed in New York to the point where you had to hit
an ATM just to buy coffee and a doughnut, you had to
conserve wherever possible.
I couldn’t wait to see Amanda, to hear her voice, to
feel her arms again. Then I remembered she’d promised
Darcy Lapore a night on the town and realized it would
be several hours before that would happen. But it
wasn’t all bad. Amanda didn’t go out all that often, and
had never been a big drinker, but Darcy was dangerous.
Her husband was a high roller and the one time we’d
double-dated with them he took us to some club with
a kinky name where he plunked down four figures for
a table and two bottles, and we proceeded to get com
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Jason Pinter
pletely obliterated. In New York, when someone pays
a grand for you to drink, you drink your money’s worth.
Anyway, because of Amanda’s relatively light
drinking habits, she tended to get drunk rather easily.
Which had two results: the first that she would have a
wicked hangover the next day, but second that she was
frisky as all get out when she got home. One night a
month ago, she came home from a night out with Darcy,
and upon arriving home she proceeded to give me a
piece of her mind. The reason for chewing me out? I
was still wearing pants.
God, I loved that woman.
The train ride was uneventful, and I wondered what my
father was doing at that very instant. I’d only been to see
him once since his incarceration in the Tombs. Every part
of me wanted to see him released, to go back home and
live out the rest of his life with my mother in whatever hap
piness the two of them could muster. I wanted to believe
that, if he was released, he would treat her the way a wife
deserved to be treated. Loved. Cared for. Respected.
But I knew none of that would happen. Chances
were, things would not change. He would not suddenly
become the husband he should have been years ago.
That ship had sailed.
But it didn’t mean he deserved to be treated like a
murderer. And like I told him that night two years ago,
while I was holed up in a crummy building as three men
&
nbsp; were approaching to kill me, I used my father’s short
comings to fuel me. Because of him I wanted to be to
Amanda what he’d never been to my mother. I’d gotten
it wrong once, with Mya.
I steadfastly believed that a person became who they
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233
were by choice. They achieved or they did not. They
were decent or they were not. Those choices might be
harder depending on the worldviews they are subjected
to. The climb might be more difficult, but being a good
man, working at my craft, those were possibilities that
were attainable to me.
I was born with ability. I knew that. But it took ev
erything I had to wrench myself away from the grips of
this man, and I was happy to forget him. And in the
years since, I’d found a few times where that anger
could be reversed. Where the climb became more man
ageable because it lifted me.
Amanda, Mya.
We were all recovering from our injuries, emo
tional and physical. Mya’s would take longer, but
inside the girl she’d become was the girl I once knew.
She would move on.
I’d moved on eight years ago. Now I wanted to be
everything James Parker was not.
I wanted to be strong. Anger was a powerful tool.
And I wanted my anger to be used for the right reasons.
I stopped at a corner deli. The manager recognized
me. He was a burly Arab man, very pleasant, who’d
seen me once with Amanda and now greeted me with
a humorous “hubba hubba” whenever I was alone.
“Large coffee,” I said. “Cream and three sugars.”
“Cream?” he said, surprised. “Usually you take it
with milk.”
“I need the extra jolt tonight,” I said. He nodded,
understanding.
“Where’s your ladyfriend?” he asked, moving
toward the pots.
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Jason Pinter
“Out tonight,” I said with a smile.
“That lady, whoo, hubba hubba,” he said, pointing
to the coffee. “Fresh pot, plenty hot,” he continued.
“Just the way I like it,” I said.
He poured me a full cup, steam rising off the top,
and added the cream and sugar. I paid him, thanked
him and left.
The coffee, cream and sugar would be enough to get
through the night. Or at least keep me awake until
Amanda got home. Sipping it as I approached my apart
ment, I set it on the call box and searched my pockets
for my keys.
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