The Fury (2009)
Page 23
Staring ahead as my fingers felt around for the
familiar metal, suddenly my body froze.
The door to our building was glass. Through the il
lumination of the lamp on the corner, I could see the re
flection of the street behind me. And what I saw was a
man approaching holding what looked to be an
unopened switchblade.
He was a few inches shorter than me, white, with
a scraggly beard and loose-fitting clothes that had
surely been bought when he was a few pounds heavier.
In that light, he looked scarily like my brother had the
night I saw him.
Slowly I reached up, picked up my coffee cup, took
a small sip. My fingers trembled as I pretended to be
unsure of where I was.
Then I heard the chilling snick and saw a long, thin
piece of metal protruding from the man’s hand. His
blade was now open.
My heart hammered. In just seconds he would be
behind me. And I would be dead.
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Then I saw the man’s hand rise above his head, the
knife pointed down, ready to bury itself in my neck. I
had one shot to do this right, or I’d feel that knife point
inside me, the cold steel lodging itself in me.
I spun around, startling the man, and swung the
entire cup of steaming-hot coffee into his face.
He shrieked, his hands clawing at his face. The knife
clattered to the ground, and I kicked it as far as I could
before he could react. It skittered away and stopped
beneath a parked car thirty feet down the block.
While he was still pawing at his face, I swung an
elbow that hit him right in the chest. It connected solidly,
and he went down in a heap, still moaning, his face red
from the scalding liquid. He was curled into a fetal
position, so I knelt down on top of him, spreading his
arms wide.
Once his arms were spread I placed my knees inside
the crook of his elbows until his upper body was pinned
underneath me. His legs thrashed as he screamed like
he was the one being attacked.
I raised my fist, ready to rain blows upon the man’s
head, but then when I saw the fear in his eyes, the utter
helplessness of him, I relented. Keeping my knees
pinned on his arms—just in case he had another weapon
handy—I placed my palm under his chin and forced
him to look at me. My other hand fished in his pockets
to see if he had any more weapons. I found none. I
patted him down—legs, ankles, even pressed an elbow
into his crotch just to be sure. The squeal he let out was
very satisfying. Then I dug back in his pockets until I
found his wallet. I flipped it open, saw credit cards, a
few crumpled singles and a driver’s license.
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Jason Pinter
Rule number one of attacking someone, never carry
picture ID.
Suddenly I felt him rock forward, making me tilt
slightly back, then he thrust his entire body weight
forward. I lost my balance, toppling over. I could feel
him squirm out from under me as my head smacked
against the pavement.
I tried to stand up, but a kick to the side of my neck
made me fall back over, the breath leaving my lungs for
a moment. The man stood back up, then looked around,
trying to locate the knife. He couldn’t find it, and by that
point I’d managed to prop myself up. I took my keys
from my pocket, inserted them into my fist, each key
sticking out from between my fingers like a makeshift
pair of brass knuckles.
The man saw me do this. Looking around once more
for the knife, he took one step toward me and said, “You
don’t watch out, your ass is a ghost. And if that doesn’t
bother you, maybe we’ll stick one in your old lady, too.”
Then he sprinted away and didn’t look back.
I lowered my hand. Watched him go. I got lucky. If
I hadn’t seen him, I could be lying in the street bleeding.
I remembered that I’d taken his wallet and removed
the license. The man’s name was Trent Buckley. His
license stated that he was six foot one, a hundred and
ninety pounds. According to the address, Buckley
resided in Boulder, Colorado. The license was dated
2002, so it was likely that Buckley had moved to New
York from Colorado.
Who sent him here? And how did he know where I
lived? And who was Buckley referring to as “we”?
Paranoia seeped in. I looked around, checking out the
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237
abandoned street, wondering if someone else was
waiting to pounce.
Then my mind went to one place.
Amanda.
My “old lady.” Did they really know who she was or
where to find her?
If someone was after me, they could very well know
various ways to get to me.
I knew where she was. Knew what I had to do.
Calling 911 was a priority, but I had a more pressing
one right now.
Taking the keys from my pocket, I unlocked the front
door and pressed the elevator button. It took a moment
for me to notice that an Out Of Service sticker was
pasted over the jamb.
I sprinted up the stairs, my lungs burning, until I
reached our apartment. The door was locked, but I
opened it with the caution of a man who’d previously
wandered into his apartment only to find a psycho
pathic killer waiting. When I was convinced there was
nobody hiding in the closet, I grabbed the biggest
suitcase I could find and began throwing clothes into it.
I had no idea what garments were most important to
Amanda, so hopefully she’d forgive me if in my haste
I couldn’t put together a matching outfit.
Once the bag was full with clothes, I jammed it shut
and zipped it closed. Then I dragged it carefully back
down to the lobby, burst onto the street and began
waving my hand in the air. It took only five minutes for
a cab to see me and pick me up.
“The Kitten Club,” I said breathlessly.
The driver nodded, and off we went.
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Jason Pinter
The Kitten Club held a lot of memories for me. As
well as being the hottest nightspot in the city, it was
where blond diva Athena Paradis was murdered.
Strangely, once the investigation had ended and the
club had reopened, its cachet as the most exclusive club
in the city skyrocketed. Not only was it the place to be,
it was basically a city landmark now. Lines that once
stretched around the block looped each other. Darcy’s
husband was an old fraternity brother of Shawn Kensbrook, the Kitten Club’s promoter, so they were able to
hop the line. All that for the privilege of spending five
hundred bucks on a bottle of Smirnoff.
The lights of the Kitten Club pulsated as the cab drew
near. I lowered the window. The smell of cologne,
perfume, cigarettes and sweat permeated the air. Natu
&n
bsp; rally there was a line snaking all the way out the door
and down the block, and that it was three people deep
led me to believe it would be a two-hour wait just to get
in.
But I wasn’t planning to wait in line.
As the cab pulled up in front of the club, I threw him
a twenty and hopped out, dragging my heavy luggage
behind me. A few people waiting in line noticed my odd
appearance—jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, sneakers and
a massive Samsonite—and pointed me out to their
friends. A few laughed. The rest looked slightly
worried, as though they expected me to be lugging a
bomb or a body in the suitcase.
I had to shove my way through the line to get to the
front. A massive bouncer with biceps veins thicker
than his waist blocked the way. He looked at me and
rolled his eyes.
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“Line starts over there,” he said. He jerked his thumb
in the opposite direction of where I thought the line
started. Based on a rough calculation, the people at the
end of the line would be allowed in right around the
Rapture.
“I need to see Shawn Kensbrook,” I said.
“I need a blow job,” the bouncer said.
“One of those is going to be much easier to achieve
than the others,” I replied. “Listen, tell him this is about
Darcy Lapore and her husband, Devin. He’ll know who
you’re talking about.”
The bouncer looked me over, trying to see if I was
for real. Then he picked up a walkie-talkie, pressed a
button and spoke into it.
“Yo, Byron, some kid out here with a damn suitcase
says he needs to talk to Shawn. Says it’s about some
chick named Darcy.”
“And Devin,” I added.
“And Devin.” He clicked off the walkie-talkie and
waited for a response. Then he said, “You be messing
with me, I’m a make you give me that blow job.”
“I don’t think either of us would enjoy that very much.”
Then a crackling sound came over the talkie, and a
voice said, “Hold tight, he’ll be right there.” The
bouncer nodded, clicked it off. “Guess you won’t need
that mouthwash after all.”
A minute later, a man came through the door and
walked right up to me. He was wearing an Armani suit
and sunglasses, and looked like a white, slightly less
bulky version of the bouncer. His cuff links were
sterling silver, and I could see his belt buckle was
engraved with the letters SK.
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Jason Pinter
Shawn Kensbrook walked up to me and said,
“You’ve gotta be him.”
“It’s me,” I said. “Henry Parker. You must be Shawn.
I left you a few messages last year while I was covering
the Athena Paradis story.”
“I didn’t talk to any reporters after that happened.”
“I can understand. I know you two were close.”
“Cut the crap. What do you want to do with Devin?”
“Long story short. My girlfriend, Amanda, is with
Devin and Darcy right now. She’s in trouble. I mean,
big, bad, lives-on-the-line trouble. I don’t have the time
to wait on line, I just need to see her. You let me in, I
grab the girl, and we’re gone. Simple as that.”
“How do I know you’re not messing with me?”
Shawn said.
I didn’t know what to say. Then I thrust out the
suitcase and said, “A deposit. I’m not back in ten
minutes, you keep this. Some nice stuff in here. I know
because I bought it for my girl’s birthday. Plus, Captain
Shower Rape here can have his way with me.”
Shawn looked at the bouncer, confused. The guy
shook his head like he didn’t know what I was talking
about. Shawn turned back to me, the light from the
neon signs reflecting in the shine of his suit.
“Even if you’re on the level,” Shawn said, “you’re
dressed like a homeless person and you have a freaking
suitcase. I let you in, I might as well go around Central
Park inviting all the assholes sleeping on benches in.”
“I didn’t want to mention this,” I said truthfully, “but
I know Tony Valentine.”
“Valentine,” Kensbrook said, trying to remember why
he knew the name. “You mean the gossip hound, right?”
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241
“That’s the one. I work with him.”
“No BS?”
I pulled out my business card, showing Shawn that
I, like Tony Valentine, worked at the New York Gazette.
Shawn eyed the card, his head clearly filling with the
possibility of getting a good plug in the gossip pages.
Of course, I had as much intent of talking to Tony
Valentine as I did to O.J. Simpson, but that’s the beauty
of an internal monologue.
“You got ten minutes,” he said. “And after that your
ass is kicked and your clothes go to the incinerator.”
“I accept.”
“And I expect some ink from Valentine.”
I gave him the most noncommittal thumbs-up in my
arsenal.
Shawn nodded at the bouncer, who unhitched the
velvet rope and allowed me passage. He took my
suitcase and carried it to the coatroom, where a girl in a
tight black top and capris unlocked a door so he could
heave it behind the barrier. There were plenty of groans
from the people waiting on line as they saw me enter. I
hoped if they knew what was going on they’d under
stand.
But this was New York, so I doubted it.
The Kitten Club was a massive place, with two dif
ferent levels of action. This was about as far from my
scene as I could get without being in the desert. I had
no idea where to look first. My eyes were half-blinded
by the strobe lights, and it took a healthy equilibrium
not to get knocked over by the horde of drunken,
dancing revelers. I could barely see five feet in front of
me, let alone distinguish the VIP lounge.
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Jason Pinter
To clarify the mess, I approached the bar, waited to
get the tender’s attention. When he came by, he said,
“What’ll it be?”
“Where’s the VIP lounge?” I asked.
He nodded and turned around. I had no idea what had
happened, but then he turned back holding a glass of
champagne with something sparkling at the bottom. He
held it out to me.
“The VIP champagne,” he said. “That’ll be a
hundred fifty.”
“No,” I shouted. “The VIP lounge. ”
The bartender, looking quite pissed off, said, “Tables
are upstairs.” As I turned to go, I saw him fish the gem
from the bottom of the glass and drop it into a small pail.
I pushed and shoved my way through a sea of fitted
jeans, open-collared shirts revealing chests adorned with
thick gold chains, and shimmering bosoms with even
spray tans. At the back of the dance floor I found a short
staircase tha
t led to another level. Sliding through a couple
making out on the railing, I managed to find the VIP area,
a lounge of about a dozen round tables, each with between
half a dozen and a dozen people circling them. Each table
had several bottles of alcohol sitting in buckets of ice, with
various mixers—cranberry juice, orange juice and tonic
water—ready to go. According to Amanda, each bottle
ran about a grand, and nobody bought just one bottle.
Then I heard a laugh. A distinctive laugh.
Amanda’s laugh.
I fast-walked past the tables until I finally found the
one I was looking for. Sitting in a circle were Devin and
Darcy Lapore, several suited men with gelled hair and
manicures, and Amanda Davies.
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Amanda was laughing hysterically at something,
then she looked up and noticed me. I didn’t believe that
smile could spread any wider, but it did.
“Henry!” she shrieked, jumping out of her seat,
knocking over an empty glass and toppling one of the
guys onto the floor. She threw her arms around me,
squeezed tight, and I gave her one right back. Her breath
smelled like vodka, her body like sweet perfume. Her
hair dripped onto my shirt and I held her tight, for
reasons vastly different than hers.
“Hey, baby,” I said, struggling to disentangle myself.
Suddenly Amanda looked confused. “Wait,” she
said. “What’re you doo ing here?”
“I don’t have time to explain right now,” I said, taking
her hand. “But you need to come with me.”
A sultry smile spread across her lips. I didn’t see her
drunk all that often, so part of me couldn’t help but be
slightly amused. “So,” she said. “You’re taking me
home?”
“Not exactly,” I said, pulling her away. I apologized
to Darcy and Devin, who seemed too preoccupied with
how each other’s lips tasted to notice.
“If we’re not going home,” she slurred, “where are
we going?”
“A hotel,” I said.
“Ooh baby!” Amanda said, suddenly grabbing a
chunk of my ass and squeezing. She likely meant to be
flirtatious, but the girl had some serious nails and I was
reasonably certain she broke the skin. Hopefully stitches
wouldn’t be required, because that’d be one awkward
explanation for the doctor. “Have you been working
out?”
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“Not recently, I haven’t had time, but…that’s not the
point. We need to go.”