Parker 04 - The Fury (17 page)

myself. Yet when Rose said it, I felt an angry fire

burning inside me. I wanted to argue with her, but

somehow felt it would have strengthened her point.

Addict.

I watched the children play and wondered if she was

right.

My eyes stayed fixed to the building entrance. Every

time someone entered--old, young, white, black,

Hispanic--I would place my hand over the pocket

holding my cell phone. It was set to vibrate. Every few

minutes I would take it just to make sure I hadn't missed

anything. Nothing yet.

An hour and a half passed, when a man wearing a

Yankees hat approached the doorstep. He pulled out a

cell phone, checked it, then went up the steps. He was

young, maybe nineteen or twenty. He wore baggy jeans

and a chain looped around from his belt to his back

pocket where he kept a wallet. And most importantly,

he was carrying a backpack.

As he went to press the buzzer, another man walked

up to the steps. He was wearing a dark suit with slickedback hair and sunglasses. An expensive-looking brief

case was in his hand. He was a few years older than hat

guy, maybe twenty-four or -five, but looked like he

lived in a totally different world. Not to mention bank

account. Funny, I thought, that he was standing there

next to a drug dealer and didn't even realize it.

They both pressed the buzzer and waited. When they

were rung through they both entered, the nicely dressed

guy holding the door for the young punk.

Ten minutes after the door closed, I felt my cell

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phone vibrating. I took it out, looked at the call log. It

was Rose. Jackpot.

Adrenaline began to course through me. As soon as

hat guy came through the door, I was prepared to go

wherever he did. My hands were sweating. I was ready.

Then the front door opened, and a man stepped

through. Only it wasn't the young guy with baggy pants

and a backpack that looked sketchier than a forty-year

old at a dance club. It was the young-executive type.

I looked at him with intense skepticism, debating

whether to wait until the other guy came through. This

guy didn't look anything like a dealer. He looked too

well off, and I doubted most drug dealers bought their

briefcases at Coach.

It couldn't be. The guy was young, looking like he'd

just stepped out of his b-school graduation. He was

about five foot ten, in terrific shape. There was a small,

moon-shaped birthmark on the front of his neck, and he

gripped the briefcase so tight it looked as if it could

crumble in his hands.

Then, as the man began to walk away, I saw him stop,

look at his briefcase. He picked it up, clicked a loose

clasp into place, then walked away.

Then my cell phone vibrated. The screen had a text

message from Rose. It read

Gordon "Vinnie" Gekko has just left the building.

That sealed it. This man about town was Vinnie.

Waiting until he was half a block ahead of me, I

began to follow. He walked north to Fourteenth Street,

when he stopped for a moment to look at his cell phone.

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I stopped as well, retreating into the shadow of an elec

tronics store. When he put the phone back in his pocket,

he began to look around. His eyes caught something,

and suddenly he turned and jogged across the street. He

zigged between several cars, making it impossible for

me to follow him without drawing attention to myself.

Instead, I watched in between traffic as he approached

a pay phone. I saw him put money in the machine and

make a call. He hung up less than fifteen seconds later.

No doubt he was calling whatever number had just

come up on his cell phone. Briefcase man had another

delivery to make.

He turned West on Fourteenth Street and made his

way to what I assumed was the Union Square subway

stop.

I picked up the pace, narrowing the gap between us

to thirty feet or so. I wanted to remain behind him, but

if he was heading for the subway, losing him in the

bustle of pedestrians was a chance I didn't want to take.

He went down into the subway, paid his fare and

headed for the 6 train. I followed.

He went down the two flights of stairs onto the 6

train platform. I followed ten feet behind. He walked

halfway down the platform then stopped and waited. I

stopped two car lengths away, and hung out behind a

steel column, peeking out every now and then to make

sure he was still there.

The 6 train rattled into the station. My heart was

pumping. I wanted to run up and grab this guy, make

him give up everything he knew. But that would cut off

my only source of information. And unless I killed him,

he would tell whoever he worked for what happened,

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and the whole thing would clam up faster than a mute

on the witness stand. And while I was willing to do a

whole lot to figure out just what exactly happened that

night at Helen Gaines's apartment, murder wasn't on

my approved list of actions.

The man stepped into the car, and I got into the

adjacent one, making sure I could see him through the

separating window. For a moment I had a sense of deja

vu, remembering that it was not too long ago when I

was on the subway running from two men who wanted

me dead. Funny how the tides turn.

The doors closed, and the man took a seat. That

likely meant we were traveling a few stops. I stayed

standing, not wanting to lose sight due to a bad angle.

This was slightly awkward considering there were half

a dozen open seats and I was the only person standing

in our car. Still, I'd rather be considered an antisocial

weirdo than lose the rabbit.

Every stop I braced myself in case my target left.

Finally as we approached the Seventy-seventh Street

subway stop, I saw him stand up, check to make sure

his briefcase was still looped around his shoulder and

approach the door. I didn't move.

When the train stopped, a mass of passengers exited.

The Seventy-seventh Street stop was right by the

entrance to Lenox Hill Hospital. This Upper East Side

location was right near a large residential area. Though

heavily populated, it wasn't as crowded as Union

Square or one stop higher, Eighty-sixth Street.

The man walked east across Seventy-seventh. I

followed him. Between First and Second Avenues, he

went up to a brick town house, stopped in front of it. I sat

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on a small brick outcropping and pretended to tie my

shoe. He took out his cell phone, looking like he was

double-checking something, then went up the stairs and

pressed a buzzer. I heard a ring, then he said something

but I couldn't hear what. He opened the door and walked

in.

I retreated around the corner, peeking back every

few seconds to make sure I didn't lose him.

I only had to wait five minutes, then the man was

back outside and walking west, toward me. My heart

raced. If he was dealing--or delivering--drugs, this

seemed to fit the profile. Short and sweet. No chitchat.

Just in and out, over and done. Pay the man his money.

And the bulge in the briefcase even seemed to have

gone down a little bit.

I bought a bottle of water at a corner store as he

walked past, then I got back into our familiar pace. I

needed to see how many stops he made, see if anything

interesting presented itself. I decided to follow him the

rest of the day. I took out my cell, and sent Amanda a

text message.

Got a lead. Will call when I can.

Don't wait up.

If I were a girlfriend and my boyfriend sent me that

kind of text, I'd probably scour the city looking for

him, half expecting to find him in the arms of some

illicit lover. But I trusted Amanda. And after everything

we'd been through, I believed she trusted me back.

My phone vibrated. I took it out, checked the

message.

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145

Go get em, Tiger.

God, I loved this woman.

The man with the briefcase made four more stops the

rest of the day: 124th and Broadway, Ninety-eighth and

Broadway, and then back downtown to Fourteenth

between Fifth and Sixth. Each time I noticed the bag on

his shoulder became a little easier to carry. It swung at

greater arcs as he carried it. As his stash grew lighter,

the bag weighed him down less.

During his journey, I decided that I would follow him

home. I had no idea what to expect, or what I would say

to this man. But I needed to know where someone like

him lived. And I needed to know where I could find him

again.

It was nearing eleven o'clock. My legs were getting

heavy. Vinnie had just downed his third bottle of water

of the day. So when I followed him to the N train, the

night having fully descended over the city, I hoped this

would be our final ride of the day.

Vinnie rode the N train to the Canal/Broadway stop.

He looked weary, his eyes fluttering open and closed as

his breathing grew deeper. I knew how he felt. My

muscles felt sluggish. Private detective work was cer

tainly not a calling I was prepared for. Spenser I was

not.

Where he sat, Vinnie opened his bag and dug through

it. He pulled out an MP3 player, then scrounged around

some more. He seemed unable to find something. Then

he turned the bag upside down and shook it. A thin

white wire fell out. He picked it up, plugged one end

into the MP3 player and took the two earbuds and fit

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them into his ears. Then he pressed a button on the

player and relaxed.

No doubt this was the last stop. When he turned the

bag upside down, not a thing fell out. No bags, no foil,

no vials.

Vinnie was heading home.

I followed him out of the station. At this point I

probably could have walked right next to him and he

wouldn't have noticed or recognized me. He walked

two blocks west and one block south before approach

ing a row of town houses. He was walking slowly, but

then all of a sudden his head perked up.

Another young man was walking down the street in

the other direction. He looked to be the same age as the

guy I was following, maybe a year or two younger. He

was wearing loose jeans, sneakers, a Mets cap with the

brim turned sideways. The other guy's head snapped up,

too, in a familiar greeting.

These two men knew each other. They slowed down

as they approached. I slipped behind a wall, out of

sight, but easily able to hear every word they said.

"S'up, Scotty?" the other man yelled as they got

closer.

"SSDD," my guy, apparently Scotty, yelled back.

Same shit, different day.

As they got closer, their voices lowering, I heard

Scotty say, "What'd you pull in today?"

"Four-fiddy. Would've been more but these trustfund princesses thought they could get a taste for free

if they shoved their tits in my face. Don't need to tell

them I can get that on my own. How 'bout you?"

"Five-twenty," Scotty said, a note of pride in his

voice. "And that's
after
the man takes his cut."

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147

"Better than serving lattes," the other guy said. "I'm

cleaned out for the night. Gotta re-up in the morning."

"Same here," Scotty said. "How's your moms

doing?"

The other guy shrugged. "Her hair hasn't started

falling out yet, but the docs say it's a matter of time."

He scratched his nose. "She's strong as a bull. Wouldn't

mind moving out on my own like you, but not while

she's like this."

"Give her my best, bro'."

"Will do. Hey, meet on the corner tomorrow morning

at seven? Go over together?"

Scotty nodded. "Sounds like a plan. 'Night, Kyle."

"Later, Scotty."

The kid named Kyle kept on walking, as Scotty

entered his building.

I stood there stunned as Kyle passed by me.

Re-ups tomorrow morning. I knew what that meant.

They'd both cleaned out their stash today, and would

need to restock tomorrow to make more deliveries. It

meant they weren't working for themselves, and they

didn't keep any drugs at their houses. Somebody held

them for re-upping. And there was enough to resupply

at least two soldiers.

Which meant that if Scotty and Kyle were going to

meet at seven, I would be there waiting for them.

18

I was standing on the corner of Broadway and West

Sixth Street at 6:30 a.m. I didn't know what corner

Scotty was referring to when he and Kyle made plans

to meet, so I wanted to make sure I had my eyes on him

from the moment he left his apartment. I was on my

second cup of coffee when, at six fifty-five, the front