Read Parker 04 - The Fury Online
Authors: Jason Pinter
door opened and Scotty came out. He was dressed just
like the day before. Natty suit, hair combed, a briefcase
slung over his shoulder.
He yawned and stretched, and I watched while won
dering if this was a morning ritual. Whether he and
Kyle met every day, or only on re-up days. He began
walking east, presumably toward the corner.
I walked half a block down and watched as he
stopped on the corner. Scotty checked his watch,
dawdled for a bit, then turned around and nodded his
head at someone I couldn't see. A minute later, Kyle
joined him on the corner.
Last night when I saw Kyle he was loose, relaxed.
This morning he and Scotty looked like twins.
Gone was the baseball cap, and a mop of red hair was
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slicked back into place. He was wearing a navy blazer
and slacks. Kyle, too, had a briefcase in his hands.
They spoke for a minute, and I saw Kyle pass Scotty
a stick of gum. I retreated into a deli as they passed, then
fell into line.
They entered the N train at the corner of Canal and
Broadway. Again I took the adjacent car. They con
versed as though they'd known each other a long time.
Neither wore a wedding ring. They were just two young
guys, mid to late twenties if I had to guess. Much the
same as thousands of other young men in the city,
dressed and ready for a day at the office.
Only I knew that their work entailed something
much darker than punching a clock.
At the Fifty-seventh Street station, Kyle and Scotty
left, went upstairs and began walking north on Seventh
Avenue. I had no idea where they were going, but when
they turned on Fifty-eighth and headed toward Sixth, I
noticed both Kyle and Scotty cock their heads in that
familiar "what's up" way that insinuated they saw
someone they knew.
I picked up the pace. Felt my pulse quickening.
Then I saw something that nearly made me stop dead
in my tracks.
At least half a dozen young men were approaching
from the opposite direction. All of them were well
dressed in business suits. All of them were smiling and
jeering at Kyle and Scotty.
And all of them were carrying briefcases that were
most certainly empty.
"S'up, bitches!" Kyle yelled at the oncoming group.
Kyle and Scotty joined the other young men as I
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hung back, dumbfounded. They'd stopped outside of
what appeared to be a small office building. I wrote
down the number and address in my notepad. I couldn't
get any closer without arousing suspicion.
After a minute of horseplay, all eight men entered the
building, like a troop of bankers ready to conquer the
world. When they'd gone inside I ventured closer until
I could see. They were writing their names down at a
security station, and giving a good-natured ribbing to
the guard on duty. He was laughing and playing along.
He must have known them.
Then, just like that, they were gone.
Could all of these men have been going to the same
place for the same reason? Were they all part of the
same crew? Were they all dealers?
As I stood outside weighing my options, several
more young men entered the building, stopped by the
security station and went upstairs. A few of them
chatted with the guard. I assumed they were part of the
same crew as Scotty and Kyle.
I decided to wait. I couldn't go inside in case Scotty
or Kyle came downstairs. Thankfully, I didn't have to
wait long, because within twenty minutes a veritable
crush of young, well-dressed men came pouring out of
the front doors. Their pace was quick. They offered
pithy "laters" and "rake it in, boys" goodbyes to each
other.
And, I noticed, all of their briefcases looked full.
I waited another fifteen minutes to be sure, then I
walked inside the building. I pretended to act confused,
reading the directory on the wall.
"Help you?" the guard asked.
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"Yeah," I said. I went up to his station, saw the
logbook open. I pretended to be thinking while I
scanned the log.
And there, right next to each other, were two names:
Scott Callahan
Kyle Evans
Scotty and Kyle. And by the company line they wrote
"718 Enterprises."
"Actually," I said to the guard, "I'm in the wrong
place."
Walking back into the lobby's atrium, I stopped by
the company directory listings. Scanning the names and
floor numbers of the companies that were housed here,
I could find no listing for 718 Enterprises. Strange.
Where were all these young men going?
And what the hell was 718 Enterprises?
I figured I'd ask someone who might know. I walked
up to the security guard and said, "Hi, sorry to bother
you again. I'm looking for a company called 718 En
terprises. I'm pretty sure it's here, but I can't find it in
the directory and I forgot the name of the person I'm
supposed to meet."
The guard looked me over. He was in his late fifties,
heavyset, with big wide eyes that looked like they
believed me as far as he could shove me down his throat.
"No, you didn't," he said.
"I didn't?" I said incredulously.
"No. You're not. I don't know you, friend." He
averted his eyes to the crossword puzzle on his desk. I
stood there for another moment, until the guard's eyes
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came back to mine. He put his hand on the phone at his
desk and said, "Do I have to call the cops?"
I apologized and walked outside.
Standing there outside the building, I tried to piece
this together. Those young men who filed into the
building, who knew each other and were all dressed
alike, I'd be willing to bet they all took on the moniker
of Vinnie during their day job. And I'd also be willing
to bet that whatever 718 Enterprises was, it was some
sort of supplier.
I still had no idea what, if anything, they had to do
with the deaths of Beth-Ann Downing or even Stephen
Gaines. But it's all I had. As thin and transparent as this
thread was, it was the only one I had to pull. And I'd
had thinner ones that ended up unraveling a great deal.
As I stood outside the building pondering my next
move, a lone straggler exited the building wearing the
telltale suit and carrying a bulging briefcase. He was
thin, younger-looking than his cohorts, and had a gangly
walk that told me he hadn't been at this very long. He
began walking north. He took a cell phone from his
pocket, checked it then dropped it into his briefcase.
A thought crossed my mind. Suddenly it occurred to
me what I could do. What I
needed
to do. I certainly
wouldn't feel good about myself...but my father's
freedom was at stake. Finding a killer was my justifi
cation. I silently apologized for what I was about to do.
I began to walk faster, the young kid in my line of
sight. I was ten feet behind him. Nine. Eight. Seven.
I began to jog to keep pace, my pulse quickening.
The subway was just a few blocks away. I'd make it...
Pushing off my back foot to get a burst of speed, I
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lunged forward and grabbed the briefcase off the young
guy's shoulder. It was loose with surprisingly little
effort, and suddenly, to my surprise, I was standing
there in the middle of the street holding a young man's
bag that I'd just stolen.
He twirled around to see what was happening, and
just before I could react, he locked eyes with me. His
were light green, a mixture of anger and horrific fear
in them. He knew what he stood to lose.
I didn't wait another moment. I turned around and
began to run as fast as I could, whispering,
I'm going
to hell, I'm going to hell,
as my legs churned.
"Stop! Thief!" I heard a high-pitched voice scream.
An arm reached out for me but I shrugged it away.
The N train would be too obvious and too close. If
the train took a long time to pull into the station, I'd be
dead. I could outrun this kid. I had to.
I sprinted east down Fifty-eighth Street as fast as I
could. The kid was screaming behind me. I peeked over
my shoulder, feeling a surge of adrenaline as I saw my
lead increasing. Once I got to Sixth Avenue, I turned
south and saw the entrance for the B and Q trains ahead
of me.
Pulling things into fifth gear, I leaped down the steps
into the station, fumbling as I got my MetroCard out. I
swiped it, went through, and took a millisecond to
decide to head for the downtown B train. I figured if I
was caught, at least he wouldn't know the direction
where I lived.
The platform was all but empty. Bad luck for me. But
there was a red light in the tunnel signaling an ap
proaching train. It couldn't come fast enough. I walked
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quickly toward the end of the platform, the weight of
the bag pressing on my shoulder.
As the train rumbled into the station, my breath
caught in my throat as I saw the kid clamber down the
stairs approaching my platform. I hoped he hadn't seen
me.
When the doors opened I slid into the car, peeking
out once more.
The kid was on the platform, peeking into each car.
The train began to move. Faster and faster, it was
bringing me right toward him.
As the train passed where the young kid was
standing, I saw his eyes meet mine. His mouth dropped
open, and I could have sworn I heard a stream of pro
fanity. Then I was gone, into the darkness of the tunnel.
I transferred at the next station onto the uptown B,
then rode it until the 125th and Frederick Douglas
Boulevard station. From there I walked home, the bag
on my shoulder burning a hole.
I was tired, weary, trudging up the stairs, my blood
still pumping, however, with my prize. My guilt had
been overcome by my curiosity.
When I opened the door, I saw Amanda sitting at the
dining-room table eating a bowl of cereal. I forgot how
early it was, that she hadn't even left for work yet.
She was wearing a formfitting tank top that accen
tuated her amazing figure. Her hair was held together
in a ponytail, and her shapely legs disappeared beneath
her chair. I smiled, and she returned it.
"Whatcha got there, sweetie? A present for me
maybe?"
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I sat down at the table opposite her. I stuck my hand
in the outside pocket and came out with a cell phone.
The same one the young kid had been using.
Then I unlatched the brass buckles on the outside.
When the bag was unlocked, I folded back the top and
turned it upside down.
Out poured five white bricks the size of VHS cassette
tapes, as well as several thumb-size bags of the stuff. It
also contained a dozen small bags of marijuana with
varying quantities, and several pieces of tinfoil. I didn't
want to open or touch anything I didn't need to, so
whatever was in those packets would remain a mystery
for now. Chances were, it was either coke or crack.
One package, though, was half-open. Sitting on one
loose piece of foil were three small off-white stones that
looked almost like sugar cubes. But I knew exactly
what they were. Rocks of pure crack cocaine.
"Wow," Amanda said, staring at the mass of drugs.
"Remind me to buy my own birthday present next year."
I reached for one of the packages, but Amanda
grabbed my arm. I looked at her to see what was up, and
she was shaking her head like she was scolding a child
about to eat paste.
"Do you really want your fingerprints on those?" she
asked rhetorically. "Don't we have enough problems
with fingerprints where they didn't belong? I assume at
some point we're going to have to get the police
involved, and we'll have a much easier time convinc
ing them if it doesn't look like you were rolling around
in the drugs beforehand."
My arm shot back. The girl had a point.
"This is unreal," I said, the words not even doing
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justice to the feeling of seeing all the drugs spread out
on our table. My college never offered a Drug Dealing
101 course, so I had no idea what the value of the nar
cotics were. Though, based on the amount of stops
Scotty had made yesterday, and the money Rose Keller
claimed to have shelled out over the years, it had to be
several thousand at least. And if I factored in all the dif
ferent suit-wearing carriers I saw this morning, there
had to be at least a hundred grand making its way
around the city
every single day.
"What do we do with this?" Amanda asked. The truth
was I wasn't sure. If I delivered it to the cops with the