Parker 04 - The Fury (27 page)

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?"

The Fury

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

The Fury

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."

Scotty 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