The Fury hp-4

by Jason Pinter

  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 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 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 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.

  "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 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 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 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?"

  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 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 story, I'd have to explain the stolen briefcase. And then

  I'd have to explain how I got there, how I'd followed

  Scotty, and why I was doing all this in the first place.

  The goal, of course, was to find Stephen Gaines's killer and free my father. That would likely have to wait until I had the full picture. If I went in with half a bird in hand and the other half hiding in the bush, they'd laugh me off and then possibly arrest me. Neither of which sounded particularly appealing.

  I picked up the cell phone. It wasn't as fancy as mine or many of the newer models, and didn't look to have photo or video capacity. There was no flip top, just a dimly lit LCD screen and chunky buttons that looked old and worn. Clearly, this phone was meant for one thing, and one thing only. And whoever was using it didn't need all the excess accoutrements.

  The phone was still on. The screen said there were five missed calls. I checked the log, and saw they'd all come from the same number. I didn't recognize it, and rather than a name popping up it was just the number.

  Most likely it was the kid whose briefcase I'd stolen calling from a pay phone, praying someone would pick up. It was only a matter of time before the phone was disconnected.

  Though somehow I didn't think there was a high probability of the owner calling the cops to report it.

  On the LCD screen, there was a "contacts" line directly above a flat, rectangular button. I pressed it.

  Immediately a roll call of the kid's contacts came up.

  I scrolled through the names, hoping for something.

  Then I saw two names that did ring a bell.

  Scott Callahan and Kyle Evans.

  Scotty and Kyle from this morning.

  It didn't shock me that they were listed in the kid's contacts list. They did share the same "occupation," and odds were Scotty and Kyle had this kid's number in their database as well. I kept scrolling.

  Then a name appeared on the list that made me catch my breath.

  "What?" Amanda said. "What it is?"

  I showed her the phone, my finger underlining the name.

  "Oh my God," she said. "Why would he be…"

  I looked at her. We both knew why he was there.

  Halfway down the lists of contacts was the name

  Stephen Gaines.

  "He knew my brother," I said. "Wait a second…"

  I exited the contacts list and returned to the main menu. I knew what I was looking for but didn't know if it was there.

  I hoped it wasn't.

  I pressed the send button to bring up the list of the

  most recent calls from this cell phone. There were several from a name marked Office. I clicked edit to see the number. It was from a 646 area code in Manhattan.

  I wrote it down, then kept on scrolling.

  None of the names were recognizable.

  But then, at the very end of the list, was the one name I'd hoped not to see.

  "He called Stephen," I said to Amanda. "He called my brother the night he died."

  19

  The next morning, Amanda and I took the subway to

  100 Centre Street, which housed the New York County

  Correctional Facility. My father was being held there before his grand jury hearing, and we were on our way to show support, discuss his court-appointed lawyer.

  And ask him some questions to which I hoped he would hold the answers.

  Amanda and I had spent the previous night talking and thinking about the Gaines family, Rose Keller and

  Beth-Ann Downing. Drugs seemed to be the only link between the four people. Two of them were dead,

  Steph
en Gaines and Beth-Ann. And the stash of narcot ics from the stolen briefcase was hidden inside my laundry hamper. I figured if anyone were to break in, the stench itself might deter even the most hardened thief.

  Stephen used to date and party with Rose Keller.

  She claimed they'd met randomly. But I had to wonder.

  Stephen's name was in the kid's cell phone I stole.

  Which meant one of three things.

  First, the two were merely friends. Which was highly unlikely.

  Second, that Stephen was the kid's client. That one was a possibility.

  Third, and perhaps the most frightening yet the most plausible, was that Stephen Gaines was a dealer himself.

  Perhaps Stephen, before he died, was one of the faceless suit monkeys who entered that office building in midtown for re-ups. Perhaps had I gone there another day, I would have seen my brother enter with an empty briefcase and exit with a full load of narcotics.

  Helen Gaines had somehow befriended Beth-Ann

  Downing after relocating from Bend to New York City.

  They both had children-though I had no reason to suspect Sheryl and Stephen had met, unless Stephen happened to have sold to Sheryl's mother. Sheryl was likely gone by the time Helen and Stephen settled in.

  And at some point along the line, both Helen and BethAnn had developed drug addictions.

  Chances were Stephen discovered the path to his own demise through his mother. Anytime you grow up in a household in which such evils were not only common but encouraged, it was just a matter of time before you followed in step.

  In my relatively short time on this planet, I'd learned that there were two types of people. Those who were doomed to follow in whatever footsteps had been laid out for them, and those who were strong enough to carve their own path.

  Amanda and I were lucky. I could have turned out like my father, with a general disregard for decency and an attitude toward women that could be described as combative on a good day. Amanda could have been swallowed by her grief as a child, stifled by the tragic deaths of her parents. She never grew close to Lawrence and Harriet Stein, her adoptive family. She feared that she would never truly be close to another person again.

  She began to write in diaries. There were hundreds of them, each one chronicling every waking moment of her life, cataloging every soul she met on her aimless journey. A moment-to-moment timeline of loneliness.