The Fury hp-4

by Jason Pinter

  "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 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.

  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.

  "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."

  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 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 completely 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 were approaching to kill me, I used my father's short comings to fuel me. Because of him I wanted to be to

  Amanda what he'd never been to my mother. I'd gotten it wrong once, with Mya.

  I steadfastly believed that a person became who they were by choice. They achieved or they did not. They were decent or they were not. Those choices might be harder depending on the worldviews they are subjected to. The climb might be more difficult, but being a good man, working at my craft, those were possibilities that were attainable to me.

  I was born with ability. I knew that. But it took ev erything I had to wrench myself away from the grips of this man, and I was happy to forget him. And in the years since, I'd found a few times where that anger could be reversed. Where the climb became more man ageable because it lifted me.

  Amanda, Mya.

  We were all recovering from our injuries, emo tional and physical. Mya's would take longer, but inside the girl she'd become was the girl I once knew.

  She would move on.

  I'd moved on eight years ago. Now I wanted to be everything James Parker was not.

  I wanted to be strong. Anger was a powerful tool.

  And I wanted my anger to be used for the right reasons.

  I stopped at a corner deli. The manager recognized me. He was a burly Arab man, very pleasant, who'd seen me once with Amanda and now greeted me with a humorous "hubba hubba" whenever I was alone.

  "Large coffee," I said. "Cream and three sugars."

  "Cream?" he said, surprised. "Usually you take it with milk."

  "I need the extra jolt tonight," I said. He nodded, understanding.

  "Where's your ladyfriend?" he asked, moving toward the pots.

  "Out tonight," I said with a smile.

  "That lady, whoo, hubba hubba," he said, pointing to the coffee. "Fresh pot, plenty hot," he continued.

  "Just the way I like it," I said.

  He poured me a full cup, steam rising off the top, and added the cream and sugar. I paid him, thanked him and left.

  The coffee, cream and sugar would be enough to get through the night. Or at least keep me awake until

  Amanda got home. Sipping it as I approached my apart ment, I set it on the call box and searched my pockets for my keys.

  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.

  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.

  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. Lo
oking 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 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.