by Jason Pinter
"Stephen wasn't just some street dealer," I said. "He was much higher."
Helen blinked. "I knew he wasn't standing out on corners. He had nice suits. Lots of them. He would wear them during the day, even though I knew where he was going. I always found it strange that someone in that…line of work would get dressed up so nicely.
We never had money for anything else."
I thought about the building in midtown. All those suited young men entering to get their daily packages.
A horde of young, urban professionals. Only the defi nition had turned a one-eighty.
"How long had he been selling?" I asked.
Helen looked at the ceiling. Wiped her eyes again.
Clarence was staring at her as well, his eyes soft. I wondered if he'd ever heard these stories.
"Screw this," Bernita suddenly announced. "I'm getting a beer and watching Judge Judy. " Her pink bathrobe turned with a flutter, and she left the room.
"She's a great cook," Helen said. "Made chicken a l'orange last night."
"I have about ten pounds of leftovers in my fridge at home," Clarence said with a laugh. "I know what you're saying."
"How long?" I repeated.
"Almost ten years. He dropped out of CCNY after his sophomore year. I worked about a hundred differ ent jobs over the years, but even with that and the money
Stephen made, with his student loans, there was no way we could ever really make ends meet. Not in this city.
That's actually where I met Beth. We were both secre taries at a public-relations firm. They fired us both within the month when we came to work high. So
Stephen dropped out. Partly because of the money, partly to take care of me. He said the only experience he needed was in the real world. And I was too stupid to stop him. And besides, he was making more money doing that than I ever did working real jobs. And none of it was taxed."
"So he was working for ten years, making good money, obviously moving up the ladder," I said. "Again, why did he need the money?"
"We went through it fast," Helen said. "Stephen started using more, and I was a mess. We never saved much. One day, about a month ago, Stephen came home from work. I remember him coming in the door with this look on his face, and I just froze. He was so scared…oh
God, his eyes were wide and his face was pale and I thought he might have overdosed. He collapsed on our sofa and asked for a glass of water. When I brought it to him, he just sat there with the glass in his hand. Not drinking, just staring at the wall. Then my boy started to cry."
"Why?" I asked. "What happened?"
"He didn't tell me," Helen said. "All he said was, 'We need to leave. We need to get far, far away from this city.
When I asked him what the matter was, he just said,
'You're safer if you don't know. We'd both be safer if I didn't know either.' I looked into his eyes. They were bloodshot. Not from drugs, but from crying. He'd never spoken like that before in his life. I'd never seen him so scared, so terrified. So I told him we'd find a way."
I said, "My father told me he found a notepad in your apartment. It read 'Europe' and 'Mexico.' That's where you were thinking of going. Right?"
Helen nodded. "We didn't know where to go. What city or country. We wondered if Europe was too far, or if Mexico was far enough. Stephen just wanted to go far, far away. We barely had enough money to cover the rent."
"And that's why you called my father," I said. "For money to leave the country."
"It was a one-time thing," Helen said. "I figured after all those years, after what he'd done to me and our baby-that's right, our baby-the least he could do was help us start a new life."
I couldn't really argue with that. My father owed them far more than he could ever make up for.
"So you threatened to sue him," I said.
"I didn't know any other way. The old James Parker
I knew would rather burn his money than give it away."
"You couldn't say something a little more noble, like you needed it for a kidney transplant or something?
Maybe that would have tugged at his heartstrings a little more than the rehab story."
"I don't know how well you know your father,"
Helen said sardonically, "but he's not exactly the senti mental type."
I couldn't argue with that either.
"So he came into the city to see you, then what?"
"How much did he tell you?" she asked.
"He told me you pulled a gun on him," I said. "Is that true?"
Helen nodded. "Yes. But it was Stephen's gun. He kept it for protection. He taught me how to use it, just in case. I was scared, of your father and for Stephen. I got carried away."
"Where was Stephen during all of this?" I said.
"I'm not sure," Helen said. "He told me he was going to try and talk to someone. He said there was one person who might be able to do something if he knew the whole story."
"Oh God," I said. "He was with me. He was at the
Gazette waiting for me." I felt sick. I put that from my mind, tried to focus.
"My father said he took the gun from you. Is that true?"
"It is," Helen said.
"Would you be willing to testify to that? The police say my father's fingerprints were found on the gun. If you testify that they got there another way-other than him actually firing it-it will help his case."
"I don't know if I want to help his case," Helen said.
"As long as he's locked up, the cops aren't hunting the person who really killed my son."
"So you know it wasn't my father," I said. Helen said nothing. She turned away. Didn't even look at me. I was taken aback by this indifference. Stunned, I said, "Don't you care about your son's killer getting what he deserves?" I said.
Helen's face turned to stone. She said, "It must be nice to live in a world where everyone who deserves justice gets it. My son was taken from me. I tried to save him…help him save himself. And now he's gone. And let me tell you what I want now, Henry… I want to live.
And if living means letting this end, letting the people out there think that someone is taking the fall, I can't say that's an ending I dislike."
"You must know, though," I said. "You have to know who killed your son."
"I don't know for certain," Helen said. "After James and I had our…talk…he left for the airport. He put the gun back down. We both knew I wasn't going to use it.
And I knew that was the last time I would ever see your father."
"Then what did you do?" I asked.
"Then I went out. I needed a drink. Needed to smoke.
James didn't have that much money, only a few thousand dollars. I didn't know what was going to happen with Stephen. He was so scared, so afraid."
"So your choice then was to go out rather than see him."
"That's right. I did. I had to calm my nerves. I just needed something to get me by. And I thought if I could relax, I could figure out just how we were going to get out of the city. I must have been gone for, I don't know, two hours or so. When I came back to the apartment, I walked in and saw him…Stephen…facedown on the floor. Blood everywhere. And I just started screaming."
"And you felt you were in danger."
"I knew I was," Helen said. "Whoever killed him did it because they thought he knew something he wasn't supposed to. And if he knew, then chances were I would too. I left that night, before the cops ever came. And I remember the street, the quiet, the neighbors who didn't even know what had just gone on. I went right to BethAnn's apartment, and we went up to the lake. I had no idea they would find us there."
"So you didn't see who killed Stephen," I said.
"No. Just the people on the street. Neighbors, people I'd seen around before…" Helen trailed off, looked at Clarence.
"What is it, Mom?" he said.
"One man," Helen said. "There was one man standing on the street, staring at me as I left the apart ment. He was just there, standing by a lamppost, and I
could have sworn he was crying. And honest to God, I think that boy looked at me and said…"
"Said what?" I asked.
"Said he was sorry. And all I could think to do was run."
"I don't understand," I said. "Why didn't you call anyone? The cops? Someone?"
"Stephen told me a long time ago not to trust anyone in this city. He said the people he knew, the people he worked for, if they thought you might hurt them they would hurt you first, and hurt you worse than you could ever do to them. When he came home that night, scared out of his mind, he told me our only option was to run.
That if we told anybody, we would be in trouble. That's all he said. Trouble. But the thing is-" Helen stopped, looked at the floor.
"What is it?"
"The night he died," she said, "Stephen told me there might be one way out. He said he knew one person who might be able to help us. He knew about your father, about his family, and I told him there was a good chance
James Parker wouldn't give us a dime and we wouldn't be able to leave the country. So finally he told me there was one last option. There was someone he knew wasn't on the take, wouldn't hurt us. Someone who could give them more trouble than they ever imagined. He went out that night. Never told me who he was going to see. And then, a few hours later, he was dead."
It felt like a piece of coal was burning in the pit of my stomach. I knew Stephen had been talking about me.
For some reason, he considered me his last hope. And then he died. Because I didn't trust him.
"You said the night Stephen died, you saw someone outside the apartment. A young man crying. Who was he?" I asked.
"I don't know. It was dark out," Helen said, her voice sorrowful, apologetic. "And my mind, I was so confused, so scared. I didn't see his face. All I remember is noticing something on his neck…a birthmark. Such a young man, younger than Stephen even…"
I nearly fell to the floor. The room went blurry on me.
Clarence got up, came to my side, helped me stand.
"You okay?" he said.
I nodded, but felt anything but okay. I knew who that man was. And now I knew who killed Stephen.
And I knew where he lived.
31
"I have to go," I said, standing up. Right under my nose the whole time. My brother's killer. I didn't have time to talk to Helen. To worry about how disturbing it was that a mother would prefer to protect her own hide than find justice for her son's killer.
I couldn't think about how this might affect Helen.
She could be helped. She could be protected. And if her eyes hadn't deceived her that night, I knew who had killed Stephen Gaines.
"Tell me you'll be here," I said to Helen, looking at
Clarence. "I swear on my life I know people who can protect you. And if I'm right, you won't have to worry anymore, because the man who killed Stephen will be behind bars the rest of his life. There's nobody else who can hurt you."
"You don't know that," Helen whispered. "Stephen was much stronger than I ever was. And look what happened to him."
There was no boogeyman. No higher power. It was the law of the jungle. Kill or be killed. Stephen found himself on the shit end of that equation. And it was time for me to even the score.
"Please be here," I said. "If I'm right, you'll need to testify."
"If you're wrong," she said, "neither of us will be around long enough for it to matter."
I said nothing. I thanked Clarence for his help. Then, crossing over to Helen Gaines, I put my hand on her shoulder. The bones protruded, sharp angles. There was no muscle, no strength there. She was a skeleton with skin. A woman whose soul seemed to have left her long ago.
Helen Gaines smiled weakly at me. I didn't know if she would still be here later. There were only so many lives I could affect. My duty was to the truth, to uncover it at all costs.
"Watch after her," I said to Clarence. His nod told me he would.
I left Bernita's apartment, exiting the building. The sun was hanging bright and hot over the city. Every second seemed to take an hour. Every moment he breathed thinking he'd gotten away with murder was one that made my blood boil.
Before I left, I took out my cell phone and my wallet, then removed the thick stack of business cards that had turned brown from the leather. Shuffling through them,
I picked out the one I needed. Then I called the cell phone number listed.
"Detective Makhoulian," came the answer.
"Detective," I said, "it's Henry Parker. I know who killed Stephen Gaines."
I gave him the address and told him when to be there.
Only, I would be there ten minutes earlier. We needed some time alone.
I headed toward the subway, my mind completely clear except for the anticipation of what was about to come. The judicial system would have its turn. But first
I needed mine.
The train was hot, crowded and sticky. It only served to get my blood up. Once I got out downtown, the walk was short. My legs carried me faster than I knew they could. In my mind I could see images of the people I knew. Had known. And had never known.
My father.
My mother.
Jack.
And Stephen Gaines. The brother I never had.
I arrived on the block with half an hour to spare. I checked my watch every thirty seconds, trying to contain the rage building inside of me. Everything had led up to this.
I paced up and down, breathing steady, controlled. It wasn't easy. The last time I remembered feeling like this, helpless yet ready to explode, was several years ago when my then girlfriend Mya was attacked and nearly raped.
That night I paced the street, a fifth of vodka in a paper bag, praying I would somehow find the man who was cowardly enough to attack a woman half his size. Though
Amanda and I had been through some trying ordeals, to the point where I wondered if we would live to see the next day, we were both strong-willed people. We could overcome it. We knew that. Stephen wasn't strong enough to overcome his demons. He'd been seduced by the vial, the needle, and once they were in they were in for good.
And suddenly I turned around and there he was.
Wearing a brilliant suit, slightly disheveled after a long day's work. A briefcase slung over his shoulder. His shoulders were slumped as he walked, his eyes cast down to the street. As he got closer I could see the birth mark on his neck. The same one Helen Gaines saw the night he killed my brother.
He didn't see me waiting for him. That was probably for the best.
"Scott Callahan," I said.
Scotty's eyes snapped up to meet mine. At first he was confused, then a small smile crossed his lips when he recognized me. Then that smile disappeared when he realized I was not there for a social visit. Nothing like it.
"Henry?" he said, trying to understand what I was doing there.
I walked toward him. Picking up my pace with every step.
"Cops are on their way," I said, voice even, teeth gritted. Scott kept on walking, tentative, until we were just a few feet from each other. "But they won't be here for a little while. So we have some time to chat."
Scotty's face went an ashen gray. "The cops?" he said. "Wha…I don't understand. You promised me you'd keep my name out of this. Goddamn it, you promised me!"
"I promised I wouldn't turn you in for dealing. I was looking for something more. But I never said a word about keeping your name clean from murder, you piece of shit."
"Murder? What the hell…" Scotty was breathing hard. I saw his eyes flicker to the building next to us, where he lived. He was carrying nothing but his brief case and his wallet. There was nowhere to go. No place to hide.
And then, from the opposite end of the street, we both heard the faint shrill of police sirens. Scotty whirled around. The cops weren't within sight yet. He was sweating, nervous. Then all of a sudden Scotty came around and punched me in the stomach.
It wasn't a hard blow, but I was unprepared. Rather than buckling and try
ing to absorb the hit, it landed square in my gut, knocking the wind from me. I fell to a knee, gasping for air. Scotty began to run. So I did the only thing I could. I grabbed his ankle as he ran past.
Scotty's leg went out from under him, and he landed with a thud on the pavement. His briefcase went flying, fluttering pathetically in the wind. Forgetting about my own lack of air, I leaped up and pounced on him. I dug my knee into the small of his back, then rolled him over and reared back to deliver my own blow. Scotty brought his elbows up to protect his face, and my punch hit nothing but bone. The pain was terrible, but it dissipated in an instant. I connected with a solid right to Scotty's ear, knocking his face sideways. A scream escaped his mouth.
I threw another punch, but Scotty was able to block it, twisting sideways. I still hadn't recovered from his punch, so I was thrown off balance and fell off him. I managed to keep my hand on his shoulder, pulling him back down as he tried to get up.
Scotty was crawling for something; I couldn't see what. My face was still close to the ground, and I could smell the concrete. Then I heard a clang as something toppled over, and that was followed by a whoosh of air as he swung what appeared to be the lid of a garbage can at my head.
I managed to roll away, catching a glancing piece of the aluminum on my jaw. It stunned me and I fell back.
Scotty stood up, limping, clutching his knee. The sirens were growing louder. Not long ago the police had been after me, and I'd managed to escape. At least for a while. Scotty had lived here for years, knew every inch of the city. He had friends who would protect him. If
Helen Gaines, a frail junkie, could find a safe house, no doubt a dealer with innumerable contacts could as well.
I couldn't let him get away.
As Scotty began to run, I got to my feet, dived forward and tackled him from behind. His legs gave out, and Scotty screamed again as his knee slammed down on the ground. By this point I could see several