The Fury (2009)

by Jason - Henry Parker 04 Pinter

  Sheryl said, her gaze straight ahead. She spoke as if I

  was asking her about her previous employment. And I

  noticed she used the past tense— hadn’t. Most people,

  when discussing a recent death of a friend or family

  member, would slip up, say haven’t as though the

  person was still alive. Somehow I got the feeling this

  was a day Sheryl Harrison was prepared for.

  “Did she ever try to reach out to you?” I asked. “Or

  mention friends, associates, anyone?”

  “Mr. Parker,” Sheryl said, a hint of annoyance

  creeping into her voice. “I answered your question. My

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  mother and I were not close. Not even before I left the

  city. Yes, she did try to reach out once or twice. I didn’t

  return her phone calls.”

  “Why not?”

  “Perhaps you’re too young to have experienced this,

  but when someone hurts you so badly—I’m not talking

  about a faulty relationship or bad argument—I’m

  talking about hurts you in such a way that decimates

  you, your confidence, your life in such a way that the

  only chance you have to life is by cutting off a diseased

  limb, you don’t care or make an effort to reconnect. If

  anything, you stay away from it.”

  “What did your mother do to you?” I asked. This

  came out less incredulous than expected. If I didn’t

  grow up with a father whose mission in life seemed to

  be to alienate his family, this kind of revelation from

  Sheryl might have taken me aback. Instead, I under­

  stood, maybe even empathized with her.

  “What didn’t she do.” Sheryl sighed.

  “When you left,” I asked, “was it one act that drove

  you away, or did the camel’s back suddenly give out?”

  “A little of both,” Sheryl said. We turned right on

  Madison, began to walk uptown, my legs growing sore

  with the exertion. I was in good shape, but Sheryl

  Harrison looked like she was ready to compete in the

  Olympics. “But if there was one thing that I could point

  to that destroyed my relationship with my mother,” she

  continued, “it was the drugs.”

  I stopped for a moment. Sheryl did not stop with me,

  so I had to jog back to keep pace.

  “Drugs?” I said, surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when I left it was still the crack,” Sheryl said

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  with the blank expression of a clinical diagnosis. “I’m

  sure there were a few other things mixed in there—

  meth, weed—but it was the crack that burned her

  humanity from the inside out.”

  “She did this while she raised you,” I said.

  “I don’t think she was as heavily into it while I was

  a child, but by the time I got to high school it was like

  coming home to a woman who’d turned into a funhouse mirror.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “I don’t think Jesus smoked crack,” Sheryl said. For

  the first time, I heard a lightness in her voice, as though

  she was amusing herself. “And all those people who

  call you late at night to ask if God has a plan? I tell them

  God didn’t have a damn thing for me. He gave me a

  treasure map to a pile of dog shit, and I had to clean up

  after it myself. Finally I got tired and moved on.”

  “How long did your mother do drugs?” I asked. “Was

  it something she picked up?” I felt slightly off kilter

  with this line of questioning. Growing up, I’d experi­

  enced many forms of addiction of personal evils, both

  in my family, my relationships and my friends. I’d lived

  through Jack O’Donnell’s alcoholism. I’d seen first­

  hand what external poisons could do to a person inter­

  nally. One thing I’d never been exposed to on a personal

  level was a habitual drug user. Yet both of us had left

  family behind to free ourselves from their trappings.

  “Let’s see…how long did my mother use? My whole

  life,” Sheryl said. “You know you can pretty much make

  your own crack pipe using household materials. My

  dad died when I was a baby. One of my first memories

  was seeing all these pretty flowers my mother, Beth,

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  used to keep around the house. Pretty flowers inside this

  metal tubing. One day I brought one to school, and I got

  a belt across the back because of it. Turns out those

  little roses you buy at any gas station are actually crack

  pipes in disguise. You just take off the foil and remove

  the rose, stuff about an inch of Brillo pad into the tubing.

  That’s your filter. Take a rock and put it on the Brillo

  pad, then run a lighter over it, constantly rolling the

  tube between your fingers to make sure the rock burns

  easily. Some kids learn how to build sand castles, braid

  hair, make macaroni necklaces. I learned how to build

  a crack pipe.”

  “Do you know if your mother was still smoking it

  when she died?”

  “I’d be shocked as hell if she wasn’t,” Sheryl said.

  “And I remember there were days when my mother

  forget to pay her electric bills, and rather than own up,

  she’d just go with Helen up to that cabin. Don’t get me

  wrong, Henry, in some way I loved my mother. But I

  saw her death coming from miles away. It was only a

  matter of time before her life ended, and ended badly.

  But one thing I do know, that lovely Ms. Helen Gaines?

  She was the biggest enabler my mother ever had.”

  The words struck me like a punch. Helen Gaines? I

  knew Stephen had a habit, but Helen?

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Sheryl said. “Based on

  where they lived during that time, Alphabet City in the

  ’80s? Would’ve been a surprise if they didn’t end up

  addicts. I mean, I remember this WASPY-looking

  young punk always coming by the house to drop off

  whatever my mom had ordered. Remember his name

  too, Vinnie.”

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  “Vinnie?” I said, the surprise in my voice evident.

  Rose Keller had said that whenever she needed a new

  supply she would call some delivery system where

  they’d send over a guy named Vinnie. I had no idea how

  many Vinnies there were, but it was clear this system

  had been in place over a decade and was likely still in

  business today. This wasn’t just some petty drug deal,

  but something much larger.

  “Take that British singer, Amy Winehouse,” Sheryl

  said, “then multiply it by ten and that’s how bad my

  mother was. So my guess is this. If my mother was

  killed while hiding out with Helen Gaines, I’d bet my

  husband’s Infiniti it’s got something to do with drugs.

  And Stephen Gaines must have crossed some damn un­

  pleasant people.”

  17

  Rose Keller was home. This didn’t quite surprise me—

  most graphic designers worked freelance. So I figured

  she wasn’t the kind of person who w
oke up to an alarm

  clock at six forty-five, got dressed and grabbed a tall

  latte on the way to the office. When I called at eight in

  the morning, it was no great shock that Rose Keller

  sounded like a bear awoken from hibernation.

  Actually, she kind of reminded me of what Amanda

  sounded like before her first cup of coffee.

  One thing I learned early on when talking to sources:

  get them early, or get them late. During the day, everyone

  was at work. There was always an excuse not to talk. I

  hate to say this, but often a source would agree to talk

  to you if only to prevent you from ever interrupting their

  private time again. Probably the only time I would

  compare my profession to that of the noble telemar­

  keter.

  “I need a favor,” I said to Rose. I put the statement

  bluntly, accentuating the word need. Not want. Need.

  And since she was close to Stephen, and aware that I

  was tracking down his killer, she might be more apt to

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  accept the rather large, not to mention illegal, favor I

  was about to ask of her.

  “What can I do?” she replied. Good start.

  I filled her in on the details of Beth-Ann Downing’s

  murder, and the disappearance of Helen Gaines. I told

  her about my conversation with Sheryl Harrison, and the

  confession that her mother had maintained a ruthless

  addiction her whole life. The silence on the other end told

  me that Rose was well aware of why I was coming to her.

  When I finished, I asked if I could fill her in in

  person. She agreed, and I was on the next subway down­

  town to meet her.

  Before turning on to Rose’s block, I stopped at an

  ATM and withdrew two hundred dollars. I had no idea

  how much I’d actually need, but I figured better to have

  more money and not need it than need more money and

  not have it.

  When I got to her building, I buzzed up and she rang

  me through. She opened the door wearing a tank top and

  pajama bottoms. Her eyes were weary, deep bags

  settling under them like squished blueberries.

  “Morning,” I said.

  “Is it morning already?” she asked.

  I noticed the shades were all drawn, and there were

  no clocks in sight. Half a dozen wrapped candy bars

  were strewn around, as well as what looked like a

  month’s supply of Red Bull. It looked like the apartment

  was stocked and prepared for a bout of hibernation.

  “It’s almost 9:00 a.m.,” I said.

  “Huh. Didn’t realize it.”

  “Listen,” I said. “I have a favor to ask of you. A big

  one.”

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  “You said that already. What gives?”

  “I need you to order something from Vinnie,” I said.

  “I want to know who he works for.”

  Rose sat back in her overstuffed leather couch. The

  confident woman I’d just met looked like she’d just

  been swallowed up whole.

  “I’ve been clean for a long time,” she said. “I’ve put

  that behind me.”

  “I don’t want you to use anything,” I said, attempt­

  ing to clarify things but wondering if that mattered at

  all. “All I need is for whoever’s playing Vinnie this

  week to come here so I can follow him.”

  “So why don’t you call him yourself?”

  “They won’t know me,” I said. “They’ll trust you.

  I’m willing to bet that whoever these Vinnies work for,

  they keep a record of addresses, customers. The runners

  might be idiots, but their bosses never are. I intend to

  follow this guy, see where he goes, and I don’t want to

  chance being recognized. They know you.”

  Rose shook her head violently, as though shooing

  away demons that were swirling around. A pang of

  guilt thudded in my stomach, and I wondered if my onetrack mind in finding Stephen’s killer could hurt others

  as well. The last thing I wanted to do was encourage

  Rose to relapse, but…I didn’t know where else to turn.

  And I needed to know where the stream started. Or at

  least needed to find the next level.

  “I’ll do it,” Rose said. “But I won’t order anything

  stronger than weed, and I won’t pay for a cent of it.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “What’s the smallest amount

  you can order?”

  “You don’t want the smallest amount, trust me.”

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  “Why not?”

  “They’ll know my phone number. Let’s just say back

  in the day, I never ordered the smallest amount. Not to

  mention I haven’t ordered in a long time. If all of a

  sudden I call up and ask for one tab of ecstasy, they

  won’t believe me. Somebody who comes back to the

  stuff after such a long layoff, it’s because they fell off the

  wagon. Hard. We want to make the order sound realis­

  tic. You order a dime bag of schwag, he’ll laugh in your

  face and tell you it’s not worth his time. And then he’ll

  never take my call again because he’ll assume I’m

  turning on him. Cops on stakeouts are cheap. You want

  a real delivery, an ounce of decent weed will probably

  run you a hundred fifty or so, though I’ve been out of the

  game for a while so, you know, inflation and everything.”

  “Really? Inflation affects drug sales?”

  “We live in the United States, don’t we? You think

  people will pay more than four bucks for a gallon of gas

  but won’t pony up a Ben Franklin to get high with their

  friends?A gallon lasts until the next exit.A good high will

  give you stories that’ll last for years—if you can remember

  it. I’d go with this—order a quarter ounce of mids. Decent

  enough stuff, probably run seventy-five bucks. Enough so

  it’s worth the trip for them, but it won’t put a big crimp in

  your discretionary fund. That work, champ?”

  “Whatever you say. You call and order. When Vinnie

  buzzes up, just send a text message to my cell phone. I

  won’t respond, but that’s the signal that it’s the right

  guy. Then send me one more when he leaves, just to be

  sure.” I took out my wallet, peeled off two hundred

  dollars and handed it to Rose. “In case it’s more than

  you expect. Or you need to, like, tip him.”

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  “Tip the drug dealer,” she said, laughing. “Right.

  I’m sure he’ll take it back to the Dairy Queen and divide

  it up among his colleagues. What are you, some kind

  of nitwit? Didn’t you smoke in college?”

  “Once or twice,” I said, “but I don’t think anyone

  ever trusted me to handle the business transactions. I

  just assumed you tip people in the service industry.”

  “All right,” Rose said. “But after this, no more favors.

  I told you everything I know and then some, and now

  you have me risking my sobriety for you.”

  “It’s not for me,” I said. “It’s for Stephen.”

  “Are
you sure?” Rose asked, one eyebrow arched.

  “’Cause I’ve been around a lot of users before, every

  kind of drug you can imagine. I’ve seen too many

  friends die because of the pipe or needle. But not every

  addict smokes or drinks or inhales. A lot of them get off

  on other things. I see a little bit of that in you, Henry.

  You’re a bit of an addict, too.”

  I didn’t know how to reply to this, but something

  about it didn’t feel good. Rather than respond, I simply

  thanked Rose for helping, and went outside.

  I was still thinking about what she’d said when I

  found a park bench to sit on that afforded me a full view

  of her building’s entrance.

  Addict. I repeated the word to myself. It was a cool,

  sunny day, and if I weren’t tracking a drug dealer I

  could envision myself sitting here with Amanda,

  watching the families play. Young children growing up

  in a city that seemed to offer them brief pockets of

  respite, small guarded sanctuaries in between the play­

  grounds for millionaires.

  Addict.

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  It was an ugly word, one I never associated with

  myself. Yet when Rose said it, I felt an angry fire

  burning inside me. I wanted to argue with her, but

  somehow felt it would have strengthened her point.

  Addict.

  I watched the children play and wondered if she was

  right.

  My eyes stayed fixed to the building entrance. Every

  time someone entered—old, young, white, black,

  Hispanic—I would place my hand over the pocket

  holding my cell phone. It was set to vibrate. Every few

  minutes I would take it just to make sure I hadn’t missed

  anything. Nothing yet.

  An hour and a half passed, when a man wearing a

  Yankees hat approached the doorstep. He pulled out a

  cell phone, checked it, then went up the steps. He was

  young, maybe nineteen or twenty. He wore baggy jeans

  and a chain looped around from his belt to his back

  pocket where he kept a wallet. And most importantly,

  he was carrying a backpack.

  As he went to press the buzzer, another man walked

  up to the steps. He was wearing a dark suit with slickedback hair and sunglasses. An expensive-looking brief­

  case was in his hand. He was a few years older than hat

  guy, maybe twenty-four or -five, but looked like he

  lived in a totally different world. Not to mention bank

  account. Funny, I thought, that he was standing there