next to a drug dealer and didn’t even realize it.
They both pressed the buzzer and waited. When they
were rung through they both entered, the nicely dressed
guy holding the door for the young punk.
Ten minutes after the door closed, I felt my cell
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phone vibrating. I took it out, looked at the call log. It
was Rose. Jackpot.
Adrenaline began to course through me. As soon as
hat guy came through the door, I was prepared to go
wherever he did. My hands were sweating. I was ready.
Then the front door opened, and a man stepped
through. Only it wasn’t the young guy with baggy pants
and a backpack that looked sketchier than a forty-year
old at a dance club. It was the young-executive type.
I looked at him with intense skepticism, debating
whether to wait until the other guy came through. This
guy didn’t look anything like a dealer. He looked too
well off, and I doubted most drug dealers bought their
briefcases at Coach.
It couldn’t be. The guy was young, looking like he’d
just stepped out of his b-school graduation. He was
about five foot ten, in terrific shape. There was a small,
moon-shaped birthmark on the front of his neck, and he
gripped the briefcase so tight it looked as if it could
crumble in his hands.
Then, as the man began to walk away, I saw him stop,
look at his briefcase. He picked it up, clicked a loose
clasp into place, then walked away.
Then my cell phone vibrated. The screen had a text
message from Rose. It read
Gordon “Vinnie” Gekko has just left the building.
That sealed it. This man about town was Vinnie.
Waiting until he was half a block ahead of me, I
began to follow. He walked north to Fourteenth Street,
when he stopped for a moment to look at his cell phone.
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I stopped as well, retreating into the shadow of an elec
tronics store. When he put the phone back in his pocket,
he began to look around. His eyes caught something,
and suddenly he turned and jogged across the street. He
zigged between several cars, making it impossible for
me to follow him without drawing attention to myself.
Instead, I watched in between traffic as he approached
a pay phone. I saw him put money in the machine and
make a call. He hung up less than fifteen seconds later.
No doubt he was calling whatever number had just
come up on his cell phone. Briefcase man had another
delivery to make.
He turned West on Fourteenth Street and made his
way to what I assumed was the Union Square subway
stop.
I picked up the pace, narrowing the gap between us
to thirty feet or so. I wanted to remain behind him, but
if he was heading for the subway, losing him in the
bustle of pedestrians was a chance I didn’t want to take.
He went down into the subway, paid his fare and
headed for the 6 train. I followed.
He went down the two flights of stairs onto the 6
train platform. I followed ten feet behind. He walked
halfway down the platform then stopped and waited. I
stopped two car lengths away, and hung out behind a
steel column, peeking out every now and then to make
sure he was still there.
The 6 train rattled into the station. My heart was
pumping. I wanted to run up and grab this guy, make
him give up everything he knew. But that would cut off
my only source of information. And unless I killed him,
he would tell whoever he worked for what happened,
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and the whole thing would clam up faster than a mute
on the witness stand. And while I was willing to do a
whole lot to figure out just what exactly happened that
night at Helen Gaines’s apartment, murder wasn’t on
my approved list of actions.
The man stepped into the car, and I got into the
adjacent one, making sure I could see him through the
separating window. For a moment I had a sense of déjà
vu, remembering that it was not too long ago when I
was on the subway running from two men who wanted
me dead. Funny how the tides turn.
The doors closed, and the man took a seat. That
likely meant we were traveling a few stops. I stayed
standing, not wanting to lose sight due to a bad angle.
This was slightly awkward considering there were half
a dozen open seats and I was the only person standing
in our car. Still, I’d rather be considered an antisocial
weirdo than lose the rabbit.
Every stop I braced myself in case my target left.
Finally as we approached the Seventy-seventh Street
subway stop, I saw him stand up, check to make sure
his briefcase was still looped around his shoulder and
approach the door. I didn’t move.
When the train stopped, a mass of passengers exited.
The Seventy-seventh Street stop was right by the
entrance to Lenox Hill Hospital. This Upper East Side
location was right near a large residential area. Though
heavily populated, it wasn’t as crowded as Union
Square or one stop higher, Eighty-sixth Street.
The man walked east across Seventy-seventh. I
followed him. Between First and Second Avenues, he
went up to a brick town house, stopped in front of it. I sat
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on a small brick outcropping and pretended to tie my
shoe. He took out his cell phone, looking like he was
double-checking something, then went up the stairs and
pressed a buzzer. I heard a ring, then he said something
but I couldn’t hear what. He opened the door and walked
in.
I retreated around the corner, peeking back every
few seconds to make sure I didn’t lose him.
I only had to wait five minutes, then the man was
back outside and walking west, toward me. My heart
raced. If he was dealing—or delivering—drugs, this
seemed to fit the profile. Short and sweet. No chitchat.
Just in and out, over and done. Pay the man his money.
And the bulge in the briefcase even seemed to have
gone down a little bit.
I bought a bottle of water at a corner store as he
walked past, then I got back into our familiar pace. I
needed to see how many stops he made, see if anything
interesting presented itself. I decided to follow him the
rest of the day. I took out my cell, and sent Amanda a
text message.
Got a lead. Will call when I can.
Don’t wait up.
If I were a girlfriend and my boyfriend sent me that
kind of text, I’d probably scour the city looking for
him, half expecting to find him in the arms of some
illicit lover. But I trusted Amanda. And after everything
we’d been through, I believed she trusted me back.
My phone vibrated. I took it out, checked the
message.
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Go get em, Tiger.
God, I loved this woman.
The man with the briefcase made four more stops the
rest of the day: 124th and Broadway, Ninety-eighth and
Broadway, and then back downtown to Fourteenth
between Fifth and Sixth. Each time I noticed the bag on
his shoulder became a little easier to carry. It swung at
greater arcs as he carried it. As his stash grew lighter,
the bag weighed him down less.
During his journey, I decided that I would follow him
home. I had no idea what to expect, or what I would say
to this man. But I needed to know where someone like
him lived. And I needed to know where I could find him
again.
It was nearing eleven o’clock. My legs were getting
heavy. Vinnie had just downed his third bottle of water
of the day. So when I followed him to the N train, the
night having fully descended over the city, I hoped this
would be our final ride of the day.
Vinnie rode the N train to the Canal/Broadway stop.
He looked weary, his eyes fluttering open and closed as
his breathing grew deeper. I knew how he felt. My
muscles felt sluggish. Private detective work was cer
tainly not a calling I was prepared for. Spenser I was
not.
Where he sat, Vinnie opened his bag and dug through
it. He pulled out an MP3 player, then scrounged around
some more. He seemed unable to find something. Then
he turned the bag upside down and shook it. A thin
white wire fell out. He picked it up, plugged one end
into the MP3 player and took the two earbuds and fit
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them into his ears. Then he pressed a button on the
player and relaxed.
No doubt this was the last stop. When he turned the
bag upside down, not a thing fell out. No bags, no foil,
no vials.
Vinnie was heading home.
I followed him out of the station. At this point I
probably could have walked right next to him and he
wouldn’t have noticed or recognized me. He walked
two blocks west and one block south before approach
ing a row of town houses. He was walking slowly, but
then all of a sudden his head perked up.
Another young man was walking down the street in
the other direction. He looked to be the same age as the
guy I was following, maybe a year or two younger. He
was wearing loose jeans, sneakers, a Mets cap with the
brim turned sideways. The other guy’s head snapped up,
too, in a familiar greeting.
These two men knew each other. They slowed down
as they approached. I slipped behind a wall, out of
sight, but easily able to hear every word they said.
“S’up, Scotty?” the other man yelled as they got
closer.
“SSDD,” my guy, apparently Scotty, yelled back.
Same shit, different day.
As they got closer, their voices lowering, I heard
Scotty say, “What’d you pull in today?”
“Four-fiddy. Would’ve been more but these trustfund princesses thought they could get a taste for free
if they shoved their tits in my face. Don’t need to tell
them I can get that on my own. How ’bout you?”
“Five-twenty,” Scotty said, a note of pride in his
voice. “And that’s after the man takes his cut.”
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“Better than serving lattes,” the other guy said. “I’m
cleaned out for the night. Gotta re-up in the morning.”
“Same here,” Scotty said. “How’s your moms
doing?”
The other guy shrugged. “Her hair hasn’t started
falling out yet, but the docs say it’s a matter of time.”
He scratched his nose. “She’s strong as a bull. Wouldn’t
mind moving out on my own like you, but not while
she’s like this.”
“Give her my best, bro’.”
“Will do. Hey, meet on the corner tomorrow morning
at seven? Go over together?”
Scotty nodded. “Sounds like a plan. ’Night, Kyle.”
“Later, Scotty.”
The kid named Kyle kept on walking, as Scotty
entered his building.
I stood there stunned as Kyle passed by me.
Re-ups tomorrow morning. I knew what that meant.
They’d both cleaned out their stash today, and would
need to restock tomorrow to make more deliveries. It
meant they weren’t working for themselves, and they
didn’t keep any drugs at their houses. Somebody held
them for re-upping. And there was enough to resupply
at least two soldiers.
Which meant that if Scotty and Kyle were going to
meet at seven, I would be there waiting for them.
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
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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.
<
br /> 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
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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.
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“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
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