The Fury (2009)
Page 20
than I’d thought.
Though his posture was perfect and he betrayed no
sense of pain, there was still a slight limp evident in Curt’s
walk. I remembered seeing him lying there in a pool of
blood, holding back the pain, unwilling to let anything get
over on him. It was as though he was disgusted at himself
for showing weakness, taking the maxim “never let them
see you bleed” quite literally. If he was limping at all, he
was probably in more pain and discomfort than he let on.
We shook hands, and Curt ordered a beer. The bar
tender poured it from the tap, eyeing Curt while letting
the foam pour over, a thin smile on his thin lips. Once
he’d set the glass down and moved away, I said to Curt,
“Now batting for the other team…”
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“Don’t even start, Henry.”
“What? That’s a compliment. Any man who can
attract players from both dugouts is doing something
right. Besides, wearing that shirt, I wouldn’t be sur
prised if a few new dugouts spring up.”
“You know, Parker, I don’t even know what the hell
you’re talking about sometimes.” Curt sipped his beer.
“How’s the leg?” I asked, slightly apprehensive. It
would have been easier to ignore it, to pretend he’d
never been shot and there was nothing holding him
back. It would have been easier to sit here, drink and
carry on, pretend he wasn’t limping.
“It’s getting better,” he said. “Takes a while for the
muscle strength to build up, since they had to slice
through some muscle to repair the damage to the artery.”
Just hearing this made me wince. “Does it hurt?”
“When it’s cold out, yeah. Gets a little stiff on me.
Plus, it’s a little numb by my toes, on account of them
having to go through some nerves, too. Docs aren’t sure
that’ll ever come back. Not a big deal, though.”
I wanted to scream at him and ask how that could not
be a big deal, but I supposed if you took a bullet in an
artery and that was the worst-case scenario, you tended
to think on the bright side of things.
“Tell you one thing,” Curt continued, “I’m going to
have to start wearing gloves, they got me filling out so
many forms. Feel like I’m a supporting cast member
on The Office or something. The black dude who
stands in the corner with paper cuts on every finger.
How’s Amanda?”
“She’s doing well,” I said. “Been a huge help on
this thing with my dad. Without her he’d probably
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still be sitting in an Oregon prison claiming not to be
James Parker.”
“She’s a good one, my man. Glad you finally made
amends for all that crap you pulled breaking up with
her.”
“It wasn’t like I was just breaking up with her,” I said,
taking another pull on my drink. “I thought I was doing
the right thing, being noble.”
“Nobility isn’t about telling someone what you think
is right for them. It’s doing the right thing, period.
Girls’s a grown woman, she can make her own deci
sions. What you did was selfish, and it was to alleviate
your own guilt over what happened to her and Mya. You
felt like if you broke things off, you could feel as if you
were protecting them. Just not so. I don’t claim to be
Mr. Perfect Relationship, but there’s give-and-take.
You’re with someone, you’re their partner. It was
selfish, bro, own up to it.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “And trust me, I know
I screwed up. And I’m atoning for it.”
“How?”
“For starters, I cook every Friday night.”
“You a good cook?”
“If by ‘good’ you mean she’s able to swallow one
forkful without gagging, then yeah, I’m a good cook.”
Curt sipped his drink, then shifted his weight, a small
grimace spreading over his face. It was a brief reaction
and certainly unintentional, but for some reason it made
my stomach feel hollow.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“’Course, man.You sound serious all of a sudden, you
got a month to live or something?” he said, laughing.
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I smiled, drank. “You ever feel like I do more harm
than good? As a person?”
Curt looked at me. He could tell I was serious. “Not
quite sure why you say that,” he said. “But it feels to
me like you might be having a little pity party.”
“It’s not that,” I said. “I’m over all that. I just feel like
over the last few years…I mean, look at it. Mya.
Amanda. You. My dad. Just feels like all these people
I’m supposed to be close to get hurt. Not to mention this
guy who got killed the other day.”
“What guy?’ Curt asked.
I filled him in on the details of Hector Guardado and
the briefcase. He sat there, focused, listening intently.
He nodded when I brought up Detective Makhoulian,
said he’d met the guy once or twice and that he seemed
like he was on the up-and-up.
Often it took a good cop to recognize a good cop, so
it was reassuring to hear Curt say that.
Though my first few months in the city I’d been dis
trustful of cops—and who could blame me since two
of them tried to kill me for erroneous reasons—recently
I’d begun to settle back in, believing that guys like Mak
houlian were truly here to serve and protect. Just
because most of them didn’t like me didn’t mean I
didn’t have respect for them.
“And you think this guy Guardado is somehow tied
in to your brother’s death?” he said.
“Probably not directly, but I caught Guardado
coming out of a building where I saw a bunch of other
drug couriers signing in to a company called 718 Enter
prises. I couldn’t find much on them, but I’m pretty sure
Stephen might have worked for them at some point.”
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“Selling drugs,” Curt said.
“That’s right.”
“And what’s the name of that company you men
tioned? 718?”
“718 Enterprises,” I repeated.
Curt scratched his nose, downed the rest of his
beer. “Not sure why, but for some reason that name
sounds familiar.”
“That means it’s likely not a good thing,” I said.
Curt shook his head, thinking. “Give me some time
tonight, I’m going to go back and dig into some of the
files, ask around.”
“Curt, you don’t have to do that, I—”
“Don’t even start. I need to get some action, so don’t
look at this as a favor from me to you, but an excuse for
me to get back on the horse.”
“Then giddyup, cowboy,” I said.
“You know damn well there were no black cowboys,
and no, I don’t count Mel B
rooks movies.”
“Actually I think there were,” I said. “I know a little
about the Old West.”
“You being cute with me?” Curt said.
He stood up. We’d finished just one beer, but I could
tell he was motivated. And since his motivation might
answer a few questions, who was I to stop him?
“Keep your cell on, I’ll give you a call tonight,” he
said. We shook hands and gave an awkward fist-bump
man hug that I always felt silly doing but practiced
nonetheless.
We both left the club, Curt hailing a taxi while I
headed toward the subway. I hadn’t known Curt to
spend money on cabs too often, he preferred to walk or
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use public transportation. That he was willing to spring
for a cab meant his leg was bothering him enough to
forgo the walk to the bus stop.
I arrived home a little past nine. Amanda greeted me
with a hug and a kiss and a plate of cold spaghetti. She
was wearing an oversize gray sweatshirt and a pair of
light blue boxer shorts, and looked absolutely adorable.
Even the rumples of the sweatshirt couldn’t hide the
body beneath, and I made sure to squeeze her extra
tight during our hug.
Changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I sat down at the
table and dug into the food. She’d sprinkled a light
sheet of parmesan over the tomato sauce.
“I can warm that up for you,” she said.
“It’s actually good like this,” I said. “I ran some track
back in high school and always ate cold pasta before
meets. It always tastes better cold than reheated.”
I proved this by shoveling another forkful in my
mouth and grinning.
As I finished the meal, I couldn’t help but think about
how just yesterday a briefcase full of drugs had
occupied the tabletop. Now the owner was dead, and it
frightened me to think that whoever Hector Guardado
was working for, his life was expendable compared to
the contents of the briefcase.
And I wondered, again, why my brother’s name was
in a dead drug dealer’s cell phone. And why Hector
Guardado had called him once and only once, the night
Stephen was murdered.
And as I sat there chewing and thinking, my cell
phone rang.
Rummaging through the pile of laundry on the floor,
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I pulled the phone from my pocket, clicked Send. I rec
ognized the prefix as coming from Curt’s precinct.
“This is Henry,” I said.
“It’s Curt.”
“You find anything?” I said, beginning to feel that
familiar rush of apprehension and excitement. Then I
remembered what I’d told Wallace, promising that my
mind was still with the paper. I had to think about all
this information both as a son and a reporter.
“You could say that. Now I know why the name 718
Enterprises sounded familiar. You sitting down?” he
said.
“Yes,” I lied.
“Your boys Gaines and Guardado, they’re not the
only ones.”
“What do you mean?”
“Five bodies, Henry. Christ, what have you gotten
into.”
I stood there, listened, feeling dread pour through
me.
Curt continued, saying, “Five young men murdered,
the coroner’s reports all suggesting the use of a silenced
pistol. All gunshots from close range, all executionstyle. Assumed that the victims knew their killers. So
if that’s true, these guys were all killed just like Stephen
Gaines. Which means all five people were somehow
connected to this 718 Enterprises. And all of them killed
in the past three months. It’s not just Gaines and
Guardado, man. Somebody is systematically taking out
everyone who works for that organization.”
25
When I was finally able to wrap my head around what
Curt had just told me, I sent an e-mail off to Wallace
Langston informing him of our conversation and what
I’d learned. There had to be some sort of story in what
Curt had told me, and I wanted to let Wallace know my
mind was still sharp, I was still committed to the
Gazette, and that at some point I’d have a hell of a pageone exclusive for him.
As always Wallace showed excitement for the pos
sibility of the story, but again expressed concern that I
was too often finding myself in situations where uncov
ering a story would put myself or others in harm’s way.
The fact was I’d never been to Iraq, never reported on
a war from the trenches, so neither he nor I could state
that any danger I found myself in could compare. Bad
things happened to find me. So be it. If I was still re
porting about cute kittens and big ugly metal spiders—
I mean, works of art—I would have impaled myself on
a number-two pencil by now.
And as much as it energized me to think of this as a
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story, I knew it helped distract from the apprehension I
had over finding the truth.
Five young men murdered, all with connections to
718 Enterprises. I had no idea what the company did,
but the name and address were clearly a front for some
thing. And somehow, after Helen Gaines brought him
to New York, my brother had begun to work for them.
If only he were alive today. If only I’d waited on that
street corner. If only I’d heard what he had to say.
According to Curt, when the dead mens’ bodies were
investigated, a phone number attributed to 718 Enter
prises was found on their call lists. When dialed, the
numbers led nowhere, and in fact each man’s cell had
a different number credited to 718. This cemented my
feeling that Stephen Gaines’s murder was one part of
something much bigger, much broader, and that not
only did my father’s freedom and his son’s killer hang
in the balance, but potentially much more.
Amanda was asleep. Nights like this I would often
find myself sitting on the couch in our living room. No
music playing, no television. No noise at all beyond
what the city offered.
It took a few minutes to realize it, but it began to
dawn on me just how strange my world had become.
Nearly ten years ago I’d left the confines of Bend,
Oregon. In part because my ambition drew me to more
crowded, deeper waters. I was tired of living in what I
felt was a small world, confined to a small house made
even smaller still by the discomfort of being around my
parents. I longed for adventure, mystery.
I wanted to make a name for myself, and thought
nowhere better to do that than in the city that never sleeps.
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213
Now, however, I found myself glad for any quiet
that nighttime offered. The fact that my windows
weren’t soundproof and I could hear car horns and
alarms all hours of the
night only made the feelings
more intense. On those rare nights when I could hear
nothing but the hum of my air conditioner, night as I
knew it reminded me of those old days in Bend. Those
quiet nights I lay restless in my bed, longing for noise
that proved I was somewhere, had become someone.
Having been on the front page, having people know my
name and my face, it was everything I wanted but
nothing I’d expected.
Not for the first time I wondered if perhaps I’d be
happier elsewhere, if Amanda and I lived in a place
where I could report in a town where the media wasn’t
the focus of the media itself, where good work could
be done out of the spotlight.
Where nobody else would get hurt.
News was in my blood. Had been for a long time. But
was this what I wanted, what I’d dreamed of? At first it
had been. That first day at the Gazette, seeing Jack
O’Donnell at his desk, the first time I read my own
byline, each of these was one of those moments in your
life that you remember for years. What was happening
now, though, I didn’t want to remember. But if my father
was going to survive, and if Stephen Gaines’s killer was
going to be brought to justice, I sure as hell couldn’t
forget.
It was only a few days before my father went in front
of a grand jury. That jury would more than likely indict
him for the murder of his own estranged son. No doubt
once that judgment was passed along, my father would
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go through the same ringer I did when I was wrongly
accused of the crime. Only for him, he would be incar
cerated, a slab of meat lying in a cage for the wolves to
pick at whenever they chose. Even though I escaped
with a pierced lung, my ordeal never made it to court.
I had to get my father out before that took place.
There was one person who had knowledge of 718
Enterprises. One person who likely knew both Hector
Guardado and my brother. One person I knew enough
about to make him listen.
I had to wait about eighteen hours before I could
confront him.
It was going to be a long day.
I sat on the front stoop sipping from a cup of coffee,
one of those great, old-fashioned cups that were made
of cardboard and had cute little illustrations of mugs
with wings on the side. Coffee cups these days seemed
to be tall, sleek models that looked more like tubes of
enriched uranium than something you drank to wake up