The Fury (2009)
Page 30
public being aware of it. His only hope was to cause a
big enough story that he would be forgotten. That he
could disappear in the maelstrom.
But he was killed before he could ever come clean.
And his story was about to die as well.
Kyle then took the gun and placed it in Scotty’s dead
hand. He wrapped his own finger around Scotty’s in the
trigger guard and aimed it at me.
Just then a car sped onto the block. It was a black
CrownVictoria. Kyle’s attention turned from me to the car.
The door opened.And out got Detective Sevi Makhoulian.
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“Freeze, police!” the officer yelled. Kyle couldn’t
turn away from Makhoulian. A strange look crossed his
face, and I swear the gun began to lower. He was going
to give up.
And then three successive explosions turned the air
into a thunderstorm, and Kyle Evans’s body was flung
backward onto the street. He landed next to Scotty, his
friend, Kyle’s eyes and mouth open.
I turned to Makhoulian, hands covering my ringing
ears. He was saying something to me, but I couldn’t
hear the words.
He walked closer, gun at his side, the flashing lights
now on our block. I felt the detective’s large hand on
my elbow. He was mouthing, Henry, are you all right?
I knew instinctively that my voice wouldn’t work, so
I nodded. Then I turned back to see the dead littering
the street.
33
One week later
LaGuardiaAirport was surprisingly empty.We bought
a couple of coffees at a java stand in the food court. I
waited while he came back from the newsstand,
carrying a bag with a paperback book and a copy of the
Gazette.
My father was thinner than I’d ever seen him. His
eyes were sunken and his skin wrinkled. Gray hair
taking up most of whatever was left. My father no
longer looked angry; he just looked old.
Prior to a few weeks ago, I hadn’t seen James Parker
in years. My family was a memory, one I’d longed to
forget. If you leave a person, your memory retains your
last image of them. My last image of my father was an
angry middle-aged man. Now he sat here, one step from
broken, waiting for a flight back home.
“Mom’s picking you up in Portland?” I said.
“That’s what she said,” my father answered, as
though not believing her.
“If she says she’ll be there she’ll be there.” He
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nodded, thinking more about it and agreeing with me.
I popped the top off my coffee and took a sip. Strong
and sweet. “At least you’ve got a great story for your
bowling league.”
“I missed three league tournaments,” he said, resent
ment in his voice. “I’m sure they replaced me by now.”
“Didn’t you once tell me you had a 187 average? I’m
sure they’ll want that back in the rotation.”
“One-eighty-seven, huh?” he said, thinking. “That
seems a tad high. Maybe one-forty.”
“Still not too shabby.” He shrugged his shoulder,
then took the lid off his coffee and took a long gulp.
When he set the cup back down, there was a scowl on
his lips. “You know, prison food gets a bad rap. The
eggs and joe down there weren’t half-bad.”
“If you really want, I’m sure you could figure out a
way to go back.”
“S’alright. Hopefully my TiVo recorded all the Law
& Order episodes I missed.”
“At least your priorities are straight again.” He
nodded, missing the joke.
“You told me you saw Helen,” my father said,
looking back at me. He actually looked concerned. Even
sad.
“She’s in rehab,” I said. “The state is paying for it.
Clarence Willingham is quite a guy. She has some good
people looking out for her.”
“I never got to tell her I was sorry,” he said.
“I have her address,” I said. “Write her a letter. She’d
appreciate that.”
“Maybe I will.” The way he said it let me know that
no such thing would ever be done.
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Jason Pinter
“So they got the guys who did it. Who killed
Stephen.”
“They’re both dead. The real killer, Kyle Evans, tried
to frame his friend. Then the cops killed him.”
“Good riddance,” he said. “It’s all tied up with a
pretty pink bow. I never want to set foot in this city
again.”
“I still don’t fully get it,” I said. “If Stephen was
really as high up as Kyle and Scott said he was, did he
really need to leave the country to get away from them?
And if they were able to get close enough, obviously
Stephen didn’t think they were a threat. Which makes
me wonder just who Stephen was afraid of.”
“No disrespect to the dead,” my father said, “but I
don’t think any of those boys were in their right mind.”
“And the cop, Makhoulian. I’m glad he worked so
fast to get you out. I just didn’t think he needed to kill
Kyle. He looked like he was giving up.”
“You’re saying the guy who killed your brother
should have lived?”
“One death doesn’t always merit another. We have a
justice system.”
“Which would have probably screwed up somehow
and either let that boy walk on a technicality, put him in
some cushy detention facility because some quack doctor
on somebody’s payroll said he has woman issues. Or he’d
be out in enough time to kill somebody else’s son. I don’t
know what’s going on in this city, Henry, but being
among criminals day in and day out is no way to live.”
“Maybe I’ll move back home with you and Mom,”
I joked. That made him laugh. He checked his
boarding pass.
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“I should head to the gate. They’ll probably give my
ticket to some freak if I’m not there on time.”
His flight didn’t board for another hour, but the
Parker family bonding hour had run its course. We both
stood up. My dad stepped forward, then wrapped his
arms around me, the most tentative hug I could imagine.
I returned it. Just a little stronger.
“Thank you for your help,” he said. The feeling was
genuine. He wasn’t going to apologize for the years
before that, and I wasn’t going to ask him to.
“Take care of yourself,” I said. “And please take care
of Mom. Do me one favor?”
He frowned. “What?”
“Mom was knitting something when I saw her in
Bend. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to have it.”
“I’ll tell her,” he said.
“And if you change your mind and decide to take a
vacation in NYC, at least give me a call.”
“I will. And give my best to your girlfriend. She
seems like a catch.”
be in jail.”
“Guess I owe her a thank-you then. Pass it on for
me, will ya?”
“I will. And Dad?”
“Yeah, Henry.”
“I’m sorry too. About Stephen. I wish I’d had a
chance to know him. Maybe we could have saved him.”
His eyes closed as he took a deep breath. When he
opened them, he sighed and said, “Take care, Henry. It’s
good to see I raised you right.”
Then he was gone.
34
We were almost done packing. After several years in
that apartment, the time had come to say goodbye
before the floor gave out or a black hole opened up that
sucked us into some alternate universe. A man can only
face so many attempted assaults on his doorstep before
rethinking his living situation. And since I’d already
been thinking about more space, when Amanda agreed
with me it made sense. My lease was up in a few weeks.
It was as good a time as any to start over.
We were submerged amongst folded cardboard
boxes, masking tape, clothes, books, papers and every
thing else you forget about and probably have no need
for. My books took up the most room. I packed all of
my first-edition Jack O’Donnell tomes in a padded box,
reinforced with enough masking tape to hold up the
Brooklyn Bridge. My clothes were another story. There
were two small boxes marked Henry’s Clothes. They
weighed about as much as a pizza.
“You know,” Amanda said, “you could have saved on
the moving van and just rented a bike. You could have
fit all your stuff into one of those E.T. baskets.”
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“I’m not a shopper, what do you want from me?”
“Not a shopper?” she said, putting down her Sharpie.
“Even being able to use the word shopper implies that
you have, in fact, shopped in your life. I’m guessing
most of these clothes survived from college, or else the
local Salvation Army dropoff is pretty bare. When we
get settled, first thing we’re doing is taking you on a
proper shopping spree. You could use a new suit. And
new pants, new shirts, and don’t get me started on your
underwear.”
“Is this what we’ll be like five years from now?” I
said, smiling. I went up to Amanda, wrapped my arms
around her. She snuggled in, resting her head on my
shoulder. “On each other’s cases about clothing and
stuff?”
“I’m playing with you, you big baby.” She tilted her
head up until I was staring into those beautiful eyes.
“Besides, I just want the best for you.You’re great at your
job. I just want people to know that just by looking at you.”
“You know that just by looking at me.”
“Hopefully, most people won’t need to wake up next
to you in the morning in order to know you’re the best
young reporter in the city.”
“Best young reporter?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Give it time, Henry.”
I gave her a quick kiss, then went back to packing.
Though there were enough bad memories here to make
me want to run away from this block screaming like a
banshee, I’d miss it ever so slightly. Like that crazy first
girlfriend who showed up at your apartment drunk at
4:00 a.m. and burned all your CDs when you broke up,
there would be a small (well-guarded) place for it in my
heart.
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Jason Pinter
I wished there would be room for Stephen Gaines in
my heart, but I couldn’t force what was never there. I
don’t know how many people have pasts that exist
without their knowledge. There was more to Stephen’s
life than what I’d uncovered. He’d lived for thirty years,
abandoned by his family, given up by his father. The
man who killed him had faced the most severe retribu
tion possible. Yet a lingering doubt still remained, as I
could see him on that street corner, tortured by some
thing. Not Scotty Callahan. Not Kyle Evans.
Having dealt in vice for ten years, Stephen had seen
more evil than most men did their whole lives. To do
what he did took resolve, the knowledge that you were
bringing poison into the world, that you couldn’t be
scared of the consequences. Every day could have
brought jail or death. Yet he kept on living that life. And
finally the odds caught up with him.
So what scares a man who isn’t afraid of losing his
freedom or his life?
My cell phone rang. It was the moving van. They
were here to pick up our furniture, though we’d be
lucky if it made it to their warehouse without disinte
grating. I answered, and a hoarse voice told me the van
would be there within fifteen minutes. I turned to
Amanda, said, “Moving company’s almost here. Should
we, like, start bringing stuff down?”
She looked at me like I’d just admitted to wearing
women’s underwear. “Henry. They’re a moving
company. We pay them to move us. That’s their job.”
“I know, I just feel a little silly watching people carry
all my stuff.”
“This is New York. If you can pay four bucks for a
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coffee and not feel bad, paying someone to carry and
store your crap shouldn’t even register on the guilty-o
meter. So enjoy it, babe. It’s not too often people are
going to do your heavy lifting for you.”
Suddenly the buzzer rang. “That was quick,” I said.
“They told me fifteen minutes.”
I went over to the window, expecting to see the truck
and some burly, impatient men. Instead, I saw just one
man standing on the street. He was wearing brown pants
and a blue shirt that was untucked and flapping in the
wind. He turned up to look at me, palms facing upward
as if to say, Are you gonna let me in or what?
“No way,” I said. Amanda came over to join me at
the window. She looked out.
“Who is that?” she asked.
“It’s Jack,” I replied.
“I thought he was…”
“In rehab. Me, too. I guess he’s out.”
“Well, you should go…”
I was out the door and running down the stairs before
she could finish her sentence.
The steps couldn’t be passed fast enough. I hadn’t
seen Jack in months, since his name was dragged
through the mud and he disappeared to presumably
battle his internal demons. He’d left no forwarding
address, no note. And now he was here, at my doorstep.
I had so many questions to ask I hoped he didn’t have
plans for the next year.
When I arrived on the first floor, I sprinted through
the lobby and burst through the front door. Jack O’Don
nell was standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets.
Then he took them out, checked his watch.
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Jason Pinter
“Forty-three seconds from buzzer to outside. Not
quite Olympic caliber, but not too shabby for a guy
who sits in front of a computer most of the day.” I didn’t
know what to say. So I just went up to Jack and threw
my arms around him. He stumbled backward, saying,
“Easy now, Henry.”
When I untangled myself, I took my first real look
at Jack in months. His gray hair was neatly combed, if
slightly disheveled due to the weather. His face had
none of the red ruddiness I was used to, and his cheeks
seemed fuller. Jack’s beard was neatly trimmed, cut
razor sharp along his jawline, and he looked like he’d
put on a few pounds.
“You look good,” I said, patting him on the shoulder.
“Scratch that, this is the best I’ve seen you look since
we meet. Where have you been?”
“Away,” Jack said. “We can discuss the wheres and
whys later. Just think of what I went through as dialysis
of the soul.”
“I’m getting a disturbing image of you passing
Ghandi through your urethra.” Jack laughed, a quick ha.
“It’s good to see you, kid. Been a long time. I spoke
to Wallace before. He filled me in on what you’ve been
up to, you busy little bee.”
“You already talked to Wallace?”
“Hell, yes, my young friend, I spent all of last night
in the office, getting reacquainted with my computer.
Making sure nobody stole my Rolodex. And asking
him for permission to chase one particular story.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“Well,” Jack said, “while I was on my little sabbati
cal, I got the Gazette delivered to me every day. Gen
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erally it was the same old stuff. World’s going to hell
in a handbasket, the dollar can barely buy so much as
a loaf of bread, foreign investors are buying the Statue
of Liberty. And Paulina Cole still has a job. All things
that make you want to hide under your bed and cry.
Then I read one story last week, and that’s when I knew
I was ready to step back into the light.”
“What story was that?” I asked.
“Stephen Gaines’s murder,” Jack said. His face was
now solemn. The grin gone.
“I didn’t write that.”
“I know you didn’t. Wallace told me he wouldn’t let
you since Gaines was your half brother. But there was
one line in that story I knew came from you. Wallace
told me how close you were, how you were right there