Parker 04 - The Fury (18 page)

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.

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

place."

Walking back into the lobby's atrium, I stopped by

the company directory listings. Scanning the names and

floor numbers of the companies that were housed here,

I could find no listing for 718 Enterprises. Strange.

Where were all these young men going?

And what the hell was 718 Enterprises?

I figured I'd ask someone who might know. I walked

up to the security guard and said, "Hi, sorry to bother

you again. I'm looking for a company called 718 En

terprises. I'm pretty sure it's here, but I can't find it in

the directory and I forgot the name of the person I'm

supposed to meet."

The guard looked me over. He was in his late fifties,

heavyset, with big wide eyes that looked like they

believed me as far as he could shove me down his throat.

"No, you didn't," he said.

"I didn't?" I said incredulously.

"No. You're not. I don't know you, friend." He

averted his eyes to the crossword puzzle on his desk. I

stood there for another moment, until the guard's eyes

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came back to mine. He put his hand on the phone at his

desk and said, "Do I have to call the cops?"

I apologized and walked outside.

Standing there outside the building, I tried to piece

this together. Those young men who filed into the

building, who knew each other and were all dressed

alike, I'd be willing to bet they all took on the moniker

of Vinnie during their day job. And I'd also be willing

to bet that whatever 718 Enterprises was, it was some

sort of supplier.

I still had no idea what, if anything, they had to do

with the deaths of Beth-Ann Downing or even Stephen

Gaines. But it's all I had. As thin and transparent as this

thread was, it was the only one I had to pull. And I'd

had thinner ones that ended up unraveling a great deal.

As I stood outside the building pondering my next

move, a lone straggler exited the building wearing the

telltale suit and carrying a bulging briefcase. He was

thin, younger-looking than his cohorts, and had a gangly

walk that told me he hadn't been at this very long. He

began walking north. He took a cell phone from his

pocket, checked it then dropped it into his briefcase.

A thought crossed my mind. Suddenly it occurred to

me what I could do. What I
needed
to do. I certainly

wouldn't feel good about myself...but my father's

freedom was at stake. Finding a killer was my justifi

cation. I silently apologized for what I was about to do.

I began to walk faster, the young kid in my line of

sight. I was ten feet behind him. Nine. Eight. Seven.

I began to jog to keep pace, my pulse quickening.

The subway was just a few blocks away. I'd make it...

Pushing off my back foot to get a burst of speed, I

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lunged forward and grabbed the briefcase off the young

guy's shoulder. It was loose with surprisingly little

effort, and suddenly, to my surprise, I was standing

there in the middle of the street holding a young man's

bag that I'd just stolen.

He twirled around to see what was happening, and

just before I could react, he locked eyes with me. His

were light green, a mixture of anger and horrific fear

in them. He knew what he stood to lose.

I didn't wait another moment. I turned around and

began to run as fast as I could, whispering,
I'm going

to hell, I'm going to hell,
as my legs churned.

"Stop! Thief!" I heard a high-pitched voice scream.

An arm reached out for me but I shrugged it away.

The N train would be too obvious and too close. If

the train took a long time to pull into the station, I'd be

dead. I could outrun this kid. I had to.

I sprinted east down Fifty-eighth Street as fast as I

could. The kid was screaming behind me. I peeked over

my shoulder, feeling a surge of adrenaline as I saw my

lead increasing. Once I got to Sixth Avenue, I turned

south and saw the entrance for the B and Q trains ahead

of me.

Pulling things into fifth gear, I leaped down the steps

into the station, fumbling as I got my MetroCard out. I

swiped it, went through, and took a millisecond to

decide to head for the downtown B train. I figured if I

was caught, at least he wouldn't know the direction

where I lived.

The platform was all but empty. Bad luck for me. But

there was a red light in the tunnel signaling an ap

proaching train. It couldn't come fast enough. I walked

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quickly toward the end of the platform, the weight of

the bag pressing on my shoulder.

As the train rumbled into the station, my breath

caught in my throat as I saw the kid clamber down the

stairs approaching my platform. I hoped he hadn't seen

me.

When the doors opened I slid into the car, peeking

out once more.

The kid was on the platform, peeking into each car.

The train began to move. Faster and faster, it was

bringing me right toward him.

As the train passed where the young kid was

standing, I saw his eyes meet mine. His mouth dropped

open, and I could have sworn I heard a stream of pro

fanity. Then I was gone, into the darkness of the tunnel.

I transferred at the next station onto the uptown B,

then rode it until the 125th and Frederick Douglas

Boulevard station. From there I walked home, the bag

on my shoulder burning a hole.

I was tired, weary, trudging up the stairs, my blood

still pumping, however, with my prize. My guilt had

been overcome by my curiosity.

When I opened the door, I saw Amanda sitting at the

dining-room table eating a bowl of cereal. I forgot how

early it was, that she hadn't even left for work yet.

She was wearing a formfitting tank top that accen

tuated her amazing figure. Her hair was held together

in a ponytail, and her shapely legs disappeared beneath

her chair. I smiled, and she returned it.

"Whatcha got there, sweetie? A present for me

maybe?"

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155

I sat down at the table opposite her. I stuck my hand

in the outside pocket and came out with a cell phone.

The same one the young kid had been using.

Then I unlatched the brass buckles on the outside.

When the bag was unlocked, I folded back the top and

turned it upside down.

Out poured five white bricks the size of VHS cassette

tapes, as well as several thumb-size bags of the stuff. It

also contained a dozen small bags of marijuana with

varying quantities, and several pieces of tinfoil. I didn't

want to open or touch anything I didn't need to, so

whatever was in those packets would remain a mystery

for now. Chances were, it was either coke or crack.

One package, though, was half-open. Sitting on one

loose piece of foil were three small off-white stones that

looked almost like sugar cubes. But I knew exactly

what they were. Rocks of pure crack cocaine.

"Wow," Amanda said, staring at the mass of drugs.

"Remind me to buy my own birthday present next year."

I reached for one of the packages, but Amanda

grabbed my arm. I looked at her to see what was up, and

she was shaking her head like she was scolding a child

about to eat paste.

"Do you really want your fingerprints on those?" she

asked rhetorically. "Don't we have enough problems

with fingerprints where they didn't belong? I assume at

some point we're going to have to get the police

involved, and we'll have a much easier time convinc

ing them if it doesn't look like you were rolling around

in the drugs beforehand."

My arm shot back. The girl had a point.

"This is unreal," I said, the words not even doing

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justice to the feeling of seeing all the drugs spread out

on our table. My college never offered a Drug Dealing

101 course, so I had no idea what the value of the nar

cotics were. Though, based on the amount of stops

Scotty had made yesterday, and the money Rose Keller

claimed to have shelled out over the years, it had to be

several thousand at least. And if I factored in all the dif

ferent suit-wearing carriers I saw this morning, there

had to be at least a hundred grand making its way

around the city
every single day.

"What do we do with this?" Amanda asked. The truth

was I wasn't sure. If I delivered it to the cops with the