The Fury (2009) Read online

  admiration. “It’s just a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve

  been following your career ever since that nasty

  business of your murder accusation. All those guns and

  bullets, and now here I am, working with you. Sir, it is

  an honor. ”

  While I pried the goop from my brain, I shook Valen­

  tine’s hand, then looked at Wallace. The name Tony

  Valentine did sound familiar, but I couldn’t quite place

  it…

  “Tony is our new gossip reporter,” Wallace said en­

  thusiastically. “We were able to pluck him from Us

  Weekly. Today is his first day.”

  “And not a day too soon,” Tony said, pressing the

  back of his hand against his forehead, as though diag­

  nosing a strange malady. “As much as I admire your

  paper—and Wallace, please don’t think otherwise—it

  was lacking a certain pizzazz. A certain panache, if you

  will. A certain sexiness.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You’re here to bring sexy

  back.”

  Tony pursed his lips and smiled. “You’re a clever

  one, Henry. I’m going to have to keep my eye on you.

  So, guess what my new column is going to be called?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “You most certainly do.” Tony waited a moment,

  then blurted out, “‘Valentine’s Day.’ Isn’t that a riot?”

  “Better than the ones in L.A.”

  “True, true. By the way, Wallace told me you covered

  the Athena Paradis murder a while back. Is that so?”

  “You heard right,” I said. Athena Paradis was a pro­

  16

  Jason Pinter

  fessional celebrity/diva who was gunned down outside

  a nightclub where she was performing tracks off her

  upcoming album. I investigated the murder, and nearly

  lost my life in the process.

  “Let me tell you, the day that girl died, it was like

  the day I learned Diana had been killed. Athena was just

  one more reason for me to get up in the morning. I

  don’t think I slept for a week after that. I can’t imagine

  how you must have felt.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Lost tons of sleep.”

  “No doubt,” Tony said. “Listen, Henry, it’s been a

  pretty pleasure. We’ll have to go out for a dirty martini

  one of these nights. I want to hear all about what you’re

  working on. Okay?”

  “I’ll be checking my calendar right away,” I said.

  “Terrific. Wallace, on with the show?”

  As Tony and Wallace walked away, I saw Wallace

  turn back to me. There was a remorseful look in his eye.

  Immediately I knew Tony’s hire was at the behest of

  Harvey Hillerman. Gossip was a commodity in this

  town. I knew it; I’d been the subject of it. For the most

  part, the Gazette had kept its beak clean, relegating

  society and gossip stories to the weekend Leisure

  section. Now we would all be fighting tooth and nail to

  compete for page-one space with Mr. Tony Valentine. I

  wondered how much an embroidered pocket square

  cost.

  After a long day I left the Gazette thoroughly ex­

  hausted. I checked my cell phone, found one voice mail

  waiting. It was from Amanda. We’d been seeing each

  other steadily over the last few months, trying to start

  The Fury

  17

  over on a relationship that broke from the gate too fast.

  I didn’t want to screw things up this time, so I was more

  than happy to take it slow. Dinner and movies, walks

  through Central Park. I sent flowers to her office, she

  sent me meatball subs for lunch. It was harmony.

  As I put the phone to my ear to listen to the message,

  I heard a strange voice say, “Henry Parker?”

  I turned to see a man approaching me. He was dirty

  and disheveled, wearing rags that looked about to fall

  off his deathly skinny frame. A black briefcase was

  slung over his shoulder. He carried it like it either

  weighed fifty pounds, or he was just barely strong

  enough to hold it to begin with. His eyes were blood­

  shot, fingernails dirty. His eyes glowed wide from

  sunken-in sockets—a skeleton with a pulse. Despite

  his haggard appearance he looked to be young, in his

  early thirties. I’d never seen the man before in my life,

  yet for some reason he looked oddly familiar.

  “The city’s gonna burn,” he rasped. “I need to talk

  to you.”

  “You can send any press inquiries through the

  switchboard,” I said, picking up my pace.

  “Are you,” he said, the words coming out through

  yellowed teeth, “Henry Parker?”

  I started to walk faster. I had no idea how this man

  knew my name, but from the looks of him I certainly

  didn’t want to find out. The image of Frank Rourke—

  a pretty strong and belligerent man to begin with—

  being beaten by a crazed reader with a homemade

  weapon crossed my mind. In my few years at the

  Gazette I’d received plenty of mail from readers. Mostly

  positive from people who enjoyed my stories, but still

  18

  Jason Pinter

  plenty from people who thought I was either a hack or

  still remembered all the unwanted attention I’d received

  a few years ago when I was thought to have killed a

  police officer.

  It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in

  minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe

  indefinitely.

  “I am,” I said, offering my card. He looked at it, just

  stared at me with those sunken eyes. I turned to walk

  away, speeding up as I headed through Rockefeller

  Plaza. I turned back. The man began to walk faster, too.

  The rubber on his sneakers was falling apart, and the

  gray overcoat he wore was tattered and soiled.

  “Please, Henry, I need to talk to you. Oh God, it’s

  important. You don’t know what’s going on. You don’t

  know what’s going on. Never seen anything like it.”

  Suddenly he closed his eyes and retched, a cough

  threading beads of phlegm through his gaunt fingers.

  “Call the Gazette tomorrow,” I said. I gave him the

  switchboard number. He didn’t seem to care. I walked

  faster, a slow trot, but my heart began to race when I

  saw that the man was matching my pace.

  “Henry,” he said, his eyes now terrified. “We need

  to talk! I’m begging you, man!”

  “Sorry, don’t have time,” I said. I picked up the pace,

  broke into a run and crossed the street just as the light

  was turning red. As I reached the other side I looked

  back. The man was about to race through the oncoming

  traffic, but then apparently thought better of it.

  Our eyes met for one moment. His were pleading,

  scared, and for a moment I debated crossing back over

  to see what he wanted. Then I saw him reach into his

  The Fury

  19

  pocket, put something to his nose and take a quick snort.

  That was all I needed to see.

  I turned around and headed toward
the subway. If he

  really needed to reach me, he could call. I’d been

  through enough over the last few years to know there

  were some things you needed to turn your back on.

  2

  I arrived home half an hour later. I left Amanda a

  message. We had plans to have dinner and catch a movie

  tomorrow night, and I wanted to order tickets in

  advance. New York prices being what they were,

  between service charges, snacks and tickets themselves,

  you practically had to win the lottery to afford them. A

  few months ago Amanda had received a nice year-end

  bonus, and Wallace Langston had told me to expect a

  promotion in the near future. Both of our salaries had

  crept higher over the last few years, and we’d begun to

  think more about where we wanted to be. This apart­

  ment had served its purpose, but I wanted more space.

  We weren’t living together, but she would spend

  three or four nights a week here and then crash in her

  friend Darcy Lapore’s guest room the rest of the time.

  The number of nights spent next to each other had

  begun to creep up over the last few weeks. It was still

  early and we were still healing from recent wounds. Re­

  gardless, our relationship had grown more serious and

  I started to think about where our future was headed.

  At some point we’d have to have one of those talks.

  The Fury

  21

  Where you each share your hopes and dreams. The

  “where do you see yourself in five years” part of the job

  interview, only for a position you wanted the rest of

  your life. Tonight, Amanda was crashing with Darcy. I

  figured I’d eat dinner, pop in a movie and veg out.

  Nights like that were sorely underrated.

  I peeled off my clothes, stepped into a hot shower.

  The day seemed to rinse right off me. I thought about

  that man who’d confronted me, how there was a look

  of genuine terror in his eyes. I began to regret turning

  from him. And hoped he actually did call the next day.

  When I got out of the shower, I threw on a pair of

  shorts and a T-shirt. I was six foot one depending on the

  shoes, a hundred and ninety pounds of lean, mean, vendor

  hot dog-eating machine. My brown hair was getting a

  little longer, and I made a mental note to stop by Quik

  Cuts tomorrow during lunch. I warmed up a plate of

  leftover chicken masala Amanda had cooked over the

  weekend. In my place, leftovers were made to last.

  I sat down and began to eat, washing the food down

  with a glass of iced tea. I splayed a few newspapers in

  front of me and read while I did. The Gazette’s pages

  looked naked without the familiar byline of Jack

  O’Donnell. I hoped wherever he was, he was getting the

  treatment he needed.

  Dinner was a long affair. I made the pasta last, and

  made the newspapers last. I gorged myself on every

  word, fascinated at just how many stories there were

  within this small teeming city.

  When I finished, I was getting up to put my dishes

  in the sink when the phone rang. I picked it up. Didn’t

  recognize the caller ID.

  22

  Jason Pinter

  I clicked Send and said, “This is Parker.” I’d strug­

  gled with my greeting for a long time. Since this was

  my work phone as well as personal, saying hello felt too

  casual. As did “Henry.” I considered, “Parker, Henry

  Parker,” but Amanda threw a dirty sock at me the first

  time I tried it. “Parker” sounded nice, succinct.

  “Is this Henry Parker?” the voice on the other end

  said.

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “Henry, I’m Detective Makhoulian with the NYPD.

  Are you busy right now?”

  I looked at my watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. What

  the hell did the cops want with me at this hour? I wasn’t

  working on any stories that had NYPD involvement,

  and I didn’t speak to any cops on a regular basis with

  the exception of my friend Curt Sheffield.

  “Detective, it’s pretty late and I just got home from

  work. What’s this about?”

  “I apologize for the hour, but I was hoping you could

  answer a few questions.”

  Not wanting to appear defensive, I said, “Question

  away.”

  “Does a man fitting this description sound familiar?

  About six-two, thin as a bone. Brown hair, hazel eyes,

  the look of a serious drug problem, among other issues,

  much of which involve hygiene. That ring a bell?”

  I felt my pulse quicken. “Actually, a man fitting that

  description was waiting for me outside my office when

  I left work tonight. I didn’t really speak to him. A col­

  league of mine was recently assaulted by a disgruntled

  reader, and from the look of this guy he wasn’t much

  of a conversationalist.”

  The Fury

  23

  “Interesting,” Makhoulian said. And he genuinely

  sounded interested. “Listen, Mr. Parker, I need you to

  come down to the county medical examiner’s office

  tonight. You know where it is?”

  “Thirtieth and first. I’ve been there before. I’m a

  reporter with the Gazette, I’ve spoken with the medical

  examiner. Leon Binks still works there, right?”

  “Yes, he does. And I know who you are, Mr. Parker.

  This has nothing to do with any previous involvement

  you may have had with the NYPD.” He didn’t need to

  say it, but I could tell Makhoulian was speaking about

  Joe Mauser and John Fredrickson, the two cops who

  were involved in my being hunted across the country

  for a murder I didn’t commit. “I’m going to need you

  to meet me at the M.E.’s office in one hour. Will that be

  a problem?”

  “No, but I would still like to know what all this is

  about. Like I said, tonight was the first time I ever saw

  this guy. If my night is being interrupted, please have

  the decency to tell me why.”

  “This man I’m speaking of, he was found two hours

  ago in an apartment in Alphabet City, dead from two

  gunshot wounds to the head. We have reason to believe

  you were the last person to see him alive.”

  “Okay,” I said, my stomach beginning to turn. Dead?

  What exactly had that guy wanted to talk to me about?

  While the last thing I wanted was to get tied up in

  the murder of some junkie, I felt some sense of

  remorse. “Listen, Detective, no disrespect, but this guy

  probably saw one of my stories and figured a reporter

  might be more inclined to listen to him than a cop.

  Maybe he just wanted attention. And now he’s dead,

  24

  Jason Pinter

  and while it really is a shame, I don’t know what I can

  offer to help the investigation.”

  There was silence on the other end. Then Makhou­

  lian said, “This man’s name was Stephen Gaines. Does

  sound familiar?”

  “No, sir, it doesn’t.”

  “Tha
t’s very interesting.” I was beginning to worry.

  Why was that interesting? “I’m still going to need you

  to meet me at the M.E.’s office. One hour,” Makhoulian

  said, “because according to his birth certificate and

  medical records, Stephen Gaines was your brother.”

  3

  There are times in your life when you walk forward

  despite knowing that something unexpected, even dan­

  gerous, lies just around the corner. This allows you to

  steel yourself; to prepare for it. You go over the different

  permutations in your mind, positive and negative,

  weighing how each might impact you. Then when the

  blow comes, you’re able to soften it a bit. Retaliate if nec­

  essary.

  When Detective Makhoulian said those five words—

  Stephen Gaines was your brother—they hit me,

  knocked the wind out of me. I had no time to prepare,

  no time to soften the blow.

  At first I didn’t believe it. Or I didn’t want to. But

  I’d heard the name Makhoulian before. I’d spent enough

  time with cops, mainly my buddy Curt Sheffield, that

  it rang with a modicum of familiarity. If Curt men­

  tioned him, that was a good sign. The man spoke ear­

  nestly, a minimum of sympathy. Like a cop.

  Sitting in the back of a taxi, I tried to wrap my head

  around it. I’d never heard of a Stephen Gaines before.

  The last name did not sound familiar. Gaines.

  26

  Jason Pinter

  On the street earlier, Gaines looked older than me by

  four or five years. Of course, considering how strung

  out he looked, it could have swayed a few years in

  either direction. But if he was older, it meant he was

  gone from my life long before I was aware of his exis­

  tence. I had too many questions to ask, and unfortu­

  nately Leon and Detective Makhoulian wouldn’t be

  able to answer them. At least not all of them.

  I stepped out at the corner of Thirtieth and First in

  Manhattan’s Kips Bay. The medical examiner’s office

  had a facade of light blue, the stone dirty, as if the

  building refused to modernize. It was a block away

  from Bellevue Hospital, one of the more notorious

  medical centers in the city. Prisoners from Riker’s

  Island, as well as criminals from New York’s central

  booking requiring medical attention, were among the

  most frequent guests. And if you happened to be in the

  emergency room late at night, you’d be in the company

  of numerous men in orange jumpsuits and chains,

  armed police at the ready. Just a few blocks away were