Jason Pinter - The Darkness

I followed him to a bank of metal turnstiles, manned by another security guard, this one looking much less awake on the job than the guys at the front desk. We showed him our badges, and he pressed a button that swung the turnstiles. We passed through, made our way to the elevator bank and headed up to the fourth floor.

Jack hummed a tune I couldn’t recognize as we ascended, and I felt slightly anxious, wondering just how far this would take us. I was also somewhat concerned about pulling my weight on this story. As much as I wanted to find out just what the hell was going on with this shadow corporation, earning the respect of Jack O’Donnell was a close second.

The doors opened, and we followed a sterile beige hallway to a pair of double glass doors with the words

Orchid Realty stenciled on them. I opened the door for

Jack, the glass swinging out effortlessly and without a sound. A heavyset woman with curly reddish hair sat behind an oak desk, a pair of old-fashioned headphones resting on her ears that looked less Bluetooth than long in the tooth. The nameplate read Iris Mahoney.

Iris was filing her nails, pausing every few moments to blow nail dust from her hands and onto the floor.

As we approached, her eyes rose and a wide smile crossed her lips. “You must be those boys from the newspaper,” she said. “Welcome to Orchid.”

“Hi,” I said before Jack could open his mouth. “Miss

Mahoney, if it’s not too much trouble we’d like to speak to one of your property managers.”

“Certainly, sir. Which of our managers would you like to speak with?”

“Whoever handles the building which until recently leased space to a company called 718 Enterprises.”

The receptionist pursed her lips, sucked in air and squinted. “Hmm…that doesn’t ring a bell. Let me check our database.”

She put down the nail file and began typing. Two fingered. One finger at a time. Slow enough that I could hear Jack breathing heavier as his frustration grew. Every few moments the lady would mutter a pleasant “no” under her breath and continue typing. After several minutes she looked up at us and said, “I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have any records for a 718 Enterprises. Are you sure you have the right realty corporation?”

“You do manage the building leases at sixteen-twenty

Avenue of the Americas, right?”

“Now that sounds familiar. If my memory serves me, they have a wonderful tantric yoga studio.” She blushed slightly. I pretended not to have heard anything.

“That’s the building,” Jack said. “Listen, hon,” he continued, approaching the desk, a warm smile on his face.

It was shocking to compare this to his countenance downstairs. Different folks responded to different temperaments. Jack didn’t get his reputation by assuming everyone reacted the same way to everything. “We’re not here to cause trouble. We’re investigating a story for our newspapers, it’s our job, really, and we just have a few questions about the building. If you could just let us know who manages that property, we’ll be out of your hair in no time. What do you say?”

The apple-cheeked receptionist smiled, and if I didn’t know any better, it looked like she might have suddenly developed a small crush on the elder newsman. “Hold on one second. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll have somebody out here to assist you right away.”

“You’ve made my day, darlin’.” Her smile widened.

We took seats in two leather chairs. I shuffled through a pile of uninteresting magazines before putting them back. Jack just sat there. He didn’t need any distractions.

After thumbing through the pile of outdated magazines for a second time-in case Victorian Homes had magically been replaced by Sports Illustrated -a middle-aged man with a short haircut and mustache entered the waiting room. His eyes settled on us, and I caught him taking a deep breath. He wasn’t making any secret that he didn’t want to be talking to us, and resented the fact that we were even here.

I stood up, assumed Jack would do the same. When he didn’t, I looked at him. He didn’t seem to have noticed there was someone else in the room; either that or he didn’t care.

“Mr. O’Donnell?” the man said. Now Jack’s eyes perked up. He didn’t say a word, waited for the other man to speak. “Bill Talcott. How can I help you?”

Jack stood up. Gave Talcott a once-over, sizing him up.

Talcott shifted as he stood there, eyes meeting the floor.

Jack was trying to make the guy nervous, take him out of any comfort zone he might have. It didn’t look like Talcott had much of one when he joined us, but I guess Jack wanted to break his spirit completely.

“Thanks for finally joining us,” Jack said.

“My apologies for the wait.” He glanced at Iris with a condescending, apologetic smile, as though blaming her for the delay. Iris didn’t look up from her desk. This did not paint Mr. Talcott in an impressive light.

“Actually Iris was quite helpful,” Jack said. I noticed

Iris’s face look up slightly. “You have no need to embarrass her. Or yourself.”

Talcott’s face went pink, and he stammered. “Of course, I didn’t mean to put anybody down. We’re all under an enormous amount of stress these days, as you can imagine. And if I can say so, without embarrassing myself again, I’m a fan of your work, Mr. O’Donnell.”

Jack nodded, but did not respond to the compliment.

“Should we go somewhere more private?” he said.

“Is this an issue that requires privacy?” Talcott said, confused.

“I’d say so.”

Talcott nodded, said, “Right this way.” We followed him down the hallway behind the reception desk. The corridor was filled with gray metal filing cabinets. A few people stood by, filing, rifling through papers with a quickness that said they’d done it for years. On the walls hung pictures of buildings. Some residential, some commercial, obviously the properties Orchid Realty managed.

We passed by a small kitchen and a large conference room, and eventually were led into Talcott’s office. He ushered us in and closed the door. There were two leather chairs in front of a heavy marble desk. The desk, as well as the windowsills and bookshelves, were lined with snow globes from around the world. The man had literally hundreds of them.

“I buy one in every city I set foot in,” Talcott said proudly. “Three hundred and forty-eight and counting.”

Jack and I sat down. Talcott seemed disappointed that we weren’t impressed. We took out our notepads and pens as Talcott sat down. He waited a moment to see if we might compliment his collection. When it was clear we weren’t going to, he said, “So, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

“First off, Mr. Talcott, this is my associate Henry

Parker. My apologies for not introducing him earlier.”

“Parker,” Talcott said. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“It’s a pretty common surname,” I replied.

“Any relation to Peter Parker?” Talcott asked.

“You mean Spider-Man?”

“Is that the character’s name? I could have sworn I knew someone else named Parker. In any event, your name does ring a bell.”

I looked at Jack, hoping we could move on. He seemed to get the nod.

“Mr. Talcott,” he said, “do you manage the property at sixteen-twenty Avenue of the Americas?”

“I do,” Talcott said.

“Are you aware of a company called 718 Enterprises that, up until recently, occupied space in that building?”

Talcott took a moment before responding, “No.”

Jack’s eyebrows raised. “You’re saying there was never a company at that location with the name 718 Enterprises, or anything similar to that?”