Jason Pinter - The Darkness

“If I was a grieving widow, I’d sure as hell want to find the bastards who killed my husband.”

“Isn’t that the job of the NYPD?”

“Yeah. And they did a real bang-up job investigating your brother’s death. Since Stephen Gaines is connected to 718-per your estimation-I have a funny feeling the NYPD might be taking this whole thing a little lightly.”

“Why would they do that?” I said.

“Easy,” Jack said. “For whatever reason, somebody over there thinks it’s in their best interests to let this story slide. And that’s where we come in, little buddy.”

“Okay, Gramps. Let’s see if we can get in touch with

Mrs. Kaiser.”

Jack stood up. I noticed a bulge in his pants pocket.

“What the hell do you have in there?” I asked, slightly worried and a little grossed out at the same time.

“This? Just a soda.” He took the can out of his pocket.

“You walk around carrying soda cans in your pants.”

“Just in the office. Need a little sugar rush from time to time.”

I acted as though that made perfect sense.

“How’s the…are you still on the wagon?” I asked. I wasn’t sure how Jack would take my asking. He could have been offended, he could have told me it was none of my business, and I wasn’t sure if it was. But as long as I was working with him, as long as I was trusting him, I needed to know he was all there.

That wasn’t the only reason of course. If I found out Jack was back on the sauce, to be honest it would have devastated me. I needed to see Jack the way he’d been during his prime. Even if he’d lost a few miles off his fastball, I needed to see the Jack O’Donnell who’d earned the reputation of being one of the best newsmen in the city’s history. Though

I wasn’t sure if I needed it more for Jack’s sake, or for mine.

“Two months,” Jack said. There was sincerity on his face, and it made me breathe easier.

“I’m glad to hear that, I…”

“It’s not easy,” Jack said. “I’m not going to lie to you,

Henry. You do something every day for almost fifty years, it’s not like a switch you can just turn off. It’s almost a part of you. And when you don’t do it-drink, I mean- it’s like there’s a space that needs to be filled.”

“Hence the soda,” I said.

“Sometimes the space is literal,” he said, patting his stomach. “Not the exact same, but it helps.”

“Like a nicotine patch.”

“Kind of like that, only that doesn’t rot your teeth.”

“If you need any help,” I said, “physical, emotional…”

“Sexual?” Jack grinned at me.

“I’m not into necrophilia, old man.”

This time Jack closed his eyes when he laughed.

“Come on, Parker, let’s go. Victoria Kaiser is probably being held by the cops for questioning and protection. I have a man at One Police Plaza who can put us in touch with her.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “I’ll meet you outside. Just gotta make a quick call.”

“To who?” Jack asked.

“Amanda,” I lied.

“What about?”

“We’re planning a vacation. Just wanted to see if she booked it yet.”

“That’s nice. You could use a little time away. I’ll be waiting in the lobby. Don’t take so long that I’ll need to sit down.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Jack left. When I saw him enter the elevator vestibule, and the doors closed on him, I picked up my phone. I took out my cell phone, scrolled down to the number I’d just recently entered and filed under Ray’s Pizza. Didn’t need anyone knowing the truth right now.

I dialed the number, and chewed a fingernail as it rang.

Finally a voice answered.

“I recognize the prefix,” Paulina Cole said. “There had better be a reason somebody’s calling me from the Gazette. ”

“It’s Henry Parker,” I said.

“Oh. Parker. What do you want?”

“What do I want? The article you wrote today, what’s the deal?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, defiance and annoyance battling for supremacy in her voice.

“The cops don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. And nobody has seen this drug. Not to mention you didn’t even mention it when we spoke.”

“What, I ask a favor of you and suddenly I need to tell you everything I’m working on?”

“No, but I…”

“I told you there was a quid pro quo.”

“Wait…the guy who threatened your daughter…did he make you write that story?” I waited for Paulina to answer. “Hello? You still there?”

“I told you there was a quid pro quo,” Paulina said.

“That’s all you need to know. Goodbye, Parker. Thanks again.”

She hung up.

I sat there, shaking.

Paulina Cole was no pushover. I’d believed her when we spoke, but for her to do this kind of favor, to write a story that might have had no factual basis, it went beyond morally wrong into ethically wrong. Paulina was a good reporter; too good sometimes. She might have had a nose for the tabloidy, for the melodramatic, but she almost never got her facts wrong. So why the heck would somebody want her to print that? Why invent a drug if it didn’t exist? Why falsely quote a cop if the story was grounded in a lie? For her to print this, it either meant she’d fabricated a hell of a story with somebody else’s help…or that the story was true. And whoever wanted the story written wanted it seen by millions of people for a reason.

Did that blond guy who killed Brett Kaiser also blackmail Paulina Cole into writing that article? What the hell did he have to do with this new drug? And if he had something to do with it, no doubt Brett Kaiser did, too. I could only hope Victoria Kaiser could shed a little light on this, because just like the drug, this story felt dangerous as hell and getting darker.

Morgan held the metal bar as the train sped uptown. He was standing next to Theo Goggins, the two of them carrying briefcases with enough narcotics to last Scarface until the sequel.

Morgan admired Theo’s suit, and his blue tie was bold and bright.

“You were right about the tie,” Morgan said. “It works.”

“You think I’d lie about something as important as that? I started off making cold calls. First time I got a fish to bite on a stock, I was wearing a blue tie. First time I closed an account-blue tie.”

“First time you sold stuff that would get you jail time.”

Theo smiled. “Blue tie. But I ain’t never going to jail.

Only way I go to jail is if you rat on me, and I ain’t never going to give you cause to do that. So you make up a story, it’s your ass they find broken into itty-bitty pieces floating in the East River.”

“Same to you, my friend.”

“See,” Theo said, smiling, “we’re going to get along just fine.”

Morgan’s palms were sweaty. His legs shook from time to time, as he waited for somebody to come up to him-maybe a cop or one of those transit workers-grab him by the collar, rip open the briefcase spilling pills and dope all over the dirty car floor.

But that didn’t happen.

Nobody batted an eye at them.

It was about eight-thirty in the morning, and Morgan and Theo were on their way to meet their first customer of the day. Morgan wondered who ordered drugs along with their morning cup of joe, but he figured there were enough people in this city who either worked from home or were unemployed that there was a 24/7 market for their wares.

Theo was whistling something softly. Morgan couldn’t tell what it was, but he figured trying to guess would keep his mind off the legal ramifications of being caught with his goods.

Guessing the tune was impossible. First of all, Theo didn’t seem like a particularly good whistler. Instead of a clean, high-pitched noise coming from his lips, it was more like a low rattle punctuated by occasional bursts of spit.