Jason Pinter - The Darkness

“Yes?” the voice said.

“Hi, uh, this is Isaacs and Goggins. We just wanted to confirm the address just sent to us.”

“Three-forty East Nineteenth. Apartment five A,” the voice said.

“Yeah, um, that’s where we just left.”

“And that’s where you’re going back to.”

“Uh, okay.”

The voice explained the situation to Morgan, who stood there, eyes widening. He understood everything that was being relayed, but couldn’t understand why it was happening so quick.

He didn’t know what was in those little black rocks, but it must have thrown pajama dude in 5A for a loop.

The other line went dead. Morgan closed the phone and put it back in his pocket.

“What was that?” Theo said.

“We’re going right back upstairs,” Morgan said. “That guy we just sold to, he took one hit of the Darkness and put in an order for half a dozen more rocks at the standard price. Guy said it was the best high he’s ever experienced.”

“Good for him, good for us,” Theo said.

“And,” Morgan continued, “after we’re done here they’re sending over another address where the customer wants another ten. Home base said to expect a lot of

Darkness deliveries today.”

“Another hundred and fifty bucks for five minutes’ work,” Theo said. He tried to whistle, but again it came out more like an aborted attempt at a raspberry. “Let’s not keep the man waiting.”

“Agreed,” Morgan said. He felt a strange sensation, and for a moment couldn’t place it. Then, as they were about to reenter the brownstone, it occurred to Morgan the last time he’d felt that singular feeling of joy, confidence and ambition.

The day he got his first paycheck at his old job. That was the first day he truly felt like he was going to conquer the world.

“Let’s hurry it up,” Morgan said. “But this time let’s take the stairs.”

“Always makes me smile a little,” Jack said.

“What does?”

“Tourists. They spend thousands of dollars to see this city, but they really know nothing about it. You don’t get a sense of Manhattan by taking pictures or sitting on a double-decker bus.”

“Not everyone has had the fortune of being at gunpoint in Vietnam,” I said. “For some people this is as close as they can get.”

“I suppose,” Jack said, “but sometimes I wonder if I even understand the city after all these years.”

“Are you still thinking about Paulina’s article?” I asked.

“A little. I never used to get scooped, Henry. Every time

I went out for lunch, I could feel a dozen eyes on me, hating me. They were other reporters, and they were staring daggers through me because they knew I was working on stories that they’d never get. They’d be working mop-up duty on yesterday’s page seven while I was breaking news.

It’s a great feeling to be hated for doing your job well. And right now, I hate Paulina Cole. Not because she tried to ruin my life, but because she got a story that I didn’t. So not only do I hate her, but I hate her for making me hate her.”

“That’s a lot of hate to be carrying around,” I said. “But what we’re working on could squash that.”

“You aren’t going to know that until we follow the bread crumb trail to the end. Maybe we find something, maybe we don’t.”

“I know there’s something at the end,” I said. “My brother didn’t die for nothing. Somebody had him killed.

And I know whoever had him killed knows what 718 Enterprises is.”

“You told me your brother was a courier,” Jack said.

“Right?”

“I think so. He was somewhere on the drug ladder, and not at the bottom.”

“You think it’s a coincidence your brother gets killed- you claim by someone higher up on the food chain than he was-and then such a short time later this story breaks?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I think you have a feeling, the same one I do. You talked to Butch Willingham, you know my reporting on the Fury.”

“I know you didn’t have enough to go on to report more than you did,” I said. “And that wasn’t much. If the

Fury even exists.”

Jack stared me down, backed me down, knowing what we both full well believed.

“Twenty years ago,” Jack said, “I thought I was certain that there was some sort of kingpin, some sort of Wizard of Oz named the Fury. And for whatever reason, that person was eliminating midlevel drug dealers.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Paulina might have beaten us to the story, but I don’t think she got the full story. Not even close. If the Fury exists, he came to power in the eighties, right around the time the crack epidemic was strangling the life out of

New York. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“Go on,” I said. I felt that familiar rush.

“Twenty years later, your brother is killed. Then this guy Ken Tsang is killed. Both around the same age, both likely somewhere on the totem pole in the drug game. And then Paulina’s article about this new drug, the Darkness, gets printed. Two dealers killed. A new drug hitting the streets. I think this person was instrumental during the eighties, and is now taking it to a whole new level.”

“History repeats itself,” I said. “But this isn’t the same city as it was twenty years ago. I mean, between Giuliani and 9/11, you can’t argue that we’re not more secure.”

“Security is all relative,” Jack said. “When the economy takes a turn for the worse, especially when it nosedives like it has, it breeds crime and corruption. They’re both sides of the same coin. You get one you get the other. You know the expression, ‘can’t see the forest for the trees,’ right?”

“Of course.”

“Right now, this city is staring at the forest. It’s looking at the big picture. Terrorism, biohazards, all noble and important things to be watching out for. In the eighties and nineties, we didn’t have to worry about things like that. So guys like Giuliani, Ray Kelly and Bill Bratton could look at it from the street level, the trees. There’s a reason Fortysecond Street looks like Walt Disney threw up all over it and not like hooker paradise anymore. Twenty years ago, the cops could look at the city through a microscope.

Nowadays, they need to look at it via satellite. And when you look at things from a macro perspective, when you’re looking at rooftops and airplanes, you miss the rat holes.

Beneath our noses, there’s something big brewing. And whoever’s behind it is smart enough to know that this is the right time, and that we might be defenseless.”

“Paulina’s story,” I said, “all it’s going to do is create demand for the product.”

“Without a doubt. Nothing gets people motivated like being told they shouldn’t do something. Word of mouth takes a match to ignite it. For all of Paulina’s moxie in getting this story, I worry that she’s going to inadvertently do the exact opposite of alarming the public-she’s going to make them want it even more.”

I suddenly felt nauseous. When I’d met with Paulina, she told me there was a quid pro quo with the man who kidnapped her and threatened her daughter. She would have to do something for him in order to keep her daughter safe.

Now I knew what that quid pro quo was. And why it was asked.

The blond man, the same one who’d killed Brett

Kaiser, had told her to write the article. He’d gotten her all the information she needed, perhaps even fabricated a few quotes, and those were her “unnamed sources.”

I’d never seen Paulina scared, and I’d never seen her lie. In the last few days I’d seen both. And they scared the hell out of me.

Whoever the man was that asked her to write the article knew that it would create an automatic demand for the product it featured. Paulina’s weapon was words, and he’d given her ammunition to forge something dangerous and potentially deadly.