Jason Pinter - The Darkness

“Naw. The cops pushing three bills who have to play center field on our softball team get beaten pretty bad.

This guy looks like somebody took a baseball bat and decided to flatten him out to the point where you can slip him inside a mail slot.”

I felt a bad taste in the back of my throat.

Curt said, “Worst part is, Forensics thinks at least half of the bone breaks were inflicted postmortem. Which means whoever killed Tsang didn’t just want him to hurt.

They wanted people to see him look more like a bean bag than a person.”

“First Hector, now his roommate. Somebody is taking out drug runners in the city.”

“Taking them out,” Curt said, “with extreme prejudice.

This isn’t just about somebody cleaning up their mess, this is sending a message that if you don’t watch your back, you’ll find yourself dumped in the East River a whole lot more flexible than when you woke up that morning. What

I want to know is, who is this message going to?”

“Officer Sheffield, where exactly was the body found?” Jack asked. He’d taken out a small notepad, uncapping a pen with his teeth. I did the same, feeling somewhat foolish. Normally when I talked to Curt it was informal. Friend talking to friend, both aware of the other’s professional responsibilities. But Jack was right.

The story came first. Curt looked at the pad, saw Jack was waiting for his answer.

“Garbage scow saw a big canvas bag floating in the river, a few blocks south of the garbage transfer station on Ninety-first Street.”

“The body was in a bag?” I said.

Curt nodded. “Big, heavy burlap sack.”

“You said it was floating,” Jack said. “How would a canvas bag with a body inside float on a river without sinking?”

Curt blinked. He wasn’t holding back. He just didn’t know.

“Hold on a second,” he said. He walked off quickly, and I could tell Curt was as curious about the answer to that question as we were.

Jack was busy scribbling in his notepad. I held back a smile. His eyes were focused, his handwriting sloppy, but that didn’t matter. Mine was no great shakes either, but as long as we could decipher our own it would make do.

Of course recently my handwriting had taken a turn for the worse, which led to several notes from Evelyn Waterstone, the Gazette’ s managing editor, with helpful tips like “Learn basic penmanship.”

“How you feeling?” I said to Jack.

“Hm?” He didn’t look up from the page.

“Just wondering how you’re feeling. That’s all.”

“Fine,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I waited to see if he was going to laugh, but Jack was totally serious.

“I mean, come on, this is your first day back on the job in almost a year. You disappeared faster than Michael

Moore at a Weight Watchers convention, and nobody’s heard from you. Just, you know, want to see how you’re holding up.”

“Just fine,” Jack said with a wry smile. “If I start to slag, be sure to tell me.”

I just nodded, then saw Curt Sheffield walking toward us. There was a strange look on his face, his lip turned upward as if processing information. He came over to where we were standing and said, “Guy was inside a bag that was tied to a buoy.”

“A buoy?” Jack said, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, the body was in a big burlap sack, but get this.

Whoever dropped it into the drink attached it to a freaking buoy. Not only that, but they tied a freaking balloon to the buoy so it could be spotted. A garbage scow noticed the balloon and rope this morning and called it in.”

“They’re sending a message,” Jack said. “Using us as the messenger.”

“Us?” I said.

“This will make the first ten pages in every newspaper. The message isn’t for cops. It’s for other dealers.

They read about what’s happening to their friends, they keep their noses clean. So to speak.”

“You could be right,” Curt said.

Jack tapped the pen against his lip. “You said the bag was found by a garbage scow a few blocks from the

Ninety-first Street transfer station. Do you know if that was where the body was dumped from?”

“That isn’t public knowledge yet, and I think I’ll get a reprimand if I tell you guys anything else. Listen, I gotta run, but we’ll release more info as it comes. Meantime, you two are smart enough to put two and two together.”

“Actually, I’m waiting for Jack to teach me that.”

“Yeah, take it easy, Henry. Mr. O’Donnell.”

“Officer,” Jack said. When Curt was out of earshot, Jack said to me, “Hundred bucks says the body was dumped from the transfer station.”

“Why?”

“This whole thing…the body pulverized, the bag attached to a buoy, I mean, who does that? Once this story breaks, every lowlife in the city will know that Ken

Tsang was mutilated in an ungodly way.”

“Not to mention the garbage connotation. That he’s nothing but filth.”

“That, too.”

“But if this message is going to dealers, who’s sending it?”

“The same people who killed Hector Guardado. And most likely your brother, too,” Jack said. “My guess is

Hector might have some more info for us.”

“Hey, Jack, you might have missed the memo, but

Guardado’s dead. Kind of hard for him to be a source of new info.”

“The man’s got friends. Colleagues. Let’s wait until the news breaks, and then tomorrow morning we see which of Hector’s old friends are scared enough to talk.”

They could hear whispering from behind the door before they’d even knocked. The three of them walked down the hallway, the floor covered in cigarette butts and crack vials.

The two men walked in front, the woman trailing them behind. She wore a jacket over a tank top, her arms loose by her side. The man on the left was blond, trim, and grinned like he’d been looking forward to this. The other wore a long coat and a scowl, and was in no mood to smile.

The men behind the door had been waiting for their arrival. The whispering was excited, impatient. So when the two lead men finally did knock on the door, it opened barely a moment later.

The bodyguard who opened it was massive. Six foot six at least, and well over three hundred pounds. There was perhaps muscle under the flab, but he was no doubt employed as much for his ability to absorb bullets as for his ability to fight. The man looked like he could stop a tank shell in that gut.

“You Mr. Malloy?” the behemoth asked. The woman looked at the younger of her two accomplices, the blond man in his early forties. The blond man nodded.

“At your service.”

The bodyguard stared at his sunglasses. Or more specifically, what held them up. “Man, what happened to your ear?”

The blond man ignored the question. “We’re here to see Mr. Culvert.”

The bodyguard looked at the woman standing behind

Malloy. She had dark skin and luminous green eyes. Her skin was the color of cinnamon, and she looked a few years older than the blond man. Her body was toned, sinewy, her breastbone visible above the curve of her tank top. The bodyguard let his gaze hover over her an extra moment, then ushered the three people inside.

The apartment was located inside a largely unoccupied building in Harlem. The man they were going to see owned the premises, and other than letting family members stay from time to time, he kept it mainly for business dealings. And that’s what this meeting was about. Business.

The bodyguard ushered them down a hallway into a room that was lit only by two weak floor lamps. The windows were blacked out, and there were no phones or other electronic devices present. Three couches were arranged in a semicircle, and sitting on these couches were four men. Three of them were dressed all in black trench coats, and were just as big as the guy who opened the door. Machine guns were strapped to each of their chests. They made no efforts to hide them.