Jason Pinter - The Darkness

“Are you sure about this? Am I really the guy you want tagging along with you tonight?”

Curt was silent for a moment on the other end.

“I hear what you’re saying. Fact is, I don’t know who to trust right now. Just the other day I got a tip on some fired banker who might have been running drugs, cat named Morgan Isaacs. We were just about to put a tail on him when the guy disappears into thin air. Nobody knows where he is, not even his parents have seen him in weeks.

Doesn’t add up.”

“Morgan Isaacs,” I said. “The man who killed William

Hollinsworth had a money order on him made out to

Morgan Isaacs. If that was Isaacs, he was hired to kill

Hollinsworth.”

“Which means he’s no longer in this country, or no longer of this earth,” Curt said. “I got that feeling. So right now, you’re the only man I trust. I know why you’re in this, Henry. You want to know the truth about Stephen

Gaines, and I want to get rid of this crap that’s turning our city into Beirut. Two paths, same destination, my friend.”

“Then I’ll meet you there.”

“See you soon, Parker. Oh wait, here he comes. Later.”

“Good luck, Curt.”

We both hung up.

I looked out the window and could see Vinnie exiting our building. As soon as he stepped outside, he put his cell phone to his ear. Then he nodded a few times, clicked it off, put it in his pocket and headed east. The subway was in that direction.

When Vinnie rounded the corner, I saw Curt Sheffield trailing him, walking briskly but with enough distance that hopefully our mark wouldn’t notice. I silently wished

Curt luck again.

“That wasn’t so bad,” I said to Amanda. She’d put down the magazine and wine. Standing up, she went over to the table and picked up the baggie with three rocks of the Darkness.

“Amanda, you’re not going to…”

Before I could say another word, she walked over to the bathroom, opened the bag and dumped the rocks into the toilet. Then she flushed it. Once she was sure the rocks were on their way to some sewage treatment plant, Amanda came over to me and planted a massive kiss right on my lips.

“That’s the closest I ever want that stuff to us,” she said, her arms warm around my neck.

“Same here. You know the reason I’m doing this is to stop whatever this stuff is from getting out there more than it already is.”

“I know that. And I hope you do. But given a choice between that and you staying safe… Just come home to me, Henry. That’s all I want.”

“I will,” I said. “And hopefully I won’t have to say this too many times, but don’t wait up for me.”

She sighed. “I won’t wait up for you, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be thinking about you.”

“I’d never tell you to stop doing that,” I said.

She kissed me again and said, “Now go help Curt.”

I nodded, grabbed my coat from the closet, gave her one last look and headed outside.

Curt drove a Ford Fusion. The key was in the tire well just like he said. As I climbed into the car and adjusted the seat, I couldn’t help but think Curt was a pretty conscientious guy to own a hybrid. I started the car and put my cell phone in the cup holder by the armrest, just to be sure I wouldn’t miss it if he called.

For the next few hours, most likely, Curt would be on his own. He wasn’t supposed to call me unless there was an emergency, as anything that could lead the dealer to know he was being followed was curtailed until we met up later.

So all I had to do now was wait.

I picked through the CDs. Some good stuff. Jay-Z, Lil

Wayne, T-Pain. Then, underneath all of them, I found a

Barry Manilow CD and I cracked up. When this was over,

Curt would surely have to explain himself on that one.

An hour in, I ran to the corner deli and got a big, steaming cup of coffee and a muffin. So far this was the lamest stakeout ever. I wasn’t even staking anything out,

I was just sitting in a car on the side of the street, waiting for a call so I could then follow someone. I couldn’t complain, though. It wasn’t too long ago I did just what Curt was doing, following one of these dealers, trying to find out just where their stash was hidden.

And then I found it, but when we went back it was gone. They obviously hadn’t given up, but had simply moved to a new location.

Tonight we were going to find out where 718 Enterprises was hoarding their stash. Then Curt would take it down with his fellow boys in blue, Jack and I would get the exclusive, eyewitness story, and everyone would go home happy.

At least that’s how it all played out in my mind. What happened next was something, far, far different.

Two hours into my stakeout of, well, nothing, my cell phone rang. It was Curt.

I picked up it, said, “Hey. Where are you?”

“One-hundred-twelfth and Amsterdam,” Curt said. “I’m pretty sure our boy is going home for the night. He just took off his tie, and he’s swinging that briefcase like it’s full of air, not powdered substances. Start making your way over here. I’ll call you when I get a more precise location.”

“On my way,” I said.

“See you soon, Dick Tracy.”

Starting the car, I pulled onto the street, turned my beams on and began the drive over to 112th and Amsterdam, just on the western edge of Morningside Heights.

It was a foggy night, a fine mist surrounding the yellow streetlamps, casting an eerie glow over New York. Most cars had their windshield wipers on. Mine made a rapid snick snick every thirty seconds, wiping the condensation away in a perfect arc.

The streets uptown weren’t particularly crowded for a

Saturday night, most of the Columbia University crew were either in bed or already at the bar and beginning their long trek to drunkenness. Meanwhile I was in a car, heading to meet my cop friend, hoping to finally put to bed once and for all who had killed my brother. And who was poisoning the city.

This neighborhood was familiar. I’d met a guy up here named Clarence Willingham, the son of a small-time dealer who’d been killed by the Fury twenty years ago.

Clarence was still trying to come to grips with his father’s murder and his family’s history of drug abuse and dealing. It was only then that I learned the truth about how close Clarence was to my own family. Secrets. Sometimes I wondered if more secrets were kept from us in the light of day as opposed to the dark of night.

I idled on the corner of 110th, right where Columbus

Avenue turned into Morningside Drive. I’d just put the car in Park when I was jolted by a rapping on the passenger side window. Whipping around, I saw Curt Sheffield’s face peering in at me, his eyes squinting as rain began to fall harder around him.

He mouthed the words open up and I unlocked the door.

As he slid inside, Curt ran his hands through his hair, spraying a layer of rain onto the seats. He was wearing jeans and a brown coat, sneakers and a T-shirt. He looked like a normal guy.

“If that’s your undercover look, I gotta say it works.”

Curt ignored me. “His name is Theodore Goggins.”

“How’d you get that info?”

“He stopped into a Starbucks. I waited outside, but saw him pay with a credit card. After he left, I waited a minute and went inside and told them I found his

ATM card. And I needed his name in case I couldn’t catch up with him. He lives just down the block. Definitely not his building, because he had to buzz up. But the guy who lived there said ‘come on up, Theo’ as he buzzed him in.”

“He worked in finance,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“All these guys do. Tens of thousands of young professionals out of work in this city, most of whom lived a few miles beyond their means. Then they get laid off when the economy goes in the crapper, and they’re left with huge mortgages and bills on toys and apartments.