Jason Pinter - The Darkness

“Sounds hot.”

“You have no idea. While it was open, Mineshaft was one of the most popular gay bars in the city. They had dungeons, cages, S and M, bondage, you name it. Then the city shut the club down in eighty-five, claiming that all the rampant sexual activity was helping to spread the

AIDS virus.”

“Holy crap, are you serious?”

“Yessir. Apparently Mineshaft-and a number of other clubs-had back rooms and basements where club-goers could partake in, let’s just say, activities that did not require clothing. Rumors had it that the club was actually

Mafia owned and operated. The mob started losing money hand over fist, and the lunkheads figured people just weren’t spending money, but the sad truth is they were losing a lot of their clientele to the virus. After it was shut down, the club was a ghost lot for almost twenty years and was basically nothing more than an abandoned warehouse. It was supposed to be torn down until somebody-guess who-bought the lot.”

“Shawn Kensbrook.”

“Bingo. This place is all sorts of bad news. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if an entrepreneur like Kensbrook was padding his wallet by giving some of those hidden rooms to 718 Enterprises.”

As we watched the club, a young man wearing a suit turned the corner and entered the front door.

“You saw that?” I said.

“Sure did.”

“So what do we do now?” I said. “You want to call for backup?”

“Not yet. Right now we have no probable cause. I didn’t see Goggins enter with any drugs and we haven’t seen anybody leave with them. We go charging in now without a warrant, the whole thing gets thrown out.”

“Come on, Curt, we have to do someth-”

And then I stopped talking.

“There,” I said, pointing out the object of my curiosity to Sheffield. “We follow that.”

Curt focused his eyes on what I was staring at. It was a shipping truck, and it was parked around the back entrance of the Kitten Club. On the side were written the words Sam’s Fresh Fish! The slogan was accompanied by a cute illustration of a live fish standing on a plate smiling while holding a sign that read, I’m Fresh!

And standing behind the truck were two men, unloading boxes and carrying them inside the club.

“This place serves dinner,” Curt said. “And those little hors d’oeuvres with salmon on toast points. It’s a fine attempt, Parker, but you’re reaching.”

I turned to Curt. “Fish isn’t delivered on Sundays.”

He cocked his head. “What are you talking about?”

“The markets are closed on Sundays. That’s why when you order fish on a Sunday, you’re getting food that’s been on ice over the weekend.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, sir. I did a piece on the South Street Seaport a few months ago. Took seven showers to wash that smell off me. And one thing I learned is that there are no fish deliveries on Sundays in this city.”

“So if that truck isn’t delivering fish,” Curt said, “then…”

“Then we follow the truck.”

“The truck?”

“This place is a refilling station. My guess is they don’t keep more than a few days’ supply in here. Wherever the Darkness is coming from, it’s not here. But I have a feeling Sam the fisherman might have an idea.”

“Lead the way.”

But I couldn’t lead the way. That was up to the employees of Sam’s, or whatever front the Sam’s truck was used for, and they took their sweet time. The men unloaded at least a dozen large boxes, which they carefully brought inside the Kitten Club. Curt and I sat there and watched in silence, trying to figure out just how much the merchandise inside those boxes was worth, where it came from, and where it was being manufactured.

Finally, at about eight-thirty, just as the New York streets were beginning to clog up, one of the men climbed into the driver’s side and churned the ignition. He slowly pulled away from the club, turning south onto Ninth

Avenue and then right on Fourteenth Street heading east.

Fourteenth was one of the major Manhattan arteries, so going crosstown took some time. The driver of the truck didn’t seem in a particular hurry, never honking or making any maneuvers that would have gotten him noticed.

When we got to Third Avenue, the truck headed north, and then took a right at Thirty-sixth.

“Is he headed to the tunnel?” Curt said.

The truck seemed to answer that question for us as it merged left on Thirty-sixth into the Midtown Tunnel, heading out toward Queens.

“What the hell is in Queens?” Curt asked again.

“I hope you’re just thinking out loud and not expecting me to answer,” I said, “because I’m as confused as you are.”

Once through the tunnel, the truck stayed on 495-East, not going a single mile over the speed limit. After about seven miles, the truck merged onto the Grand Central Expressway, then took the Van Wyck south. I was now thoroughly confused, and I could tell from Curt’s expression he was, too.

As we neared the Briarwood section of Queens, the truck abruptly turned off of the Van Wyck, still keeping legal speed, and continued south until it began to slow.

At this point I slowed the car as well; traffic was easing up, making us more noticeable. We were still two cars behind the truck, and I was hoping that driving a big rig made it a little harder for the driver to spot us.

Then, a mile down the road, the truck made another right and disappeared.

“This isn’t good,” I said, slowing down and pulling over to the side of the road.

Running at least half a mile was a fence made of chicken wire, the top lined with sharp barbs. We were a good few miles from any sort of body of water. “My guess is they don’t ship fish here,” I said. “What do we do now?”

Curt sat there, shaking his head. “We don’t have

PC,” he said.

“Screw probable cause, Curt. We go in there, I’ll bet my father’s eyes we’ll find it within thirty seconds.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “We don’t even know what we’d be walking into.”

“You’re a cop and I’m a reporter at one of the biggest papers in the city,” I said. “They can’t just kill us.”

As I said that, suddenly we whipped around as something rapped at the passenger side door. There was a man standing there leaning over, gently knocking his knuckles against the window.

I felt a lump rise in my throat. What the hell was he doing here?

Curt immediately lowered his window and said, “Detective Makhoulian, I… How did you get here?”

Detective Sevay Makhoulian, wearing a light brown jacket that fluttered in the wind, nodded, gesturing across the front seat toward my window.

We turned around to find another man there. This one

I’d never met before, but I knew him right away. He was in his early forties, with wavy blond hair and an ear that looked like a bad science experiment.

It was Rex Malloy, and he was smiling as he aimed a gun at my head.

Rex Malloy opened up the backseat door and slid in, keeping his gun trained on the back of Curt’s head. Detective Makhoulian was walking in front of us, leading us toward the path that the Sam’s fish truck had pulled into. I now knew that Makhoulian had tipped them off about our meeting with Hollinsworth. Curt had trusted him. And so had I.

“Weapon, please,” Malloy said to Curt.

“I’m not packing.”

“And I’m Tiger Woods. Weapon. Please.”

I closed my eyes as I felt the muzzle of the gun pressed against my head. Curt reached down and unstrapped a gun from his ankle, then handed it over.

“Thank you,” Malloy said. “Was that so hard?”

I could see Malloy through the rearview mirror. His gun was held level, steady, and there was even the slightest hint of a grin on his face.