Jason Pinter - The Fury

"Then giddyup, cowboy," I said.

"You know damn well there were no black cowboys, and no, I don't count Mel Brooks movies."

"Actually I think there were," I said. "I know a little about the Old West."

"You being cute with me?" Curt said.

He stood up. We'd finished just one beer, but I could tell he was motivated. And since his motivation might answer a few questions, who was I to stop him?

"Keep your cell on, I'll give you a call tonight," he said. We shook hands and gave an awkward fist-bump man hug that I always felt silly doing but practiced nonetheless.

We both left the club, Curt hailing a taxi while I headed toward the subway. I hadn't known Curt to spend money on cabs too often, he preferred to walk or use public transportation. That he was willing to spring for a cab meant his leg was bothering him enough to forgo the walk to the bus stop.

I arrived home a little past nine. Amanda greeted me with a hug and a kiss and a plate of cold spaghetti. She was wearing an oversize gray sweatshirt and a pair of light blue boxer shorts, and looked absolutely adorable.

Even the rumples of the sweatshirt couldn't hide the body beneath, and I made sure to squeeze her extra tight during our hug.

Changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I sat down at the table and dug into the food. She'd sprinkled a light sheet of parmesan over the tomato sauce.

"I can warm that up for you," she said.

"It's actually good like this," I said. "I ran some track back in high school and always ate cold pasta before meets. It always tastes better cold than reheated."

I proved this by shoveling another forkful in my mouth and grinning.

As I finished the meal, I couldn't help but think about how just yesterday a briefcase full of drugs had occupied the tabletop. Now the owner was dead, and it frightened me to think that whoever Hector Guardado was working for, his life was expendable compared to the contents of the briefcase.

And I wondered, again, why my brother's name was in a dead drug dealer's cell phone. And why Hector

Guardado had called him once and only once, the night

Stephen was murdered.

And as I sat there chewing and thinking, my cell phone rang.

Rummaging through the pile of laundry on the floor, I pulled the phone from my pocket, clicked Send. I rec ognized the prefix as coming from Curt's precinct.

"This is Henry," I said.

"It's Curt."

"You find anything?" I said, beginning to feel that familiar rush of apprehension and excitement. Then I remembered what I'd told Wallace, promising that my mind was still with the paper. I had to think about all this information both as a son and a reporter.

"You could say that. Now I know why the name 718

Enterprises sounded familiar. You sitting down?" he said.

"Yes," I lied.

"Your boys Gaines and Guardado, they're not the only ones."

"What do you mean?"

"Five bodies, Henry. Christ, what have you gotten into."

I stood there, listened, feeling dread pour through me.

Curt continued, saying, "Five young men murdered, the coroner's reports all suggesting the use of a silenced pistol. All gunshots from close range, all executionstyle. Assumed that the victims knew their killers. So if that's true, these guys were all killed just like Stephen

Gaines. Which means all five people were somehow connected to this 718 Enterprises. And all of them killed in the past three months. It's not just Gaines and

Guardado, man. Somebody is systematically taking out everyone who works for that organization."

When I was finally able to wrap my head around what

Curt had just told me, I sent an e-mail off to Wallace

Langston informing him of our conversation and what

I'd learned. There had to be some sort of story in what

Curt had told me, and I wanted to let Wallace know my mind was still sharp, I was still committed to the

Gazette, and that at some point I'd have a hell of a pageone exclusive for him.

As always Wallace showed excitement for the pos sibility of the story, but again expressed concern that I was too often finding myself in situations where uncov ering a story would put myself or others in harm's way.

The fact was I'd never been to Iraq, never reported on a war from the trenches, so neither he nor I could state that any danger I found myself in could compare. Bad things happened to find me. So be it. If I was still re porting about cute kittens and big ugly metal spiders- I mean, works of art -I would have impaled myself on a number-two pencil by now.

And as much as it energized me to think of this as a story, I knew it helped distract from the apprehension I had over finding the truth.

Five young men murdered, all with connections to

718 Enterprises. I had no idea what the company did, but the name and address were clearly a front for some thing. And somehow, after Helen Gaines brought him to New York, my brother had begun to work for them.

If only he were alive today. If only I'd waited on that street corner. If only I'd heard what he had to say.

According to Curt, when the dead mens' bodies were investigated, a phone number attributed to 718 Enter prises was found on their call lists. When dialed, the numbers led nowhere, and in fact each man's cell had a different number credited to 718. This cemented my feeling that Stephen Gaines's murder was one part of something much bigger, much broader, and that not only did my father's freedom and his son's killer hang in the balance, but potentially much more.

Amanda was asleep. Nights like this I would often find myself sitting on the couch in our living room. No music playing, no television. No noise at all beyond what the city offered.

It took a few minutes to realize it, but it began to dawn on me just how strange my world had become.

Nearly ten years ago I'd left the confines of Bend,

Oregon. In part because my ambition drew me to more crowded, deeper waters. I was tired of living in what I felt was a small world, confined to a small house made even smaller still by the discomfort of being around my parents. I longed for adventure, mystery.

I wanted to make a name for myself, and thought nowhere better to do that than in the city that never sleeps.

Now, however, I found myself glad for any quiet that nighttime offered. The fact that my windows weren't soundproof and I could hear car horns and alarms all hours of the night only made the feelings more intense. On those rare nights when I could hear nothing but the hum of my air conditioner, night as I knew it reminded me of those old days in Bend. Those quiet nights I lay restless in my bed, longing for noise that proved I was somewhere, had become someone.

Having been on the front page, having people know my name and my face, it was everything I wanted but nothing I'd expected.

Not for the first time I wondered if perhaps I'd be happier elsewhere, if Amanda and I lived in a place where I could report in a town where the media wasn't the focus of the media itself, where good work could be done out of the spotlight.

Where nobody else would get hurt.

News was in my blood. Had been for a long time. But was this what I wanted, what I'd dreamed of? At first it had been. That first day at the Gazette, seeing Jack

O'Donnell at his desk, the first time I read my own byline, each of these was one of those moments in your life that you remember for years. What was happening now, though, I didn't want to remember. But if my father was going to survive, and if Stephen Gaines's killer was going to be brought to justice, I sure as hell couldn't forget.

It was only a few days before my father went in front of a grand jury. That jury would more than likely indict him for the murder of his own estranged son. No doubt once that judgment was passed along, my father would go through the same ringer I did when I was wrongly accused of the crime. Only for him, he would be incar cerated, a slab of meat lying in a cage for the wolves to pick at whenever they chose. Even though I escaped with a pierced lung, my ordeal never made it to court.