Jason Pinter - The Fury

"But not really 'on the street.'"

"Nah. Anyone who thinks dealers in NYC sit on street corners waiting for crackheads to come up to them is watching too much HBO. This is a business, run and worked by businessmen. There's no room for street hustling or stupidity."

"Any women?" I asked.

"Not that I ever saw."

"Guess it's not all that different from finance after all."

"No," Scotty said with a laugh. "Guess not."

"So you say this whole thing is run like a business, streamlined and thorough. So let me ask you this…how did I find you?"

Scotty shifted in his seat. "I don't know."

"This recruiter you're talking about. The head honcho. You say you met with him."

"Just once," Scotty said. "After I had my…interview

I guess you could call it, I was always dealing with mid dlemen after that. Guys lower on the food chain."

"Are they the ones who give you the re-ups at the office in midtown?"

Scotty's eyes shot up, and for the first time a sense of fear crept into them. "Who told you that?"

I said nothing. Just stared at him. He needed to know he wasn't dealing with an amateur, and that if I'd come this far there was surely a lot more to dig up.

"Yeah. The Depot, we called it. The main guy was never there, it's kind of like as soon as we met him, he disappeared into thin air and stopped existing. We had his phone number just in case, but if anyone called it without a good reason, we knew they might not come in to work the next day."

"Did you ever hear anyone mention someone or something called the Fury?" Scotty looked at me, confused.

"No, not that I can think of." He seemed truthful.

"So Mayor McCheese. The Big Kahuna. The Big

Boss. The recruiter. Who was he?"

"Just some guy," Scotty said. "We never really learned anything about him."

"I mean what was his name?"

Scotty had to think for a minute, then he said.

"Gaines. Yeah, that was the dude's name. Stephen

Gaines."

"You're a liar," I said. Panic and rage cut through my body like a hot blade. My stomach churned, the milk shake feeling like it could come back up at any moment. "Stephen Gaines can't be, he's…dead." The last word came out empty, hollow, as though I was arguing with thin air.

"I know that," Scotty said. There was no emotion in his voice. He was simply telling me the news as he knew it. "But what do you want me to say? You asked."

I had no energy to argue with him, and no argument to counter the claims. How the hell would Scotty even know my brother's name unless…unless…

It was too terrible to even think of. Was it possible that my brother was much higher up on this food chain than I'd thought? Not just one of the lower men, the

Vinnies, the ones who carried tinfoil and Saran Wrap around the city like some alternate-universe grocer, but someone who actually was responsible for a piece of the action. Perhaps much more than a piece.

Was it possible Stephen Gaines was the Fury?

No, I thought. That was impossible. Somebody killed him. He was innocent. A man with demons, sure, but not somebody who deserved to die.

The only way you're murdered in that kind of business is if somebody bigger than you thinks you're hindering the operation, preventing someone more am bitious from carving a larger slice of the pie.

Unless…what if he was knocked off by a smaller dealer, somebody whose eyes simply got too big for their head? Somebody who felt scalping my brother would give them street cred, a trophy, to assume the mantle for their own?

What if my brother wore a target on his back?

Immediately my mind went back to that night. The night Stephen found me at the Gazette. His face filled with fright, his body wracked with pain from the drugs and some secret he was carrying. Is it possible he knew he had a death wish, and simply needed help? If Stephen was so powerful, what could I possibly have done for him?

I'd seen men and women whose lives had been de stroyed by drugs, by alcohol. Hell, my idol, Jack

O'Donnell, was hidden away somewhere trying to drain the poisons and impulses from his body. Jack had been on the sauce for years, yet during that time he'd risen to the highest ranks of his profession. There were numerous examples of functioning alcoholics, drug addicts, people who achieved despite carrying the disease. I mean, I lived and worked in New York, which probably had the highest ratio of functioning addicts in the world. It would only make sense that if a person worked in that industry, they would be corrupted in some way, body or soul or both.

When I saw Stephen Gaines outside of my office building, his face pale, sweat streaking down his gaunt frame, it was clear he'd been wasted away by both.

Scotty Callahan sat there holding his glass while I tried to force his words from my mind, trying to will them to be false. Scotty didn't seem to care one way or another. Now that I had the information, it was no concern to him what I did with it.

And I could tell by the way he sat there eating, drinking, staring at his food, his mind completely oblivious to the anguish building inside me…this was not the face of a man lying to save his ass. There might have even been a slight catharsis in telling me.

Stephen Gaines wasn't just some random junkie, but in fact one of the leaders of this organization-718 En terprises. No doubt Stephen knew what that stood for, who worked in it, how widely it reached. Perhaps that's what he wanted to tell me. It's what I would have heard had I stopped. It's what he would have done that night, while a killer roamed the streets waiting for him to come home.

"You only met him once," I said to Scotty. "Just once."

"Just once," he said, holding up one finger. Then he burped, and a shred of pastrami tumbled over his lower lip. He slurped it back up.

"What about Kyle?" I said. "How much does he know."

Scotty put down his drink. He leaned over until I could smell the meat on his breath. His eyes narrowed, and for a moment my anger and frustration was replaced by the possibility that this guy might take a swing at me.

"You leave him the hell out of this," Scotty said. "His mom is sick. He brings home enough to pay her bills, and doesn't want or ask for any trouble. None of us are trying to get anyone hurt. You want to drag me through the mud, tell people I'm dealing, it'll suck but maybe I deserve it. You screw with Kyle's life, it's not just him but his family. I don't know you, Henry, but you'd have to be one heartless son of a bitch to do something like that."

"I need to know what he knows," I said, my voice trying to explain without any hostility. "It's my family, too. My father was arrested for the murder of Stephen

Gaines."

Scotty sat back at though slapped. The breath seemed to have left him. For a moment he said nothing, then he shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"Thanks," I replied.

"So that's what this is really about," Scotty said.

"Finding the truth to get your pops off the hook."

"That's right."

"Then I don't know what to say. I meant what I said about Kyle. I'll tell you anything you want. I know

Kyle didn't know Gaines any more than I did. He met him once, for an interview kind of thing. And we both have to check in at the office, make sure our receipts match up with what we're selling."

"Can you give me the name of whoever handles that?" I said.

"It's always different," Scotty said. "And they never tell us their names."

"What happens if you screw up?" I asked.

Scotty sighed, said, "I guess you should ask Stephen."

We said nothing, as I processed what Scotty had said and he finished off the last of his cream soda. My milk shake sat lonely and untouched. If he was desperate enough for money to resort to drugs, I guess he valued a free meal when it came his way.