Jason Pinter - The Fury

After the plates had been cleared and I'd taken care of the tab, we both stood up and headed toward the door.

I followed him, my legs feeling rubbery.

The air outside was warm, the night sky a lovely dark blue. Sometimes I hated the towering skyscrapers of New York and how they totally obscured the horizons. But nights like tonight I could stare at the pin pricks of light, the behemoths sparsely lit, and admire the grandeur of it all. This was a magnificent city. One that almost seemed to beckon you to claim it all for your own, to rise up one of those towers and stand out over the masses, arms spread, taking it all in. All for yourself.

And maybe that's what seduced Stephen. And got him killed as well.

The streetlight turned green, the red Stop hand switching to the white "happy walking" person.

"That's my signal," Scotty said. I nodded stupidly, unsure of how to end our little gab session. "Listen,

Henry, I respect what you're doing. If the guy was a dirtbag, it might not be worth your time if you didn't know him. I know better than anyone that sometimes you have to do things you're not proud of to make ends meet. You tell yourself it's okay, because it's the only way, and it's only for a short time."

"If that's what it takes to help you sleep at night," I said.

"Judge all you want. At some point you'll have to make some tough choices too. And you gave me your word about this being off the record. I know some bad people, people who don't really give pink slips."

"Your name won't come up and won't appear in the paper."

"Good. And maybe ten years from now you can look back and know you did the right things because they were the only things available. I-"

And then Scott Callahan turned and walked away.

I stared at his back, hands in his pockets, hunched over, acting like the weather was far colder than it actually was. And then he turned the corner and was gone.

Sometimes people forget about the weight on their shoulders until you point it out.

My legs felt weak, and I debated just hailing a taxi.

Then I remembered how long it would take to get back uptown, that I'd probably have to take on a second job to pay for it, and headed toward the subway. Consider ing prices of everything from milk to movies had sky rocketed in New York to the point where you had to hit an ATM just to buy coffee and a doughnut, you had to conserve wherever possible.

I couldn't wait to see Amanda, to hear her voice, to feel her arms again. Then I remembered she'd promised

Darcy Lapore a night on the town and realized it would be several hours before that would happen. But it wasn't all bad. Amanda didn't go out all that often, and had never been a big drinker, but Darcy was dangerous.

Her husband was a high roller and the one time we'd double-dated with them he took us to some club with a kinky name where he plunked down four figures for a table and two bottles, and we proceeded to get completely obliterated. In New York, when someone pays a grand for you to drink, you drink your money's worth.

Anyway, because of Amanda's relatively light drinking habits, she tended to get drunk rather easily.

Which had two results: the first that she would have a wicked hangover the next day, but second that she was frisky as all get out when she got home. One night a month ago, she came home from a night out with Darcy, and upon arriving home she proceeded to give me a piece of her mind. The reason for chewing me out? I was still wearing pants.

God, I loved that woman.

The train ride was uneventful, and I wondered what my father was doing at that very instant. I'd only been to see him once since his incarceration in the Tombs. Every part of me wanted to see him released, to go back home and live out the rest of his life with my mother in whatever hap piness the two of them could muster. I wanted to believe that, if he was released, he would treat her the way a wife deserved to be treated. Loved. Cared for. Respected.

But I knew none of that would happen. Chances were, things would not change. He would not suddenly become the husband he should have been years ago.

That ship had sailed.

But it didn't mean he deserved to be treated like a murderer. And like I told him that night two years ago, while I was holed up in a crummy building as three men were approaching to kill me, I used my father's short comings to fuel me. Because of him I wanted to be to

Amanda what he'd never been to my mother. I'd gotten it wrong once, with Mya.

I steadfastly believed that a person became who they were by choice. They achieved or they did not. They were decent or they were not. Those choices might be harder depending on the worldviews they are subjected to. The climb might be more difficult, but being a good man, working at my craft, those were possibilities that were attainable to me.

I was born with ability. I knew that. But it took ev erything I had to wrench myself away from the grips of this man, and I was happy to forget him. And in the years since, I'd found a few times where that anger could be reversed. Where the climb became more man ageable because it lifted me.

Amanda, Mya.

We were all recovering from our injuries, emo tional and physical. Mya's would take longer, but inside the girl she'd become was the girl I once knew.

She would move on.

I'd moved on eight years ago. Now I wanted to be everything James Parker was not.

I wanted to be strong. Anger was a powerful tool.

And I wanted my anger to be used for the right reasons.

I stopped at a corner deli. The manager recognized me. He was a burly Arab man, very pleasant, who'd seen me once with Amanda and now greeted me with a humorous "hubba hubba" whenever I was alone.

"Large coffee," I said. "Cream and three sugars."

"Cream?" he said, surprised. "Usually you take it with milk."

"I need the extra jolt tonight," I said. He nodded, understanding.

"Where's your ladyfriend?" he asked, moving toward the pots.

"Out tonight," I said with a smile.

"That lady, whoo, hubba hubba," he said, pointing to the coffee. "Fresh pot, plenty hot," he continued.

"Just the way I like it," I said.

He poured me a full cup, steam rising off the top, and added the cream and sugar. I paid him, thanked him and left.

The coffee, cream and sugar would be enough to get through the night. Or at least keep me awake until

Amanda got home. Sipping it as I approached my apart ment, I set it on the call box and searched my pockets for my keys.

Staring ahead as my fingers felt around for the familiar metal, suddenly my body froze.

The door to our building was glass. Through the il lumination of the lamp on the corner, I could see the re flection of the street behind me. And what I saw was a man approaching holding what looked to be an unopened switchblade.

He was a few inches shorter than me, white, with a scraggly beard and loose-fitting clothes that had surely been bought when he was a few pounds heavier.

In that light, he looked scarily like my brother had the night I saw him.

Slowly I reached up, picked up my coffee cup, took a small sip. My fingers trembled as I pretended to be unsure of where I was.

Then I heard the chilling snick and saw a long, thin piece of metal protruding from the man's hand. His blade was now open.

My heart hammered. In just seconds he would be behind me. And I would be dead.

Then I saw the man's hand rise above his head, the knife pointed down, ready to bury itself in my neck. I had one shot to do this right, or I'd feel that knife point inside me, the cold steel lodging itself in me.

I spun around, startling the man, and swung the entire cup of steaming-hot coffee into his face.

He shrieked, his hands clawing at his face. The knife clattered to the ground, and I kicked it as far as I could before he could react. It skittered away and stopped beneath a parked car thirty feet down the block.