Jason Pinter - The Fury

JO: I've heard that before:

BW: See, in our line of work, that's more like twenty-five percent. Figure ten percent get stoned, take themselves out of the game. Another ten per cent get busted.

JO: And the other five percent?

BW: They gots ta be made gone. I been around the country, man. Lived in L.A. and Baltimore be fore coming to NYC. Got family and friends everywhere. Cities change but things ain't that different. Don't matter where you are or where you work. If you sell, you gotta sell right.

JO: Butch, you said if someone doesn't sell right, they have to be "made gone." What do you mean by that?

BW: I mean, if you run a business, and some one's screwing up the bottom line, what do you do with them?

JO: Somehow I don't think you're talking about early retirement, a pension plan.

BW: You might call it an early retirement.

JO: So if someone needs to be "taken out," where does that come from?

BW: Come again?

JO: Who decides that bottom five percent? Who makes the final call which people, pardon the ex pression, live or die?

BW: Don't know, man. Ain't up to me, that's for sure.

JO: But surely you don't work for yourself. There are other people higher than you, I guess you might call them the board or something along those lines.

BW: Always report to the crew leader (Note: Wil lingham refused to identify his crew leader's name, but it was confirmed by several subjects to be a man named Marvin Barnett, age thirty-one), and I know he don't take home every penny that come into his hand.

JO: So where does the rest go?

BW: I don't know that. Don't know about no

"board" neither. Heard rumors about one dude who runs the whole show, but not like anyone's ever seen him, so it's probably bullshit.

JO: So where do you see yourself in five years?

The main man?

BW: Hell no, man. The main man got too many problems. There's a reason it's called the crown of thorns. You only sit at the top for so long be fore someone decides he don't like your way of doing business. Guys in my spot, as long as we keep our head down and keep selling, we be all right. Might not make as much money as the big man, but I'll be alive a lot longer.

I read the interview again. It wasn't much, but even then Willingham seemed to think there was some higher power, some authority figure running the show. The strange thing is that Butch seemed adamant about not doing drugs, about respecting the hierarchy of which he was a part. I wondered if there was a chance Willingham was killed over the book, but the book came out long after Butch was killed.

In addition, most of the numerous references to dealers were protected by fake names, monikers used to protect them in case their employers sought retribu tion along the lines that Butch had received. From

Jack's perspective, he probably figured he didn't need to protect Butch Willingham's name since the man was already dead.

I found it to be a little too much of a coincidence that just weeks after this interview, the man was found dead with the words The Fury scrawled in his own blood. It didn't seem like Butch would have overstepped his bounds, but I couldn't be sure. Dealing wasn't exactly the most legitimate enterprise, so it was entirely possible he was blowing smoke up Jack's ass just to make himself sound like a good soldier.

Regardless, something had happened in those weeks between the interview and Butch's death. He'd done or seen something that required him being "made gone."

Looking back through the interview, I noticed this line of questioning:

JO: How do you come to grips knowing that the product you sell will be used by children?

BW: That ain't on me. I got a son, and I raise that boy right. Clarence gonna be fifteen next month.

He knows if I ever see him lift a pipe or a needle, he's gonna feel a pain a lot worse than what those drugs can do to him. Grown-ups make their own decisions. I ain't got no sympathy for a grown man who uses. But a child, that's on the parent.

If you can't raise your boy or girl right, and they end up sucking on a pipe, well, then, that's on the parents. There's a manhole in my street. City ain't never bothered to fix it. But I know it's there and step around that sucker. Someone else falls in? It's their own damn fault for being stupid.

Butch Willingham had a son. Clarence. It was a long shot, but there was a chance.

Using my cell phone, I went to 411. com and plugged in the name Clarence Willingham. Two matches came back; one living in Crown Heights, the other by Mor ningside Park on 107th Street.

I called the first number. A man picked up.

"Yeah?"

"Hi…is this Clarence Willingham?"

"Um, no," the man said, sounding irritated. "This was Clarence Willingham."

"Excuse me?"

"My name is Clarence Savoy now. Just got married last month."

"You…married…oh, I get it. Was your father Butch

Willingham?"

"Butch?" the man said with a high-pitched laugh.

"Try Albert. But close." Then Clarence Savoy hung up.

I tried the second number. It rang half a dozen times but didn't go to voice mail. I let it keep ringing. After three more rings, a man picked up. He sounded tired, like I'd just woken him from a nap.

"Who's this?"

"Is this Clarence Willingham?"

"Yeah, who's this?"

"Clarence, was your father named Butch?"

"Yeah, the hell's this about?"

"My name is Henry Parker. I'm a reporter. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

I told Clarence about his father and Jack's book. I needed to know if he knew anything else about his father's murder or business practices. Clarence was eight years old when his father died. There's a chance he remembered something.

"I don't talk about this stuff over the phone,"

Clarence said.

"Well, my story is running tomorrow," I lied. "If you see me in person, we can talk about you giving me in formation as an unnamed source. If you don't cooper ate, I can't promise anything."

I heard a rustling noise in the background. Then a female voice said, "Who is it?"

I must have interrupted Clarence. Too bad for him.

He shushed whoever was there and said, "Listen, man, I'll tell you whatever I know about my dad, but this is opening some seriously old wounds."

"Great. I'll be there in half an hour. What's your address?"

He gave me his address, which I jotted down before hanging up.

I checked my watch. It was almost noon. I stopped at a Staples store and bought a new tape recorder, some pens and paper. These were the tools I brought along when conducting interviews, when talking to sources.

I hadn't used them much recently because this investi gation had been more personal than professional. I thought everything revolved around my father's arrest.

Only now could I see how wrong I'd been.

I kissed Amanda goodbye, made sure I was presentable and headed uptown to meet Clarence Willingham.

I rode the 2 train to 116th and Lenox Avenue. It was a hot day outside, the breeze that had felt so cool on our balcony gone.

Morningside Park was actually part of a cliff that sep arated Manhattan from Morningside Heights. It was also the location of a massive protest in 1968, when students of Columbia University staged a sit-in in and around the proposed construction of a gymnasium on the park grounds. With separate east and west entrances, many assumed this was to segregate the gym between black and white. University spokesmen denied the claims, but abandoned the plans after students barri caded themselves inside numerous university buildings.

After a group of students opposed to the protests blockaded the occupied buildings, police came in to end the struggle. Over one hundred and fifty students were injured during the forced removal, and over seven hundred were arrested. Because of the terrible public re lations, specifically stemming from the student-on student violence, Columbia scrapped its plans and built an underground gym instead. Ironically the blueprints for the gym were then sold to Princeton University, which appropriated them for their own use.