Jason Pinter - The Mark

“Pissed was two hours ago. Wait’ll you see what he is now.”

Blanket sighed as they went down the metal steps, his boots echoing in the narrow stairwell. Blanket knew full well that Charlie resented him, resented that he’d climbed the ladder so quickly. More responsibility equaled more cash. Charlie had been dealt the short end of the stick, a measly nine-hundred-square-foot apartment in Soho, none of the high-heeled women who circled Blanket’s apartment like vultures after a massacre. Cash was a sign of importance, a symbol of respect. Blanket started out as a page, running picayune errands for greasy tips. He spent too much money on spiffy ties from Barney’s, showing off to his friends who’d been weaned on Goodfellas. The salespeople had been reluctant to wait on such a young kid. Until he whipped out that money clip crammed with fifties. Blanket still had most of those ties, frayed and worn, now ugly as sin. They were a reminder of just how far he’d come.

When they reached the bottom of the stairwell, Charlie knocked four times, then twice, then three more, and a large door swung inward. A beefy man in a turtleneck-ironic since Blanket didn’t think he had a neck-nodded slightly and ushered them along.

The corridor was sparsely lit, a filmy yellow sputtering from a few low-wattage bulbs. Blanket walked behind Charlie, Charlie looking over his shoulder every few feet as though worried Blanket might fall behind.

“What’s your man say about the Parker kid?” Charlie asked.

“I think I’ll save that for Mike,” Blanket said irritably.

The loathing wafted off Charlie, almost as strong as his cologne, and just as repugnant.

“The fuck. You can tell him but you can’t tell me?”

“Exactly.”

“Asshole,” Charlie whispered.

Blanket grabbed Charlie by the shoulder and spun him around. Charlie resisted, and Blanket clamped down hard on the man’s neck, squeezing his fingers around his collarbone until the man’s knees buckled.

“Get the fuck off me!” Charlie yelped, his fingers struggling to break Blanket’s grip. Blanket eyed him sadly, like a dog who didn’t know any better than to pee on the rug. Charlie looked like he’d spent about thirty seconds in the gym his whole life. Probably couldn’t bench-press his dick. Blanket could probably do biceps curls with the pudgy little dump-ling.

“You know this, but I’m gonna remind you again since your thick fucking head seems to have missed the memo.” Blanket relaxed his grip on Charlie’s shoulder. “I don’t say shit to you. I decide what you need to know. You make one more comment like that, I’ll be scraping your balls off the bottom of my Cole Haans.” Charlie groaned. “You get me?”

“I got you. Now let go.”

Blanket let Charlie hit the floor. He got up, wiped his knees, rubbed his shoulder.

“You have anger issues, man. You gotta control that…”

“Are you saying something?”

“No, Blanket. I ain’t saying nothing.”

Blanket smiled, ran his fingers along the dusty brick corridor. He could hear voices from the other end, a mixture of panic and calm. Blanket took a deep breath, swallowed the phlegm in his throat. He knew he was about to walk into a buzzsaw. Meetings like this didn’t happen often. Seeing Michael DiForio in such spur-of-the-moment circumstances was like spotting one of those rare white elks or Haley’s comet or some shit.

They came to a metal door, green with rust, a grated slat on top. Blanket knocked. The slat opened. A pair of eyes popped into view.

“Hey, Blanket. Charlie. Mike’s waiting for you.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. How bad is it?”

“He forgot to eat breakfast this morning.”

“Fuck me, that’s bad.”

The man gave a nervous laugh, threw back a dead bolt and opened the door.

A large mahogany conference table was set up in the middle of the nondescript gray room. It smelled of ammonia and dust. The table looked out of place, like a de Kooning on the wall of a prison cell. Water pitchers lined the table. There was no alcohol. This wasn’t a social gathering. A dozen men were seated, and appeared to be in various states of unease. All older men, gray hair slicked back and oily. Dull ties. Questioning eyes. Waiting for answers. One man sat at the head of the table, facing the doorway. His green eyes were serrated blades.

“Blanket,” Michael DiForio said.

“Boss.”

Blanket looked at the man’s face: thin nose, arched eyebrows. Olive complexion. Trim in his tapered suit. He looked hungry. Now sixty-one, more athletic than most men half his age, Michael DiForio was vying to lead his family and usher in a new era of prosperity. Like Gotti before him, DiForio was a legend in his hometown, and a savvy real estate developer to boot. Everything about the man commanded respect, and in return he would offer his friendship. He was smart, ruthless, vicious, but always in control. Except for today. Today, DiForio looked like a man who, for the first time, had to question everything.

Now Blanket stood opposite this man, and all eyes waited.

Michael finally spoke, his voice calm.

“What’s the news?”

Blanket cleared his throat and tried to speak in a confident voice.

“Well, my sources told me…”

“Fuck the pussyfooting. Speak.”

Blanket toed the floor, looked up.

“The cops don’t have Parker yet. That’s a fact. He fled the scene before the boys in blue showed up. This morning some towel head at a meat market called 911, claimed Parker stole a newspaper after threatening his sons. Cops’re combing the area, but they couldn’t find a doughnut if they fucking sat on it. Rumor has it since they killed a cop, the Feds will be called in soon.”

DiForio looked like he was about to swear, then held back. “Have they locked down the building on 105th yet?”

Blanket nodded. “Place is tighter than my old lady.”

“Fuck,” DiForio spat. It startled Blanket, this sudden loss of composure. DiForio rubbed his temples. “What are Parker’s outs?”

Blanket scratched the back of his neck and looked at Michael. “Well, Port Authority’s out of the question. There’s no way he’s buying a bus ticket out of New York without a thirty-eight going up his ass. Airports, not a chance. Guy’s a college grad, figure even nowadays that’s worth something, so he’s too smart to try and use a passport.”

“What else?”

Blanket coughed.

“The Path could be a tough one. They’re sending cops to cover entry points at 33rd and Union Square, but there’s a definite chance he could have made it to Jersey.” The Path was an underground train service running to and from New Jersey. It was as hard to monitor as the subway system and ran just as often. There were several stations in the city, and a constant, bustling stream of crowds. “The kid doesn’t have any relatives there, maybe some college friends, who knows. Definitely nobody who’d take a bullet or get sent to lockup for him.”

“He got a girlfriend?” DiForio asked. Blanket stayed silent. Michael stood up, pushing his chair back. Metal scraped against metal. His voice effortlessly thundered in the small room. “Blanket, does he have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? He like transvestites?”

“Actually, boss, I’m not sure about that yet. Cops’re checking phone records, my man at the 24th said he’ll tell me whatever they find, but they’re still looking. We’re not gonna know anything until they do.”

DiForio picked his chair up and heaved it across the room. A dozen pairs of eyes watched it fly over their heads and clang against the wall. Michael walked around the table and approached Blanket, his chest mere inches away.

Dom Loverro stood up. The man weighed three hundred, three-fifty easy. Body fat percentage hovering around ninety-five. He said, “Mike, you want us to take care of it? Find this prick Parker?”