Jason Pinter - The Mark

Then I heard a sound that made my heart skip a beat.

A steady pounding coming from the hallway. Footsteps. Voices growing louder.

Amanda. Grady. They were coming downstairs.

I thrust the last few checks into the copier, listening to the hum as it churned out carbons. When each one was ejected, I placed it neatly back in the filing cabinet. Sweat poured down my face. Their voices grew louder, as did the sound of feet echoing on metal.

I put one last check in the copier and pressed Start. The machine sucked the paper in, but instead of shooting out the original, all that came out was a sharp beeping noise. I looked at the LCD display.

In bold, blinking letters, it read Paper Jam.

Oh, God. Not now…

Frantically I opened the copier’s lid, hoping the original would be there. No dice. It was stuck somewhere inside the machine. I’d never been particularly savvy when it came to heavy machinery, and had no desire to go rooting around in the belly of some demonic steel beast, but I couldn’t leave any trace that someone had been in Larkin’s office. The LCD display instructed me to remove the middle portion from the copier to facilitate paper removal. Whatever the hell that meant.

The voices grew louder.

I pulled at a plastic tab that resembled the one blinking on the display. To my surprise, a shelf slid out effortlessly. Turning a mysterious green dial counterclockwise, I heard the sound of paper crinkling. Hopefully it wasn’t the original.

I kept turning the dial, and the tattered edge of a piece of paper peeked out of a thin slit. Turning the dial faster, I pulled at the page. It was a copy of the check. The original was still somewhere inside.

I pulled harder, horror sweeping through me as half the page tore off in my hand. I spun the dial faster, and the rest of the page came out. I pushed the compartment back in and heard a faint whirring noise. The original check, flat and perfectly preserved, came spitting out of the feeder. I thrust it back into the cabinet, shut the file and bolted out of Larkin’s apartment, the torn page crumpled in my hand.

Just as I rounded the corner, the stairwell door banged open and footsteps came to a halt in front of Larkin’s apartment.

“So you’ll let me know about 4A, right? I got three other buyers. Maybe if you give me a deposit tonight I’ll be able to hold it for you.”

“Actually, I’d like to talk it over with my husband before I commit.”

“Your husband? I thought you said your boyfriend just dumped you. I don’t see no ring.” Amanda gave a high, airy laugh. I took slow, deep breaths, oxygen flowing through my parched lungs.

“I don’t wear my ring. And my boyfriend did dump me,” Amanda said. “Our love is based on the spiritual, not the material. And who are you to judge my personal choices?”

“Right, whatever,” Larkin said. “So listen, I’ll hold it for you till tomorrow. After that, I’m not making any promises.”

“So then I’ll call you tomorrow. I can let myself out.”

“You do that.”

There was a loud squeak as Larkin’s door opened, a satisfying clunk as the lock hit home. I waited a moment, then stepped around the corner. Amanda was smiling. A quick nod and we headed up the stairs and out of the building. My pulse was racing, my neck, my wrists, my hands, my whole body tense with this new information.

We crossed the street and stood in the safety of a nearby bus shelter.

“So, what’d you get?” she asked.

I pulled the copied pages out and showed her, explaining the payment inconsistencies over the years. She looked puzzled, shuffling through the various checks like a student who couldn’t understand why she only received an A minus.

“So what does all this mean? What do we do with these checks?” Her eyes were expectant. Fortunately I’d thought about our next move while still inside Larkin’s apartment. I knew exactly what to do.

“We need to find out who these tenants are, what they all have in common and why Grady Larkin is the greatest landlord in Manhattan. Somebody is subsidizing the rent, but for only select tenants,” I said. “We need someone who can get some dirt fast, and get it without making any noise. And I know the perfect guy to do it.”

Dusk had settled over New York, a dim blue-black that seemed to mirror everything I felt on the inside. Weariness had crept over me like a cold front, and there was no shelter in sight. The man who’d wanted to kill me back in St. Louis, he wasn’t a cop. The cops wanted me dead for killing one of their own. But this man was a deadly mystery. I still didn’t know what he was looking for or what was in that package, but unless he was dead he likely hadn’t abandoned his quest. And a man like that didn’t die easy.

I’d been lucky to escape New York the first time. Lightning wouldn’t strike twice. The truth was buried here, and it would have to be uncovered soon.

I changed a dollar at a local grocery store, trying not to stare at the newspapers stacked up like tinder on the metal rack. On the cover of the early bird edition of the Gazette was another column by Paulina Cole. The headline read Henry Parker: A Villain For Our Times, Or Of Our Times?

Incredible. Somehow I’d managed to buck the trend. In this city, unless you were a celebrity with visible cellulite or a politician having a homosexual affair with the pool boy, you didn’t get hero-of-the-day treatment for more than twenty-four hours.

Not exactly the kind of story I hoped to hinge my reputation on. For years I’d dreamt about being featured on the front page of the New York papers. And now here was my dream, in full black and white.

“You okay?” Amanda asked, as a kindly man with a brown turban handed me two quarters, two dimes and six nickels.

“Yeah, it’s just…” I stopped, my head falling to my chest. “I want this to be over. I want my life back. I want you to have your life back.”

“We will,” Amanda said, gently placing her hand on my arm. She was trying to comfort me, but unease soiled her voice. She knew how perilous the situation was, that at any moment I could be cuffed and thrown in prison. Or worse.

We stepped into a phone booth a few blocks down. An elderly man sat on a stoop sucking on a pipe, watching me. He took in a lungful and exhaled a plume of white smoke. His eyes refused to let go of mine.

I took the bundle of papers from my pocket and dialed the number I knew by heart. This is what it came down to. This one phone call.

It could reaffirm everything I believed in, or dash my hopes in one fell swoop. If he was true to his word, if he really did believe in me that day, this was when he’d show it. He had to. Or everything I’d ever believed in was dead.

The line picked up after just one ring. The familiar greeting sent a chill down my spine.

“ New York Gazette, how may I direct your call?” Amanda looked at me, her grip on my arm tightening.

I took a deep breath.

“Jack O’Donnell, please.”

“May I tell him who’s calling?”

“His husband.”

“His…what?”

“Just connect me.”

O’Donnell picked up the phone before the first ring had ended.

The last time I heard that voice, it was giving me a chance to prove myself. But I’d thrown it away, burned it and pissed on its ashes. I only hoped he was really on the level.

“This is O’Donnell.”

“Jack?”

“Speaking.”

“Jack,” I said, my voice trembling, my throat choking up. “It’s Henry Parker.”

A few seconds passed.

“No, I’m sorry. Henry Parker doesn’t work here anymore.”

My stomach lurched and suddenly I felt queasy. Jack had confirmed my fears. The Gazette had officially fired me.