Jason Pinter - The Mark

The steps were worn, caked with dried mud and dirt. Crouching down, Mauser crept up the steps. Parker had said he was on the third floor, but that could have been a ruse. The kid could jump out at any moment, catch them by surprise. Mauser seriously doubted the kid was armed with anything more dangerous than a knife or a loose pipe. In the back of his mind, Mauser hoped he’d have the balls to fight.

The second-floor landing was dark. Light burst from the floor above, trickling down the staircase. Mauser cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight, but he didn’t have time to second-guess.

As he took the first step up, something soft brushed by his face. Stumbling back, he felt it again.

“The fuck!” Joe cried, tripping backward over Denton’s foot. A cluster of pigeons burst from the shadows, flying around the stairwell, beating their wings madly, feathers flying in the soft light. Mauser threw up his hand, tried to swat at them. “Goddamn it, get away!”

Denton joined in, both of them flailing about until there was silence. Joe wiped the sweat from his brow, looked at Denton, the man’s hair disheveled.

“So much for getting the drop,” he whispered.

They approached the third-floor landing. Globs of white littered the steps. They looked fresh. Bird shit. Wonderful. When he reached the third floor, Mauser swung his gun toward the light.

The room before them was empty. The only light came from a single bulb whose pull string had been yanked off. There was no sign of Parker.

Joe edged forward, forearms tensed, gun steady. The he saw it. In the center of the room, directly beneath the bulb, lay a photograph.

Mauser knelt down and picked it up. Suddenly his knees went slack, then he felt a hollowness in his stomach. His gun hand dropped. Joe recognized the man in the picture.

It was John Fredrickson.

His brother-in-law. Husband to his sister. In the photo Fredrickson held an envelope lined with cash. Handing him the envelope was a man Mauser recognized immediately.

Angelo Pineiro. “Blanket” Pineiro.

Joe stumbled back, the photo falling from his hand. Denton stepped forward, picked up the picture.

“Jesus,” he said flatly. “Is it real?”

“I think so,” Mauser said. Then he noticed a small black arrow on the bottom of the photo, pointing downward. Mauser flipped the picture over and saw two words scrawled on the back.

Fifth floor.

Mauser gripped the photo, felt it crinkle in his hand. Adrenaline pumped through him. John was on the take. Was it possible? And where the fuck did Parker get the picture? Anger boiled inside him, but now Mauser couldn’t focus it.

He bolted up the stairs, the birds on the stairwell below scared into a tizzy. Denton trailed behind him, but Joe Mauser could hear nothing, just the drumming in his head.

John…why?

When he reached the fifth floor, Mauser found the door was wide open. Parker was waiting for him. The moon cast a ghastly white gleam across the floor. Shadows danced in the corners. He squinted, thought he saw something move.

“Parker!” he yelled, gun erect, outstretched.

Denton strode up beside him, their heavy breathing merging into one. The room was quiet. The birds had stopped flying. Mauser stepped forward, the room blanketed in soft, impenetrable darkness.

“I have more.”

Mauser froze. The voice came from the corner of the room, by the window. All Joe could see was blackness. Raising his gun to chest level, Mauser stepped forward.

“If anything happens to me, the negatives go right to the press. Lower the gun. Then we can talk.”

“Joe,” Denton whispered. “He could be armed. Let’s just do him now before the cavalry arrives.”

Parker seemed to hear this, but his body didn’t respond. It was tense, rigid.

“There are more photos,” Parker said. “A lot more. They’re being guarded by a friend. If anything happens to me you’ll see them in the morning papers. All I’m asking is for you to lower the gun.”

John’s face in that photo. The money…

Without thinking, Mauser lowered his gun. He placed his hand on Denton’s wrist, forcing his gun down.

Out of the shadows stepped Henry Parker. He looked like a man who’d just run an entire marathon at full speed, his arms sinewy, shirt stained with dried sweat, hair unkempt. He could see blood seeping through Henry’s left pant leg from where he’d been shot. The young man breathed deeply. Joe could see dark rings under his eyes. Henry Parker looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and had been running from the devil the entire time. Which was probably the truth.

“You killed John,” Mauser said, stepping closer. Parker didn’t budge. “You killed a part of my family. You left a wife without a husband and two children without a father. You deserve to go straight to hell.” Mauser felt the blood harden in his veins, and slowly he raised the gun, aiming right at Henry Parker’s heart.

“John Fredrickson is dead,” Parker said. “But not because of me.”

“Fuck this shit,” Denton said, stepping forward, his gun raised, as well. “He killed John. Look at his eyes, he knows he did. If anyone deserves to die, Joe…”

Mauser looked into Parker’s eyes, the first time he’d seen them up close since St. Louis. Since Shelton Barnes.

That photo…

And somewhere, deep inside Henry Parker’s eyes, Joe Mauser saw the one thing he never thought he’d see.

Truth.

“Tell me what happened,” Joe said. “And don’t leave a thing out. And if I think you’re lying to me, I won’t think twice about shooting you in the face.”

Parker took a deep breath and spoke.

“It starts with Michael DiForio and Jimmy Saviano,” Henry said.

Mauser interjected. “Everyone knows about their war. It’s been brewing for years and nothing’s ever happened.”

“Until now,” Henry said. “Michael DiForio owns a good chunk of real estate in the city. More specifically, he owns the building at 2937 Broadway. Where John Fredrickson was killed.”

Parker took a breath, continued.

“DiForio figured an easy way to help his business, while exposing himself to limited liability, was to use indentured servants, couriers, to run his errands. Men without ties, without hope. If these couriers had records, and they were arrested or killed, the finger would point right back at them alone. No questions would be asked.”

A faint breeze drifted through the room, sending a shiver down Mauser’s spine.

“Come on, Joe, forget this kid, let’s take him now.” Mauser looked at Denton, who shut his mouth. He felt light-headed, his world turning upside down.

Nodding at Parker, Joe said, “Go on.”

“Michael DiForio’s associates would reach out to recent parolees. Men with no money and no job. They were offered housing on the cheap in exchange for their services. Picking up payments, running drugs, the works. And in return they got to stay out of crummy halfway homes and didn’t have to bag groceries for a living.” Parker swallowed. “Luis Guzman was one of those men. In fact, over the last five years, at least ten ex-convicts have lived in that very building, getting huge rent discounts in exchange for their-” Parker paused “-services.”

“I’m still not seeing it, Joe,” Denton said. “The fucking NYPD’s going to be here any minute and we’re fucking around with…”

“Shut the fuck up!” Mauser yelled. “Shut the fuck up! This is about my goddamn family!”

Denton looked like he’d been punched in the gut. He stepped back. Parker, clearly unnerved, tried to collect himself, his voice shaky.

“Another man DiForio employed was a photographer named Hans Gustofson. DiForio paid Gustofson to take some very incriminating photographs of very important people.