25
When I was finally able to wrap my head around what
Curt had just told me, I sent an e-mail off to Wallace
Langston informing him of our conversation and what
I'd learned. There had to be some sort of story in what
Curt had told me, and I wanted to let Wallace know my mind was still sharp, I was still committed to the
Gazette, and that at some point I'd have a hell of a pageone exclusive for him.
As always Wallace showed excitement for the pos sibility of the story, but again expressed concern that I was too often finding myself in situations where uncov ering a story would put myself or others in harm's way.
The fact was I'd never been to Iraq, never reported on a war from the trenches, so neither he nor I could state that any danger I found myself in could compare. Bad things happened to find me. So be it. If I was still re porting about cute kittens and big ugly metal spiders- I mean, works of art -I would have impaled myself on a number-two pencil by now.
And as much as it energized me to think of this as a story, I knew it helped distract from the apprehension I had over finding the truth.
Five young men murdered, all with connections to
718 Enterprises. I had no idea what the company did, but the name and address were clearly a front for some thing. And somehow, after Helen Gaines brought him to New York, my brother had begun to work for them.
If only he were alive today. If only I'd waited on that street corner. If only I'd heard what he had to say.
According to Curt, when the dead mens' bodies were investigated, a phone number attributed to 718 Enter prises was found on their call lists. When dialed, the numbers led nowhere, and in fact each man's cell had a different number credited to 718. This cemented my feeling that Stephen Gaines's murder was one part of something much bigger, much broader, and that not only did my father's freedom and his son's killer hang in the balance, but potentially much more.
Amanda was asleep. Nights like this I would often find myself sitting on the couch in our living room. No music playing, no television. No noise at all beyond what the city offered.
It took a few minutes to realize it, but it began to dawn on me just how strange my world had become.
Nearly ten years ago I'd left the confines of Bend,
Oregon. In part because my ambition drew me to more crowded, deeper waters. I was tired of living in what I felt was a small world, confined to a small house made even smaller still by the discomfort of being around my parents. I longed for adventure, mystery.
I wanted to make a name for myself, and thought nowhere better to do that than in the city that never sleeps.
Now, however, I found myself glad for any quiet that nighttime offered. The fact that my windows weren't soundproof and I could hear car horns and alarms all hours of the night only made the feelings more intense. On those rare nights when I could hear nothing but the hum of my air conditioner, night as I knew it reminded me of those old days in Bend. Those quiet nights I lay restless in my bed, longing for noise that proved I was somewhere, had become someone.
Having been on the front page, having people know my name and my face, it was everything I wanted but nothing I'd expected.
Not for the first time I wondered if perhaps I'd be happier elsewhere, if Amanda and I lived in a place where I could report in a town where the media wasn't the focus of the media itself, where good work could be done out of the spotlight.
Where nobody else would get hurt.
News was in my blood. Had been for a long time. But was this what I wanted, what I'd dreamed of? At first it had been. That first day at the Gazette, seeing Jack
O'Donnell at his desk, the first time I read my own byline, each of these was one of those moments in your life that you remember for years. What was happening now, though, I didn't want to remember. But if my father was going to survive, and if Stephen Gaines's killer was going to be brought to justice, I sure as hell couldn't forget.
It was only a few days before my father went in front of a grand jury. That jury would more than likely indict him for the murder of his own estranged son. No doubt once that judgment was passed along, my father would go through the same ringer I did when I was wrongly accused of the crime. Only for him, he would be incar cerated, a slab of meat lying in a cage for the wolves to pick at whenever they chose. Even though I escaped with a pierced lung, my ordeal never made it to court.
I had to get my father out before that took place.
There was one person who had knowledge of 718
Enterprises. One person who likely knew both Hector
Guardado and my brother. One person I knew enough about to make him listen.
I had to wait about eighteen hours before I could confront him.
It was going to be a long day.
I sat on the front stoop sipping from a cup of coffee, one of those great, old-fashioned cups that were made of cardboard and had cute little illustrations of mugs with wings on the side. Coffee cups these days seemed to be tall, sleek models that looked more like tubes of enriched uranium than something you drank to wake up in the morning. The deli I got this from had no logo, no branding, and the bag they gave it to me in had one of those cheerful INY slogans on the side. Those were the bags you gave out when you didn't have a Web site, and didn't have spontaneous MP3 downloading capa bility.
There was no definitive time when he'd be home. I'd arrived at 7:00 p.m. on the chance it was an early day.
So far it had not been. Around eight-thirty I went for a quick walk up and down the block to keep my blood flowing, and to make sure people in the neighborhood didn't get suspicious.
Finally at eight-thirty, just as I was beginning to feel the need to pee, I saw him walking down the street.
He carried the briefcase lightly. It was clearly empty.
As he got closer I could see that his suit was wrinkled, stained through with the sweat from a day spent going house to house, subway to subway.
When he got close enough to the point where he could see me, I stepped out onto the sidewalk. Right in front of him. He was bigger than I remembered, and the ill-fitting suit didn't fully stretch enough to hide the muscles in his arms. The shock of black hair that had surely been neatly combed that morning now sat askew on his head, beads of sweat traveling down his forehead and nestling in the collar of his formerly white oxford shirt. The man stopped for a moment, eyed me curi ously, defensive, as though he half-expected me to take a random swing at him.
'Scott Callahan?' I said.
'The hell are you?' Scotty replied, taking a step back.
'My name is Henry Parker,' I said. 'And you're going to want to talk to me.'
Scotty walked in front of me the whole way, like a prisoner heading toward the electric chair, knowing there was no chance of reprieve. On the street, Scotty had told me to go to hell. I responded by telling him ev erything I knew, how I'd followed him the other day.
How I'd observed him going into each of those houses, how I knew he was selling drugs.
I had to leave out my stealing Hector Guardado's briefcase. He didn't need to know I was so close. I wanted to have leverage on Scotty, but put too much weight on a person and rather than talk they'll simply buckle. If Scotty thought I knew so much to the point where I could incriminate both him and 718 Enter prises, he'd feel no reason to talk to me. He needed to feel there was a way out. If there was a chance at survival, there was a chance to talk his way out of it.
