survive.
Ken Tsang, that wasn’t just a murder. It was a message.”
“I think I’ve seen that kind of message before.”
“Yeah? Where?”
“Wrote a story once where I had to interview the foreman after an accident at a quarry. The foreman told me the victim’s body looked like the bad guy after Indiana Jones smushed him in that rock crusher. Said he looked like something that was squeezed out of a tube of toothpaste.”
“You know, sometimes I feel I’d be better off not knowing about all your previous stories.”
“Thought it might be pertinent,” Jack sniffed.
“Come on, the building where 718 operates out of is over there.”
We entered the building, and I wasn’t shocked to find a different security guard on duty than I remember. He was an older man, mid-sixties, with a tuft of gray hair parked on the top of his head like a wind ornament. He had on thick reading glasses and was reading a newspaper. We approached, and I said, “We’re here for 718 Enterprises.”
The man looked up. I could see a crossword puzzle on the table in front of him. Only three of the words had been filled in. And let’s just say he wasn’t aware the word nuclear had an a.
“Sorry, come again?”
“718 Enterprises,” Jack said. “Can you ring them up?”
“Just a second.” He pushed the newspaper away and brought out a large binder. Opening it, he began to flip through pages, studying the telephone numbers with his index finger. I watched as he scanned, unable to see the numbers for myself.
“I’m sorry, there’s no company here by that name.
718 Enterprises, you said?”
“That’s right. They definitely work here,” I added.
“I’ve been here before,” I lied.
The guard curled his lip up, flipped through the binder again. He looked confused, frustrated. “Sorry, nothing here by that name.”
“Hold on a second,” I said. I took the logbook from the counter, began to look at all the people who’d signed in. Last time I was here, Scott Callahan and Kyle Evans had signed in when they visited 718 Enterprises. But to my surprise, nobody was here to visit the company. Not a single name I recognized.
“Sir, please give that back,” he said, his voice growing impatient. “If you don’t I’ll have security down here right quick.” Figured they’d have security. Old Man River here didn’t look like he was hired to do much strong- arming.
“What’s your name, friend?” Jack said.
“Edgar,” the guard replied.
“Edgar, I’m Jack. My friend Henry here is a little impatient, for that I apologize. We were under the impression this company was located at this address… How long have you been working here?”
“It’s my fourth day,” Edgar replied.
“Really,” Jack said. His voice was modulated to feign interest, but I could tell that bothered him. “Who else works this shift?”
“Nobody anymore. Building manager called the agency that was looking to place me, said they needed a new morning man five days a week, Monday through Friday.
They didn’t tell me about the last guy, but this is a full-time job. Thank God, because in this economy heaven knows my savings and 401k aren’t worth squat anymore.”
“Thanks, Edgar,” Jack said. “Come on, Henry.” He didn’t say my name like we were partners, but like I was his subordinate.
As we left the building, I said to Jack, “Next time you’re going to do the good cop, bad cop shtick, how about letting me know ahead of time that I’m going to be the bad cop?”
Jack shook his head. “This is about the story, Henry.
Not your pride or your feelings. If I need you to be my patsy to get someone to open up, that’s just what I’ll do.
And I’d expect you to do the same with me if the situation called for it. In fact, if you didn’t, I’d wonder why I was letting you tag along in the first place.”
“Tag along? This is my sto…” I stopped talking. This wouldn’t get us anywhere. “I can tell what you’re thinking.”
Jack nodded. “Whoever did work here packed up and left faster than my second wife left with my collection of antique pens.”
“You think it’s because of Tsang?” I asked.
“No way. At least not entirely. Tsang was killed yesterday. Edgar started a few days ago. If Tsang was connected to 718 Enterprises-and ipso facto your brother-they were long gone before they crushed his bones into oatmeal.”
I don’t know what we should have expected to find, but I guarantee it wasn’t nothing. Not the nothing as in
“well, we got there but didn’t quite find what we were looking for.” There was no trace of 718 Enterprises whatsoever. It was simply gone.
And as Jack and I stood there in the morning sunlight,
I couldn’t help but think about the hundreds of people who went about their day oblivious to this. Who’d walked by this building for perhaps years, unaware that it was a drug refueling station. And that all of a sudden whatever had been there had suddenly been packed up and shipped off as quickly and as easily as a parcel.
“Back to the office,” Jack said. “We’re not going to learn anything standing on the corner waiting for melanoma to sink in.”
His hands were on his hips, a look on his face that showed he was pissed off but wouldn’t stop here. I’d never seen Jack work, unless you counted watching him hunched over a keyboard sipping coffee that smelled suspiciously like something you’d find on tap at an Irish pub.
I had the same gene. The “hell if I’ll stop now” gene.
I smiled inwardly as Jack ran into the street to hail a cab, moving like a man half his age. Not only did he have a story to chase, but after months spent away from the game, this was the closest he’d been to fresh meat in a long time.
“There has to be a building manager,” I said. “A corporation who cashes the lease payments.”
“Great minds, Henry. Great minds.” He told the driver to take us back to Rockefeller Plaza. I felt my cell phone vibrate, picked it up, saw Amanda had left me a text message. I opened the mail. It read, Luv u. I smiled. Sent her one back that read, u 2 babe.
Then just before I closed the phone, I saw that I had another unopened text. This one was from Curt Sheffield.
It read: News out about Ken Tsang’s murder. Undercover cops say dealers are scared shitless, holing up.
Informants running like roaches.
And the text ended with one line that gave me chills.
Message delivered.
7
Morgan Isaacs didn’t want to wake up. He was lying in bed, forcing his eyelids closed, even though a few quick peeks told him it was after ten o’clock and the day had started without him. Again.
It had been just a week since Morgan had met with the real estate broker as well as his dad’s accountant (who didn’t charge him, thankfully, chalking it up to years of family service). Both advised him, without a moment of hesitation, to sell his two-bedroom apartment on Park
