Parker 05 - The Darkness (23 page)

That's when Morgan knew he had to jump in.

When you introduced a new product to the marketplace, you didn't trust it to people who couldn't sell it,

who couldn't get the job done. A new product has an extremely narrow window of opportunity to work, and

while that door is cracked open, you needed to wedge everything but the kitchen sink in there because once that

sucker closed up, it wasn't cracking open again.

Morgan sold to people. Plain and simple. He sold them

investments in their future. He sold them the belief that

if they did not trust him then they were putting their

family's stability at risk.

Was this any different?

Morgan had done a few lines in his day. A night out at

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the strip joint with his buddies, a bump or two in the

bathroom to make those lights flicker just a little faster.

He didn't quite have the taste for it, though, felt if you

needed an external force to get high you were simply

doing the wrong drugs.

Not that he judged them. Most people were simply not

born with the same drive and instincts Morgan had been.

His parents were blue collar all the way, but had good

enough credit to get him a decent financial aid package.

Morgan knew a lot of kids from his hometown that

weren't so lucky.

They were the ones who filled up his tank at the gas

station. They were the ones who sprayed perfume on his

mother when she went to the mall. They were the ones

who needed something to take the edge off the real world,

because if they spent too much time with their own life

and their own thoughts eventually it would occur to them

what they had never become.

So this new product, Morgan guessed, was just one

more thing to take the edge off. And that was fine. He

trusted these guys. Jeremy was a message. Like no limit

hold 'em, you're either all in or you fold.

Jeremy folded. Morgan's stack of chips wasn't as high

as it used to be, but what was that great line from
Rounders?

Kid's got alligator blood.

Morgan liked the sound of that.

When the caller told him the address, Morgan was a

little surprised at first. He'd actually been there once

before, a few years back when he'd first started dating this

French model named Claudia who was in town for some

photo shoot where she was supposed to pose in a pink tutu

atop the Brooklyn Bridge.

Morgan never really understood art.

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She'd insisted that they go to the Kitten Club, the rationale being more along the lines of it being a trendy

hotspot rather than a place where actual enjoyment

could be had.

Morgan remembered that the music was deafening,

the light show transfixing, and the drinks ridiculously

overpriced.

And then that rich diva Athena Paradis got killed there,

and somehow the Kitten Club became even more popular.

Now why Morgan was supposed to be there at seven

o'clock in the morning, a good sixteen hours before the club

even opened its doors, was beyond him. But it was his first

day. And Morgan knew well enough not to ask questions.

He took the subway downtown, then walked to the

meatpacking district where the Kitten Club, and its

brethren, served generous amounts of alcohol to hip,

young New Yorkers seven days a week. At midnight, you

couldn't walk down the block without having to cut

through any one of a number of long lines dedicated to

keeping impatient drinkers outside until the Lord of the

Velvet Rope decided it was time to allow them entry.

The Kitten Club used to have one of those large neon

signs above the awning, this one depicting a feline in

naughty attire sipping from some sort of pink cocktail.

The lights were arranged so that it looked like the cat

was tipping the drink back. As the glass hit the cat's

lips, the drink actually appeared to disappear down its

furry throat.

If you had enough money, you could get anyone to

make you anything.

As Morgan approached the entrance, the front door

opened up. He immediately recognized the man who

held it open.

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"Morgan, good to see you," Chester said. "Feels good

to be up bright and early, doesn't it?"

Chester said this with the slightest air of contempt, as

though he knew that Morgan hadn't needed to wake up

before noon anytime in recent memory. Though he felt

his cheeks flush slightly red, he did feel a bit of pride in

rejoining the workforce.

"If it's worth getting up for, there's no such thing as

too early."

"Words to live by," Chester replied. "Come on in."

Chester held the door ajar, and Morgan slipped

inside. He couldn't help but find it funny that for the first

time he hadn't needed to wait in line to enter a club.

Maybe he needed to go clubbing at seven in the morning

more often.

Chester led Morgan through the club, the earlymorning sun peeking through black-tinted windows,

casting an eerie glow on a floor that seemed ghostlike

without the cavalcade of dancing, drinking bodies. The

first floor of the Kitten Club was essentially one large

open space, nearly the length of a football field.

At either end was a bar, about thirty feet long, that

housed four different bartenders in order to make sure

drinks were served promptly, and that every penny was

squeezed out of every patron.

Large birdcages hung above the floor, with doors big

enough to fit the dancers who gyrated inside them all

night. Morgan could see a pulley system keeping them

high, attached to a chain that could be lowered. Still, the

dancers had to keep going all night. Made you think twice

before entering a giant birdcage.

Chester led Morgan across the first floor, toward a

sign marked Restrooms. Morgan followed, but slowed

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down when Chester turned toward the door to the women's bathroom.

"Um, dude, you can't go in there."

Chester turned around, looked at Morgan like he'd

sprouted another head.

"You're really going to question me? Now?"

Morgan felt a chill travel down his spine. He simply

shook his head, and whispered, "Sorry."

Stupid, Morgan thought. His gut reaction, of course,

was to question why the hell they were going into the

ladies' bathroom in a nightclub at seven in the morning.

On the surface, not the most egregious question to be

asking. But Morgan should have known better.

So when Chester pushed open the door to the women's

room, Morgan followed obediently behind.

The women's room was cleaner than most clubs, especially considering it was known for being a veritable

petrie dish of chemical indulgences. There was an irony

in that the club was owned by Shawn Kensbrook, who

was as clean as they came. Hell, the guy became a

regular on the
Today
show after Athena Paradis died.

One of those celebrities, like Puff Daddy or P. Diddy or

whatever the hell his name was now who skyrocketed

to fame after the death of someone close. And when

fame came knocking, the mourning period lasted all of

about two more seconds before the checks started

rolling in.

Kensbrook himself was clean, but the Kitten Club

itself was as dirty as a public restroom. And like a

public restroom, Morgan held his nose when he took

one whiff of the foul odor that permeated this particular restroom.

He couldn't tell where it was coming from, but got an

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idea when Chester walked over to a closed stall door

clearly marked Out of Order.

Morgan followed, peeking over Chester's shoulder as

he pushed the stall door open.

Yup, that was it. No doubt whatever had died had done

so in this stall.

The toilet seat itself was covered in a brown foulness

that nearly made Morgan retch. The wall behind it was

chipping, the plaster coming loose. The metal toilet paper

holder was rusted and gross, and the floor tiles had hints

of yellow that reminded Morgan of writing his name

without hands on snow days in his youth.

Without hesitation, Chester stepped through the rusted

door and stood over the toilet.

"Dude," Morgan said, "that's pretty nasty. I'm sure

there's a working one in here that doesn't look like something out of
Trainspotting.
"

Chester appeared to ignore him, instead leaning forward.

Morgan couldn't make it out, but Chester was apparently

doing something against the wall, either scratching it with

his fingernails or pushing on something, he couldn't tell

what.

Suddenly Chester stepped back, and Morgan heard a

brief clicking noise before the entire compartment--the

toilet and the wall behind it--simply slid backward, revealing a walkway behind it.

"You've gotta be kidding me," Morgan said. "Who

are you, James Bond?"

"Guess I got the blond hair right," Chester said. "Come

on."

Morgan stepped into the passageway. It was a long

narrow hallway, metal on both sides, no deviations. At the

end of the hallway stood a simple metal door. There was

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193

no doorknob, no metal slats. Nothing except two video

cameras perched above the doorway, each pointed down

to capture whoever was about to enter.

"Who's back there?" Morgan said.

"What did I tell you about questions?"

"Not to ask them."

"You're a quick learner."

Chester kept walking until he was standing directly in

front of the door. He looked up at the cameras. Smiled.

Morgan was about to ask if whoever was back there

could see him, but remembered the previous conversation.

"The cameras don't work," Chester said.

"Huh?"

"That's what you were about to ask. Do you see any

wires? Any outlets?"

Morgan eyed the cameras. "Nope. But there's a red

light on."

"Runs on a battery," Chester said. "Fakes out most

burglars and trespassers. You can buy these things at

Radio Shack for sixty bucks."

"So then how do they..."

"Trust me, security is a lot tighter than a simple

camera. Just don't bring any of your friends here. They'll

be dead before they count to five."

"What..."

Before Morgan could finish his question (something

he was thankful for), the metal door slid open. Standing

there was Leonard.

He was wearing black jeans and a green turtleneck. He

held a clipboard in one hand, and gripped the door's

handle with his other.

"Hey," he said to Chester. Then he looked at Morgan.

"Glad you could make it. You guys are late."

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"Traffic," Chester said.

"Of course." Leonard took a pen from the clipboard,

checked something on it and went back into the room.

"Come on," Chester said, and Morgan followed him

inside.

The room was fairly small, and resembled an atrium

of some sort. There was another door off to the side, and

that was all. The only light was overhead track lighting,

and Morgan noticed a dozen cameras pointed at different parts of the room.

The first person he saw was Nikesh. The Indian boy

was standing in the center of the room. He was wearing

a black pinstripe suit, with a red tie and wingtip loafers.

His hair was freshly cut, and Morgan noticed a small

shaving nick under his chin.

Nikesh turned around. He nodded when he saw Morgan.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Morgan replied, wittily.

Then Nikesh turned around, and Morgan saw that he

had a large briefcase slung over his shoulders. The bag

was full, but not overstuffed. There was a combination

lock on the front, and the clasp was done.

"Patel, you're finished here. Flanagan?"

The chubby white kid from the conference room

ambled out of the side room. He was also clutching a

briefcase, this one stuffed even more. Though the bag

looked ready to burst, Chubby--aka Flanagan--seemed

to have no trouble carrying it. Obviously whatever was

inside didn't weigh much.

"You two have your orders," Leonard told them. "And

you remember everything I told you."

Patel and Flanagan both nodded. They looked confident.

Whatever Leonard had told them, they remembered it.

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Leonard clicked something in his ear, nodded, then

motioned for the duo to follow him. He slid the door

open, revealing the corridor. When they'd stepped

outside, Leonard pulled the door back into place.

"Your turn," Leonard said. "Time for orientation."

Leonard walked over to the side door. This one looked

fairly standard, with a doorknob and everything. Leonard

simply turned the knob, pulled it open and beckoned

Morgan to follow him.

Tentatively Morgan came forward, surprised at first