Parker 05 - The Darkness (39 page)

for a call so I could then follow someone. I couldn't

complain, though. It wasn't too long ago I did just what

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Curt was doing, following one of these dealers, trying to

find out just where their stash was hidden.

And then I found it, but when we went back it was

gone. They obviously hadn't given up, but had simply

moved to a new location.

Tonight we were going to find out where 718 Enterprises was hoarding their stash. Then Curt would take it

down with his fellow boys in blue, Jack and I would get

the exclusive, eyewitness story, and everyone would go

home happy.

At least that's how it all played out in my mind. What

happened next was something, far, far different.

Two hours into my stakeout of, well,
nothing,
my cell

phone rang. It was Curt.

I picked up it, said, "Hey. Where are you?"

"One-hundred-twelfth and Amsterdam," Curt said. "I'm

pretty sure our boy is going home for the night. He just took

off his tie, and he's swinging that briefcase like it's full of

air, not powdered substances. Start making your way over

here. I'll call you when I get a more precise location."

"On my way," I said.

"See you soon, Dick Tracy."

Starting the car, I pulled onto the street, turned my

beams on and began the drive over to 112th and Amsterdam, just on the western edge of Morningside Heights.

It was a foggy night, a fine mist surrounding the yellow

streetlamps, casting an eerie glow over New York. Most

cars had their windshield wipers on. Mine made a rapid

snick snick
every thirty seconds, wiping the condensation

away in a perfect arc.

The streets uptown weren't particularly crowded for a

Saturday night, most of the Columbia University crew

were either in bed or already at the bar and beginning their

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long trek to drunkenness. Meanwhile I was in a car,

heading to meet my cop friend, hoping to finally put to

bed once and for all who had killed my brother. And who

was poisoning the city.

This neighborhood was familiar. I'd met a guy up here

named Clarence Willingham, the son of a small-time

dealer who'd been killed by the Fury twenty years ago.

Clarence was still trying to come to grips with his father's

murder and his family's history of drug abuse and dealing. It was only then that I learned the truth about how

close Clarence was to my own family. Secrets. Sometimes I wondered if more secrets were kept from us in the

light of day as opposed to the dark of night.

I idled on the corner of 110th, right where Columbus

Avenue turned into Morningside Drive. I'd just put the

car in Park when I was jolted by a rapping on the passenger side window. Whipping around, I saw Curt Sheffield's

face peering in at me, his eyes squinting as rain began to

fall harder around him.

He mouthed the words
open up
and I unlocked the door.

As he slid inside, Curt ran his hands through his hair,

spraying a layer of rain onto the seats. He was wearing

jeans and a brown coat, sneakers and a T-shirt. He looked

like a normal guy.

"If that's your undercover look, I gotta say it works."

Curt ignored me. "His name is Theodore Goggins."

"How'd you get that info?"

"He stopped into a Starbucks. I waited outside, but

saw him pay with a credit card. After he left, I waited

a minute and went inside and told them I found his

ATM card. And I needed his name in case I couldn't

catch up with him. He lives just down the block. Definitely not his building, because he had to buzz up. But

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the guy who lived there said 'come on up, Theo' as he

buzzed him in."

"He worked in finance," I said.

"How do you know?"

"All these guys do. Tens of thousands of young professionals out of work in this city, most of whom lived a

few miles beyond their means. Then they get laid off

when the economy goes in the crapper, and they're left

with huge mortgages and bills on toys and apartments.

That's where 718 comes in. They offer to pay these outof-work go-getters to go house to house. They make good

money. It's a win-win. They can still afford the lifestyle

they're accustomed to."

Curt sat back, put his hand on his forehead. He

looked troubled.

"That's why," he said.

"Why what?"

"The narcotics division. They haven't been able to

find out where this drug, Darkness, where it's coming

from or who's selling it. But they're looking in the wrong

place. They're so busy turning over logs and monitoring

alleys that they're not noticing the business assholes."

"Nobody looks at a guy in a suit and thinks he's guilty

of anything more than white-collar stuff. Fraud and laundering, but these guys are much dirtier."

"Ken Tsang," Curt said. "That's where we got a lead

on Morgan Isaacs. They worked at the same bank, both

got laid off on the same day and Ken's coworkers said

they were friendly. We cross-checked his phone records

and found half a dozen calls a day to the same 718 number I found on a dead man's cell phone. Ken was working

for these creeps. I'm willing to bet on it."

"And you found him with less bone density than the

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Pillsbury Doughboy," I said. "That probably doesn't bode

well when it comes to finding Morgan Isaacs in one piece."

Curt just sat there, rain dripping from his hair into his

lap as we watched cars zip down the street, the errant

noises of a night unaware of its own shadow. We could

see Theodore Goggin's awning from the car, and we kept

the windshield on fast enough where we wouldn't miss

any activity.

And so we waited. Sat in the car until the morning. When

Theodore Goggins would leave his apartment and head

toward wherever it was that the refills were being kept.

All we could do was keep each other awake through

our silences and the knowledge that something foul was

lurking just beneath the streets of our city. But it wasn't

until the next day that we realized just how deep those

sewers ran.

46

Saturday

It was six-thirty in the morning, and we were both awake.

My brain was fogged over with that thick haze that comes

from a night spent ingesting too much coffee while thinking too much about terrible things that would keep you

up under normal circumstances.

Curt's eyes were open, too, but they were more aware,

less troubled. He seemed less like someone running on

fumes, like I was, and more like a hawk poised to strike.

Waiting for that moment when his prey poked its head

from the shadows. And at six-thirty, that's when our prey,

Theodore Goggins, poked his head out from his uptown

apartment.

"Right there," I said.

"I see him." Curt quickly combed his hair, opened the

mirror above the windshield to get rid of the whole "I

stayed up all night in a car" look. Whether that kind of

makeover could be done without trained professionals

and Heidi Klum, I wasn't sure.

"Same drill," Curt said. "I follow our man to his destination, then I call you. We're not going to have a ton of

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331

time because I have no idea where this guy is headed. Just

be on alert."

"I'm going to head over to the West Side Highway," I

said. "Better to have access to a faster road. Just in case."

"Good thinking, Parker. I'll call you when Goggins

takes me...wherever," Curt said. "And Henry?"

"Yeah, Curt?"

"Be careful. I don't know how this day is going to

unwind."

I nodded, didn't need to say anything. Curt knew I was

game.

"Okay, let's get this party started."

"Some party. Six in the morning."

"Can it, buddy. Stay focused."

"Good luck, Curt."

He exited the car, walked over to a sidewalk newspaper salesman and bought a copy of the
Gazette.
At least

he was supporting my paper.

Theodore Goggins left his apartment wearing a different suit, this one straight black, with shiny shoes and

another sparkling blue tie. He headed south on Columbus,

right toward where Curt was standing reading the paper.

When Goggins passed him, Curt waited thirty seconds

before starting his tail. After they'd both disappeared, I

started the car and headed west on 110th Street. The

morning sun was rising above the trees as I drove on the

south side of Morningside Park. The lush green foliage

was such a stark contrast to the brick and stone just south

across the street.

Suddenly I realized that the West Side Highway had just

two entrances near my location: one on 125th Street and

the other on Ninety-sixth. They were a mile and a half apart

from each other, and given Manhattan traffic it could be

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fifteen minutes easily from one exit to the other. If I chose

the wrong one, I could miss Curt and Goggins entirely.

I slowed down briefly approaching Riverside Drive,

then made a decision and turned south toward Ninetysixth. I figured Goggins went south; best guess was that

his pick-up point was south of our location.

I pulled the car over on Ninety-sixth and waited for

Curt to call.

Thankfully, I didn't have to wait long.

My phone rang less than fifteen minutes later. It was

Curt. He was breathless, panting.

"I almost lost him," Curt said. "Stupid MetroCard was

out of cash. Anyway, get your ass downtown to the meatpacking district."

"On the way," I said, putting the car into Drive and

easing onto the Henry Hudson Parkway. "Where to?"

"You know the Kitten Club?"

"Um...yeah. Unfortunately. Why?"

"Our friend Theodore Goggins just walked inside."

"You're kidding me," I said. "I knew Shawn Kensbrook was dirty, but he's got his hands full in the mud."

"You think this is the new depot where the lackeys get

their refills?"

"It would make sense," I said. "I've been to the Kitten

Club and that place has more unexplored territory than

the Jonas Brothers. Plus it doesn't fill up until late at

night, so nobody's there during the day to watch it."

"Given the history of this place," Curt said, "it

wouldn't surprise me in the least."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll explain when you get down here. Meet me on the

southeast corner of Washington and Little West Twelfth

Street."

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333

"Will do. I'll be down there right away."

I exited my spot and pulled Curt's car onto the Hudson

River Drive south. The traffic wasn't bad, rush hour still

an hour or so from reaching its apex. The sun cast a brilliant glow on the water, the shores of New Jersey visible,

the highway directly across from Port Imperial Marina.

I took the Fourteenth Street exit and made my way

south on Tenth Avenue toward the Kitten Club. There

were plenty of spots available, so I pulled up on the corner

of Washington and Twelfth and rang Curt's cell phone.

He didn't answer, but then I saw him walking toward me.

Hanging up the phone, I unlocked the passenger side

door. Curt slipped in and stretched out.

There were massive bags under his eyes, and his

clothes were rumpled. Plus he smelled kind of funky.

Not the Curt Sheffield I was used to hanging out with.

"How was your night?" I said. "I feel like we bonded

a bit." I jokingly punched Curt in the arm.

"Let's not go there. You know for a chunky guy,

Goggins has a motor that would make Jeff Gordon piss

his pants."

Across the street, we could both see the entrance to the

Kitten Club. I'd been there twice. Once to cover a murder,

the second to rescue Amanda when I felt she might be in

danger. I was getting a little tired of this place.

"You said something about the club not surprising

you," I said. "What did you mean by that?"

"You're not a native New Yorker," Curt said, "so you

wouldn't remember. For about ten years during the midseventies and eighties, the space the Kitten Club currently occupies was a different club called Mineshaft."

"Sounds hot."

"You have no idea. While it was open, Mineshaft was

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one of the most popular gay bars in the city. They had

dungeons, cages, S and M, bondage, you name it. Then

the city shut the club down in eighty-five, claiming that

all the rampant sexual activity was helping to spread the

AIDS virus."

"Holy crap, are you serious?"

"Yessir. Apparently Mineshaft--and a number of other

clubs--had back rooms and basements where club-goers

could partake in, let's just say, activities that did not

require clothing. Rumors had it that the club was actually

Mafia owned and operated. The mob started losing

money hand over fist, and the lunkheads figured people

just weren't spending money, but the sad truth is they