Parker 04.5 - The Hunters (3 page)

Barely waiting for him to finish the second word, Culvert blurted, “They get smoked. And not a quick two to the back of the head. I mean, I smoke them and they family. Do you have family?” Culvert asked the woman.

“Yes,” she said softly.

The blond man knew for a fact this was a lie. She was leading him on.

“Well, if your product is not what you say it is, they is getting smoked just like you.”

“Please, don’t hurt my son,” the woman said. The blond man did everything he could to keep from smiling.

“Your son is safe…depending on how you act. You act respectfully, your son lives and you make enough money to keep him in Armani the rest of his life. You act disrespectfully, I’m gonna bury you both in an ugly grave in the middle of nowhere.”

The woman looked down at her knees. Keeping up the game.

“What about you, cottontail? You got family?”

The blond man shook his head. He didn’t have family. Not anymore. And he wasn’t as good at playing this game as she was. If he tried to lie, he could give it away. Better to play it straight.

“Well, I’ll do doubly savage on her ass then.”

They both looked down. Fresh off their “scolding.”

“I’m gonna take your product, those freaky little black rocks, and I’m gonna test them out. Myself. And if I think it’s the kind of product that can boost my revenue, I’ll distribute it for you. What do you say to that?” Culvert asked.

“That sounds good,” the woman said. “We’ll give you thirty percent.”

Culvert launched himself back up and unleashed a belly laugh so loud it inspired Doughy and his brute companions to laugh, as well.

“Bitch, you think I’m gonna distribute for some thirty percent? I don’t do a dime lower than eighty-five. ”

“Fifty,” the woman said.

Culvert chuckled. “Bitch thinks she can negotiate with me. Tell you what, I like your moxie, girl. Seventy-five.”

“Sixty,” she replied.

“Seventy. You negotiate more I’ll throw your ass right out this door and you can get distributed by those assholes down by the Brooklyn Bridge, give you ten cents on the dollar because they empty the product themselves. Seventy/thirty.”

“Deal,” the woman said.

“Deal.
If
,” Culvert added, “you are who you say you are.”

“You’ll be the judge of that.”

The woman stood up. The blond man followed suit. They shook hands with Culvert, who had a look in his eye like he’d just pulled one over on them.

“Be back later this week. If I like it, we’ll discuss specifics. Shipments. You down with that?”

“We’re down with that. Let’s go.”

She turned around to leave. Doughy accompanied them to the front door and opened it. Just as they stepped through the doorway, Culvert yelled at them, “Y’all call yourselves businessmen, but y’all got a lot to learn about how to be a
real
businessman.”

Doughy slammed the door shut behind them. The woman and the blond man were alone in the hallway. They did not say a word or even look at each other until they left the building and were across the street. When they were out of view of Culvert’s building, the dark-haired woman reached behind her head and undid her braid. The long, shiny hair cascaded down her back. She removed her jacket, revealing a dark tank top that showed muscle tone that belied her age.

She shook her hair out and handed the jacket to the blond man. He took it and slung it over his shoulder.

“What a small man,” she said. “The more somebody talks, the weaker they are. By Thursday, he’ll be begging us to
let
him have thirty percent.”

She checked her watch.

“The chemist?” the blond man said.

She nodded. “Thanks, Malloy. Let me know when it’s done and we’ll get the Asian.”

“Will do.”

As the blond man walked away, the woman said, “When we go back there, bring the cop.”

The blond man raised his eyebrows.

“Those fat guys take a few more bullets to bring down. We’ll need the firepower.”

“I’ll get him,” the blond man said. “The chemist. Do you want me to leave a message?”

“No,” she said. “This one needs to stay as quiet as possible. The Asian is different. Culvert is different. The chemist just needs to disappear.”

“When we get the Asian,” the blond man said, “do you want me to bring a gun for you?”

The woman smiled and turned away.

“No,” she said. “We’re going to have a little fun with this one. We’re going to carve him like a turkey and make sure everybody sees what’s inside.”

Jack O’Donnell walked into his apartment, dropped his bags on the floor and stifled a sob. It had been months since he’d set foot in this place, and the last time he did that was one of the worst moments of his life. Crying, humiliated, left as a joke for the city’s vultures to feast on.

Jack had spent his whole life chronicling New York. He knew every nook and cranny, every in and out, could recite from memory the history of the city from Robert Moses to Phil Spitzer. He truly felt this city was a part of him, and he would die leaving a part of himself in it.

But not like this. Not like this.

Not a broken mess, a broken man, shamed into a rehabilitation center by a vengeful competitor who wanted nothing more than to embarrass him for profit. Paulina Cole, a woman who was a parasite with a good wardrobe. Vermin who could apply eyeliner. A woman he’d worked with for years, only to fall victim to her savage muckraking.

It was Paulina who’d uncovered the full extent of Jack’s alcoholism and splayed it all over the pages of her newspaper. There was no reason for it. Jack was not a celebrity. His demons would not sell newspapers like he was some nasty debutante caught with her pants down or some singer caught on film smoking a crack pipe. He was a newspaperman. That’s all. Which made what Paulina did that much more hurtful. She did it for no other reason than to humiliate him, to try to ruin his career.

And she nearly did.

Jack barely had the money for the rehab stint. He didn’t even try to get the
Gazette
to cover it. Asking for that money would have been nearly as embarrassing as the stint itself. And whereas Jack had made good money over the years on his books and film options, he was not the world’s most thrifty spender. Several divorces had left his savings a fraction of what they had been, and along with the drinking, he’d been known to throw a few bets down from time to time.

And now Jack O’Donnell stood there in his foyer, wondering if perhaps in some way, Paulina Cole had done him a favor.

He brought the bags into the bedroom and unpacked. Strange, he thought as he placed the folded clothes back into the closet. He’d never been one of those people who unpacked right after a trip. His duffels would sit there stuffed to the gills for a week or more before Jack finally began to run low on underwear. But now, unpacking was something cathartic, cleansing. It meant he was home.

Jack had gone to see Henry even before returning to his loft. Henry was the reason Jack checked out of rehab, the reason he was here right now. He still had a few friends at the
Gazette,
people he could trust with his ordeal knowing they wouldn’t go blabbing to Wallace Langston—the editor-in-chief—or Harvey Hillerman, the publisher. And when they told him what had happened to Henry, about Stephen Gaines and the enigma known only as the Fury, Jack knew the time was right for him to reclaim his life.

Jack had written about the Fury nearly twenty years ago. It had been a small part of a larger book—the only reason it was not more prominent was that there was a severe dearth of facts. There were rumors, innuendos, but what Jack could print and back up was scant.

Now, it seemed, Henry had stumbled upon the scent Jack had left lingering all those years ago, and it seemed like fate that this would be the story to rejuvenate his career. Jack had never worked side by side with Henry on a story before, and he was curious to see what the kid could do. Henry was young, scarily young, but had broken more stories and shown more guts than some reporters who’d been around forty years. Bloodhounds were born, not made, and the key to finding the best stories was being able to sniff them out on your own. Any reporter could have a “deep throat,” someone who handed them a lead on a platter. It took a special kind of person to find that thread themselves and pull it until the spool unraveled.

Jack had been like that. Years ago. And he wanted to believe Henry was like that.

He would find out tomorrow.

Once his bags were emptied, he stripped down and went into the bathroom. The mirror’s reflection was not too kind. His gray beard had gone scraggly, his eyes had heavy bags. He did look worse than he felt, for whatever that was worth, and he hoped his appearance would not affect his job performance tomorrow. People could sense a man who was tired, and had been through too much to perform properly.

Jack took a long, hot shower. He scrubbed away at his body hard enough to remove a layer of skin. Then he trimmed his beard, clipped his nails and combed his hair.

The reflection this time came back a little better, a little more dignified, but Jack knew that what was inside him mattered the most. Still, he wanted to feel like a new man. Or at least the man he had once been.

Jack went over to the leather sofa in his living room, plopped down and sank into the plush cushions. Comfy, he thought. Before rehab Jack had rarely taken the time to relax. Most hours spent on the couch were with a snifter of something strong, something to dull the nerves, while some idiotic show ran on the television.

Jack had been a zombie for years, and it took abject humiliation for him to realize it.

He turned the television on, flipped through a hundred channels of nothing before turning it off. When he’d exhausted that, Jack walked into his study. It was a room about twelve feet by sixteen, filled with cherry-wood bookshelves and a thick oak desk that was nearly bare. Funny.

When Jack was a young man, the only thing he wanted more than to be a reporter was to have a desk massive enough to hold all his worldly possessions. A big desk was a sign of stature, a symbol that you’d made it. And now he had that desk, and it was embarrassingly empty.

Jack did a brief inventory of the items on his desk:

His old desk at the
Gazette
was a third of the size, but had three times as many items on it. Fitting, he supposed, since work was really where his life took place. That was where he kept newspaper clippings, notebooks, important phone numbers. It was at home where Jack ceased to function properly. At work Jack had everything he could possibly need.

Jack went over and plucked out a hardcover copy of
Through the Darkness.
He hadn’t picked up the book in years. He remembered all the aching late nights, spent hunched over a typewriter while the sun rose outside of the crummy one-bedroom apartment he rented in Hell’s Kitchen. At the time Jack remembered hating it, but looking back, he couldn’t think of any fonder memories.

He remembered the pride he felt when he sent the finished manuscript to his publisher, and the letter he received from his editor just days later with just one sentence on it:

Jack found a paperback copy on his shelf and read all the glowing praise reviewers had heaped upon it. He felt a swell of pride. This book was him, something he’d poured his heart and soul into and could never be taken away. The book was truth, it was light, and it was everything he could have been.

Only the book wasn’t finished.

The Fury was out there, Jack was sure of it. He slipped the paperback onto the shelf and placed the hardcover gently back between the other books. He sat down at his desk. It was late. Much later than he’d stayed up in a long time, at least, the latest he’d stayed up while also sober.

It felt good.

Jack was nervous. Nervous about tomorrow, about seeing Henry, about what they would find.

He hadn’t felt truly nervous in a long, long time.

Jack O’Donnell sat in that chair, folded his hands behind his head and decided he would try to stay awake to watch the sun rise.

At three in the morning, the blond man left an apartment building in Chelsea and tucked his shirt back in. His breathing was slightly elevated. He hadn’t expected the chemist to fight back.

Over the years, the man named Malloy had seen many people die. He could usually tell from a glance just how people would react when faced with death, and how readily they would accept it.

The chemist he had just killed was a scrawny man without an ounce of muscle on him. He’d spent his life in a lab, poring over texts and notebooks. He had barely lived a day in his life, and despite that, he had the temerity to attack Malloy when confronted with the gun.

Malloy had confirmed that the mixture the chemist had made was complete and potent. He also made sure that it was easily replicated. Because once the chemist was gone, the operation would be run by people following the chemist’s instructions.

At first, the chemist had begged for his life. He told Malloy that he had a wife and daughter back in Panama, that he needed to take care of them. This was true, Malloy knew, but he also knew that the wife and daughter had received well over a hundred thousand dollars from the chemist. In Panama, that would go a long way.

Malloy had met the chemist nearly twenty years ago, and when he was brought over to New York, Malloy trusted him implicitly. The man created drugs because that was all he knew how to do. Just like when people were bankers or lawyers or athletes because that’s what they were born to do.

The chemist was not a bad man, and in fact Malloy did not believe he had ever even partaken in his own creations. The drugs paid the bills, so to speak, that was all. Malloy did feel a slight twinge of guilt at taking away the family’s only breadwinner, but he knew that the dark-haired woman would make sure the family was taken care of.

The family was still in Panama. Their battle was not in America.

Hers was.

When Malloy rounded the corner, he raised his hand to call a cab only to see the dark-haired woman standing there, staring at him. He did not expect her to be there, but he’d ceased to be surprised by her a long time ago.

“Did he fight?” she asked.

“A little,” Malloy responded. “Nothing that caused too much trouble.”

“That’s good. Death hurts more when you fight it.”

“He begged first,” Malloy said, “for his family.”

“They’ll be compensated,” the woman responded. The chemist was dead, and three men were on their way to dispose of the body. Three men he trusted, who’d been with them a long time.

“Did he suffer?” the woman asked.

“Just for a moment, when he realized what was happening.”

She seemed disappointed.

“I see no body with you. I assume someone will be taking care of it.”

There’s a butcher on the Upper West Side, done us some favors over the years. Two grand and nobody ever sees a body again.”

“Good price,” the woman said.

“We give him good business,” Malloy replied. His voice was soft, hesitant.

“You don’t think we should have killed him,” she said.

“I just wonder if it was totally necessary. From a business perspective, nothing more.”

“We didn’t need the chemist any longer,” the woman said. “At least half a dozen of our employees have been able to duplicate the process without fault. The product we gave Leroy Culvert tonight came from one of those batches and was taken by one employee who, let’s just say, enjoyed it.”

Malloy nodded. “You don’t need to convince me.”

The woman approached Malloy until they were standing barely a foot apart.

“We’ve known each other a long time.”

“Yes, we have.”

“We’ve both suffered great tragedies.”

“Yes, we have.”

“And what we’re about to get under way will be the end of what began twenty years ago. Your brother did not die in vain.”

“I know he did not,” Malloy said.

“Everything that happened in Panama has led up to this. This wheel was set in motion a long time ago. The chemist was no longer needed, and he was a link to what happened in Panama. Nobody here knows who he is. He could have only hurt us from this point forward. A man’s ability to create substances is not the same as his ability to witness calamity without sounding the alarm. I worry that the chemist could have come back to haunt us.”

“And you may have been right,” Malloy said. “I understand why this was necessary.”

Trust within the organization had been shaken over the past few days, culminating in the death of Stephen Gaines. They did not see Gaines’s defection coming. And that’s what this night was about: tying up loose ends. She was right. Malloy knew this. He was still haunted by that day twenty years ago, the battle that had irreparably changed his life. Everything that happened then was leading up to now.

“The Asian is next,” the woman said.

“He’s waiting for us at the club,” Malloy said.

“What did you tell him?”

“That he was getting a bump up. Title and salary.”

“Was he excited?”

“Like a little girl getting a pony.”

The woman smiled. “Good. Then let’s go. And let’s make sure the Asian’s body is in the water by the time the morning commute begins.”