The Darkness - Jason Pinter [111]
the Gazette, and as far as I knew the police had no leads
and didn't seem to be banging down a whole lot of doors
to get them.
With Curt in the game, at least I knew whatever we
found would get sent up the ladder. If I could trust him.
Not that I had much choice. And if Curt was somehow
in on all of this, there were far easier ways to get to me.
To get to people close to me. But deep down I didn't
believe there was any chance he would turn. Curt was a
good cop, respected the badge. Hell, he'd even taken a
bullet because of me. You couldn't buy that kind of
loyalty. At least as far as I knew.
And Jack took it surprisingly well. I fully expected him
to put up a fight, to tell me that he'd put as much effort
and risked as much of his reputation on this story--if not
more so--than I had. And that gave him every right to be
present. I expected him to suggest hiding in the closet, in
the bathroom, or to actually pose as my pothead uncle or
something. And I would have to let him down, gently, and
tell him that if whoever came got even a whiff of Jack's
presence, he would not only be putting our careers on the
line but perhaps something much, much more.
But Jack just left.
He made sure I had his cell phone number, and made
me promise to call him when I knew more. I told him I
would, and I meant it. But right now it was all Curt and
myself. I could tell from Curt's call he was having the
same doubts I was. Wondering who to trust, feeling like
his world had been closed off. Something had happened,
and I wasn't sure what yet, but Curt had decided that he
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was going to trust me with this. And it was all I could do
to not let him down.
As I picked up around the apartment, Amanda followed me dirtying it up. Finally I gave up and realized
she was right. Better off looking like an apartment two
people actually lived in rather than a setup. Or an apartment in which the tenants could actually afford to hire a
cleaning person.
Ten minutes later, we were both sitting on the couch,
finishing the last of the wine.
"Are you sure wine is okay?" I said. "Not too highclass? He won't think we're some sort of rich couple?"
"That bottle of red cost twelve ninety-nine. I think
we're safe."
We sat there, waiting, my stomach fluttering. And then
the buzzer rang and the nerves went away.
I pushed the call button and said, "Who is it?"
"It's Vinnie."
"Come on up."
Unlocking the front door, I looked at Amanda. Her
face was a mask, no nerves either. She wanted me to
crack this story, too. I smiled at her, knowing how much
she was risking for this.
I waited by the door, shifting back and forth. When it
rang, I waited three seconds before opening it. You know,
so the guy wouldn't know I was actually waiting by the door.
Opening the door, I saw a man standing there. He was
about five foot ten, black, a bit chunky but barely winded
from walking the three flights up to our apartment.
He was wearing a suit, pinstriped, slightly rumpled,
and his striking blue tie was loosened just slightly.
"Hey," I said, again wondering if that was the right way
to start the conversation.
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"Can I come in?"
"Yeah, of course."
"Vinnie" stepped inside and let the door close behind
him. He walked over to the dining table and set his
briefcase on it. I tried not to stare, but remember that it
wasn't too long ago when another drug-filled briefcase
sat on my table.
And a man had died because of that.
I pushed it from my mind, but couldn't help but realize
I'd never actually spoken to a real dealer before. Not that
I'd had no experiences with illicit substances--it was
college, and unlike former presidents, I did inhale--but
whenever drugs were present they seemingly appeared
out of nowhere in little plastic bags. I assumed some of
my friends had connections, but down the road I realized
I was just blissfully ignorant. I didn't want to have to
involve myself, didn't want to think of myself as trading
money for it.
Now there was no choice.
"Hey," the guy responded. "You called