The Darkness - Jason Pinter [117]
And standing behind the truck were two men, unloading boxes and carrying them inside the club.
"This place serves dinner," Curt said. "And those little
hors d'oeuvres with salmon on toast points. It's a fine
attempt, Parker, but you're reaching."
I turned to Curt. "Fish isn't delivered on Sundays."
He cocked his head. "What are you talking about?"
"The markets are closed on Sundays. That's why when
you order fish on a Sunday, you're getting food that's
been on ice over the weekend."
"You're kidding."
"No, sir. I did a piece on the South Street Seaport a few
months ago. Took seven showers to wash that smell off
me. And one thing I learned is that there are no fish deliveries on Sundays in this city."
"So if that truck isn't delivering fish," Curt said, "then..."
"Then we follow the truck."
"The truck?"
"This place is a refilling station. My guess is they
don't keep more than a few days' supply in here. Wherever the Darkness is coming from, it's not here. But I have
a feeling Sam the fisherman might have an idea."
"Lead the way."
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Jason Pinter
But I couldn't lead the way. That was up to the employees of Sam's, or whatever front the Sam's truck was
used for, and they took their sweet time. The men
unloaded at least a dozen large boxes, which they carefully brought inside the Kitten Club. Curt and I sat there
and watched in silence, trying to figure out just how much
the merchandise inside those boxes was worth, where it
came from, and where it was being manufactured.
Finally, at about eight-thirty, just as the New York
streets were beginning to clog up, one of the men climbed
into the driver's side and churned the ignition. He slowly
pulled away from the club, turning south onto Ninth
Avenue and then right on Fourteenth Street heading east.
Fourteenth was one of the major Manhattan arteries, so
going crosstown took some time. The driver of the truck
didn't seem in a particular hurry, never honking or making
any maneuvers that would have gotten him noticed.
When we got to Third Avenue, the truck headed north,
and then took a right at Thirty-sixth.
"Is he headed to the tunnel?" Curt said.
The truck seemed to answer that question for us as it
merged left on Thirty-sixth into the Midtown Tunnel,
heading out toward Queens.
"What the hell is in Queens?" Curt asked again.
"I hope you're just thinking out loud and not expecting
me to answer," I said, "because I'm as confused as you are."
Once through the tunnel, the truck stayed on 495-East,
not going a single mile over the speed limit. After about
seven miles, the truck merged onto the Grand Central Expressway, then took the Van Wyck south. I was now thoroughly confused, and I could tell from Curt's expression
he was, too.
As we neared the Briarwood section of Queens, the
The Darkness
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truck abruptly turned off of the Van Wyck, still keeping
legal speed, and continued south until it began to slow.
At this point I slowed the car as well; traffic was easing
up, making us more noticeable. We were still two cars
behind the truck, and I was hoping that driving a big rig
made it a little harder for the driver to spot us.
Then, a mile down the road, the truck made another
right and disappeared.
"This isn't good," I said, slowing down and pulling
over to the side of the road.
Running at least half a mile was a fence made of
chicken wire, the top lined with sharp barbs. We were a
good few miles from any sort of body of water. "My guess
is they don't ship fish here," I said. "What do we do now?"
Curt sat there, shaking his head. "We don't have
PC," he said.
"Screw probable cause, Curt. We go in there, I'll bet
my father's eyes we'll find it within thirty seconds."
"I don't know," he said. "We don't even know what
we'd be walking into."
"You're a cop and I'm a reporter at one of the biggest
papers in the city," I said. "They can't just kill us."
As I said that, suddenly we whipped around as something rapped at the passenger side door. There was a man
standing there leaning over, gently