The Darkness - Jason Pinter [20]
good guy, went a little too crazy at the strip clubs back
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when he was still working at Wachovia, and even after
he was laid off the guy threw bills around like they were
tissue paper. Ken was a good guy, but if you were stupid
and careless, eventually you'd piss off the wrong person.
At some point, Morgan was sure, Ken would do just that.
"My name is Chester. Kenneth was doing some work
for my firm and he passed your name along to us before
his unfortunate passing."
"That's mighty kind of him," Morgan said, scooping
some gunk from his eye. "What firm did you say you
were with?"
"If you're interested in employment that will pay you
quite handsomely with fair hours, meet me on Fifth
Avenue at noon. Northwest side of the street between
Fiftieth and Fifty-first. Right in front of the statue of Atlas."
"I'm sorry," Morgan said. "I don't mean to be rude, but
can I have a little more information? I want to be prepared, you know, just in case."
"Noon in front of the statue," Chester said. "Ken vouched
for you. He said you were reliable and that you enjoyed the
lifestyle your former employment afforded you. I promise
that if that's the case, you won't be sorry you came."
"Wait, how will I know who you are?" Morgan said.
His voice reached only an empty phone. Morgan sat
there a moment, thinking about the call. Then he stood
up, tossed off his briefs and marched right to the shower.
He had just over an hour and a half. An hour and a half
to get his life back.
8
Sifting through ownership records and property deeds
was nearly as much fun as it sounded. We found papers
for the nearly two dozen companies who currently held
leases in the building formerly housing 718 Enterprises,
but for whatever reason there was no deed of ownership
of the company itself. We found public listings for a
brokerage firm, a jewelry store, three law offices, a psychiatrist, a pet psychiatrist, and a tantric yoga studio.
Only in New York.
"Look at this," Jack said. We were sitting in a conference room, two laptop computers with several open
windows each, our eyes beginning to strain from staring
at various ownership deeds. I leaned over to the computer
Jack was working on and looked at the screen he had
pulled up. "According to tax filings, the law offices of
Kaiser, Hirschtritt and Certilman occupy floors seventeen
and eighteen. No other company in the building occupies
more than one floor, or even appears to pay for more than
one office space. If you were running a drug syndicate
from an office, wouldn't you want a little more privacy
than a single office would give you?"
I stared at the screen, thought about the morning I
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went to the building and watched a stream of young, energetic drug dealers enter and leave with briefcases full
of narcotics. I had a hard time picturing them all fitting
inside a row of cubicles. Plus I doubted a truck pulled up
every now and then to refill their supplies. They needed
space to store the drugs. Space to allow for easy pickups
for dozens of couriers.
And enough lack of clutter to allow them to pack up
and get the hell out of Dodge on a moment's notice.
"The building is managed by a company called Orchid
Realty," I said. "According to their Web site, they have different managers for each property. It doesn't spell out which
one is managed by who, but we can call and find out."
"Screw that," Jack said. "Why call when we can show
up uninvited?"
I smiled. I liked the way Jack thought.
Orchid Realty was on the eighth floor of a stainless steel
complex in midtown, not too far from many of the tony
properties they managed. Jack and I walked into the lobby
side by side. A pair of security guards manned a long
wooden desk. They did not seem intimidated by the purposeful look in our eyes. Installed in the front of the partition were two televisions, each running infomercials for the
building itself. The sets looked recently installed, and the
volume was far too loud. My guess was, with the economy
tanking,