The Fury - Jason Pinter [14]
in case." Amanda wasn't the kind of girl who waited in
line at sample sales and had a separate closet for her
shoes, but something about reading about the hottest
beach bodies made plane rides go by quicker. Maybe I
should give Cosmo a whirl.
Sitting at the gate, I leafed through the Gazette. I felt
my stomach clench when I turned to page eight and saw
the two-paragraph article that started:
Stephen Gaines, 30, found shot to death in Al
phabet City apartment
by Neil deVincenzo
I'd met Neil deVincenzo about a year ago. He covered
the crime beat, had some good connections on the force.
Because of my tenuous relationship with the NYPD,
they'd often talk to him rather than me. He was a good guy,
around forty-five, and in terrific shape. He'd been a boxer
in the navy, even had the tattoo of a pugilist on his upper
biceps, though only a few of us were privy to the knowl
edge, and that only came out after a few rounds of drinks.
46
Jason Pinter
The article was brief, perfunctory. There wasn't
much to the story to report. Gaines was found murdered,
two bullet wounds in his head. There were no suspects,
no leads. And no locations or whereabouts for his
mother, Helen Gaines. Sevi Makhoulian was quoted,
saying, "No comment."
I wondered where Helen Gaines was. If she knew her
son was dead. And if so, why Makhoulian couldn't
locate her. I wondered if she knew her son was in
trouble. And I wondered if she knew about me.
Our flight had one layover in Chicago. We would
then go on to Portland, and rent a car for the drive to
Bend. The plan was to stay in Bend over the long
weekend. I didn't have any desire to spent any more time
with my father than was absolutely necessary to get all
the details about his relationship with Helen Gaines and
her son. After that, I figured it could be good for us to
spend an extra day or two in the city of my birth. It had
been the better part of a decade since I left for college,
I was curious to see how much had changed.
After a half-hour delay we settled into our seats.
Amanda took the middle, I got the aisle, and my legs
thanked me. I took out a paperback novel, a thriller to
help pass the time, and noticed Amanda reach into her
knapsack and take out a book.
The cover seemed familiar. It was worn, the spine
cracked, color faded. And when I look closer, I under
stood why.
The book's title was Through the Darkness. It's
author was Jack O'Donnell. The book was a chronicle
of the rise of crack cocaine and the massive crime wave
it spawned that nearly tore New York apart in the '70s
The Fury
47
and '80s. The book was nominated for the Pulitzer
Prize, though it lost out to a book that, as far as I knew,
was no longer in print. Through the Darkness was the
very book that officially gave Jack O'Donnell the
moniker of my living hero.
Amanda noticed me staring. She smiled nervously.
"You talk about this book a lot," she said. "I just want
to understand you better. And Jack, too."
"It's a great book," I said. "Holds up like it was
written last year. I really appreciate this."
"Hope you don't mind that I took it from your shelf."
"Are you kidding me? You don't know how happy
this makes me."
"Don't be silly, I wouldn't let you do this alone."
"Not the trip," I said. "The book. It means a lot that
you want to know more about what matters to me."
"Why wouldn't I?" she asked, confused. "I mean,
we're together right? What kind of relationship would
it be if neither of us cared about what mattered most to
the other?"
I felt silly. I'd never read a book because I thought it
meant a lot to Amanda, and for the most part she didn't
like to talk about her work at home. Working at the
Legal Aid Society, she had to deal with some of the most
horrific cases of child abuse. She saw things that would
stay with you. I didn't blame her for not wanting to
bring that kind of work home with her.
"Is there anything I can do?" I asked, feeling
somewhat stupid. "You know, to know more about you?
What makes you tick? Does Darcy Lapore have a
memoir