The Fury - Jason Pinter [31]
a mixture of citrus and the floor of a movie theater. A
shower was my first order of business.
I called Amanda at work. She picked up on the
second ring.
"Hey," she said. "How'd it go?"
"I just told the boss who'd supported me at the job
of my dreams that I wanted to take some time off to look
into the death of my half brother who was allegedly
murdered by my father. Out of all the times I've had that
conversation, I'd say this one went pretty well."
"You're funny when you're pissed off."
"Maybe I'm pissed off when I'm funny."
"No," she said. "Because you're pissed off fairly
often, but you're really not that funny."
"Thanks for the pep talk," I said.
"Seriously, Henry. How'd it go?"
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I rubbed my forehead. "Felt like crap," I said.
"Wallace convinced me to stay on the job, but I can't
help but feel he's disappointed in me. With Jack gone,
they can't spare to lose a lot of writers. But he also
knows how important this is. I can't let him down."
"So what are you going to do now?"
"Now?" I said. "Start at the beginning."
Gaines was found murdered in Alphabet City, near
Tompkins Square Park, according to the papers. The
park itself was bordered by Tenth street on the north
and Seventh street on the south, and lay between
Avenues A and B. It had a tumultuous history, dating
back to the 1980s when it was a petri dish for drugs and
homeless people.
An infamous riot occurred in 1988 when the police
attempted to clear the park of its homeless population,
and forty-four people were injured in the ensuing chaos.
Since then the park had been closed several times for
refurbishment, and between that and the increasing gen
trification of the neighborhood, it was now a pleasant
place to hang out, play basketball and just enjoy a nice
summer day.
I took the 6 train down to Union Square, then trans
ferred to the El, which I rode to First Avenue. First
bordered Peter Cooper Village, or Stuyvescent Town, a
woodsy enclave largely populated by recent college
grads who liked the cheap rent, younger families who
enjoyed the well-tended parks, and older residents
whose rents were stabilized and who hadn't paid an
extra dime since New York was the capital of the Union.
As I approached the park, it was hard to believe a
murder could occur in such a pleasant area. Parks
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seemed to be the one place where all the stress and hos
tility emptied out of the city. Where families became
instant friends, children ran around while their parents
watched approvingly, and young men and women
played sports and chatted without playing the stupid
mating games that choked you to death at any bar.
I wondered what in the hell Stephen Gaines was
doing here when he was killed. If he lived here, did his
habit go unnoticed? When I saw him on the street, he
looked as if he was on the tail end of a ten-year bender.
In an area geared toward family, I could hardly imagine
he was a welcome sight. Chances were if someone saw
him stumbling around like I witnessed him doing,
they'd call the cops.
I realized as I approached the park that I had nothing
to show people. Not a photo identifying traits, or per
sonality quirks. All I knew about Stephen Gaines was
the image of him on the street, and then on the slab in
the medical examiner's office. I hoped the trusty New
York City newspapers were more up to speed than I
was.
I stopped at a small bodega that had a cartful of
newspapers out front. I bought three papers--the
Gazette, the Times, and even the Dispatch. When it
came to finding my brother's killer, I wasn't above sup
porting the competition if it meant getting the informa
tion I needed.
Thumbing through the papers, I was pleasantly sur
prised to find that the Gazette was the only one that
printed a photo of Gaines. It looked like a driver's
license shot. He was looking straight into the camera,
serious yet a little confused, as though he didn't quite
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understand what he was doing there. His hair was much