The Fury - Jason Pinter [47]
kind of drug you can imagine. I've seen too many
friends die because of the pipe or needle. But not every
addict smokes or drinks or inhales. A lot of them get off
on other things. I see a little bit of that in you, Henry.
You're a bit of an addict, too."
I didn't know how to reply to this, but something
about it didn't feel good. Rather than respond, I simply
thanked Rose for helping, and went outside.
I was still thinking about what she'd said when I
found a park bench to sit on that afforded me a full view
of her building's entrance.
Addict. I repeated the word to myself. It was a cool,
sunny day, and if I weren't tracking a drug dealer I
could envision myself sitting here with Amanda,
watching the families play. Young children growing up
in a city that seemed to offer them brief pockets of
respite, small guarded sanctuaries in between the play
grounds for millionaires.
Addict.
140
Jason Pinter
It was an ugly word, one I never associated with
myself. Yet when Rose said it, I felt an angry fire
burning inside me. I wanted to argue with her, but
somehow felt it would have strengthened her point.
Addict.
I watched the children play and wondered if she was
right.
My eyes stayed fixed to the building entrance. Every
time someone entered--old, young, white, black,
Hispanic--I would place my hand over the pocket
holding my cell phone. It was set to vibrate. Every few
minutes I would take it just to make sure I hadn't missed
anything. Nothing yet.
An hour and a half passed, when a man wearing a
Yankees hat approached the doorstep. He pulled out a
cell phone, checked it, then went up the steps. He was
young, maybe nineteen or twenty. He wore baggy jeans
and a chain looped around from his belt to his back
pocket where he kept a wallet. And most importantly,
he was carrying a backpack.
As he went to press the buzzer, another man walked
up to the steps. He was wearing a dark suit with slickedback hair and sunglasses. An expensive-looking brief
case was in his hand. He was a few years older than hat
guy, maybe twenty-four or -five, but looked like he
lived in a totally different world. Not to mention bank
account. Funny, I thought, that he was standing there
next to a drug dealer and didn't even realize it.
They both pressed the buzzer and waited. When they
were rung through they both entered, the nicely dressed
guy holding the door for the young punk.
Ten minutes after the door closed, I felt my cell
The Fury
141
phone vibrating. I took it out, looked at the call log. It
was Rose. Jackpot.
Adrenaline began to course through me. As soon as
hat guy came through the door, I was prepared to go
wherever he did. My hands were sweating. I was ready.
Then the front door opened, and a man stepped
through. Only it wasn't the young guy with baggy pants
and a backpack that looked sketchier than a forty-year
old at a dance club. It was the young-executive type.
I looked at him with intense skepticism, debating
whether to wait until the other guy came through. This
guy didn't look anything like a dealer. He looked too
well off, and I doubted most drug dealers bought their
briefcases at Coach.
It couldn't be. The guy was young, looking like he'd
just stepped out of his b-school graduation. He was
about five foot ten, in terrific shape. There was a small,
moon-shaped birthmark on the front of his neck, and he
gripped the briefcase so tight it looked as if it could
crumble in his hands.
Then, as the man began to walk away, I saw him stop,
look at his briefcase. He picked it up, clicked a loose
clasp into place, then walked away.
Then my cell phone vibrated. The screen had a text
message from Rose. It read
Gordon "Vinnie" Gekko has just left the building.
That sealed it. This man about town was Vinnie.
Waiting until he was half a block ahead of me, I
began to follow. He walked north to Fourteenth Street,
when he stopped for a moment to look at his cell phone.
142
Jason Pinter
I stopped as well, retreating into the shadow of an elec
tronics store.