The Fury - Jason Pinter [50]
"Later, Scotty."
The kid named Kyle kept on walking, as Scotty
entered his building.
I stood there stunned as Kyle passed by me.
Re-ups tomorrow morning. I knew what that meant.
They'd both cleaned out their stash today, and would
need to restock tomorrow to make more deliveries. It
meant they weren't working for themselves, and they
didn't keep any drugs at their houses. Somebody held
them for re-upping. And there was enough to resupply
at least two soldiers.
Which meant that if Scotty and Kyle were going to
meet at seven, I would be there waiting for them.
18
I was standing on the corner of Broadway and West
Sixth Street at 6:30 a.m. I didn't know what corner
Scotty was referring to when he and Kyle made plans
to meet, so I wanted to make sure I had my eyes on him
from the moment he left his apartment. I was on my
second cup of coffee when, at six fifty-five, the front
door opened and Scotty came out. He was dressed just
like the day before. Natty suit, hair combed, a briefcase
slung over his shoulder.
He yawned and stretched, and I watched while won
dering if this was a morning ritual. Whether he and
Kyle met every day, or only on re-up days. He began
walking east, presumably toward the corner.
I walked half a block down and watched as he
stopped on the corner. Scotty checked his watch,
dawdled for a bit, then turned around and nodded his
head at someone I couldn't see. A minute later, Kyle
joined him on the corner.
Last night when I saw Kyle he was loose, relaxed.
This morning he and Scotty looked like twins.
Gone was the baseball cap, and a mop of red hair was
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slicked back into place. He was wearing a navy blazer
and slacks. Kyle, too, had a briefcase in his hands.
They spoke for a minute, and I saw Kyle pass Scotty
a stick of gum. I retreated into a deli as they passed, then
fell into line.
They entered the N train at the corner of Canal and
Broadway. Again I took the adjacent car. They con
versed as though they'd known each other a long time.
Neither wore a wedding ring. They were just two young
guys, mid to late twenties if I had to guess. Much the
same as thousands of other young men in the city,
dressed and ready for a day at the office.
Only I knew that their work entailed something
much darker than punching a clock.
At the Fifty-seventh Street station, Kyle and Scotty
left, went upstairs and began walking north on Seventh
Avenue. I had no idea where they were going, but when
they turned on Fifty-eighth and headed toward Sixth, I
noticed both Kyle and Scotty cock their heads in that
familiar "what's up" way that insinuated they saw
someone they knew.
I picked up the pace. Felt my pulse quickening.
Then I saw something that nearly made me stop dead
in my tracks.
At least half a dozen young men were approaching
from the opposite direction. All of them were well
dressed in business suits. All of them were smiling and
jeering at Kyle and Scotty.
And all of them were carrying briefcases that were
most certainly empty.
"S'up, bitches!" Kyle yelled at the oncoming group.
Kyle and Scotty joined the other young men as I
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Jason Pinter
hung back, dumbfounded. They'd stopped outside of
what appeared to be a small office building. I wrote
down the number and address in my notepad. I couldn't
get any closer without arousing suspicion.
After a minute of horseplay, all eight men entered the
building, like a troop of bankers ready to conquer the
world. When they'd gone inside I ventured closer until
I could see. They were writing their names down at a
security station, and giving a good-natured ribbing to
the guard on duty. He was laughing and playing along.
He must have known them.
Then, just like that, they were gone.
Could all of these men have been going to the same
place for the same reason? Were they all part of the
same crew? Were they all dealers?
As I stood outside weighing my options, several
more young men entered the building, stopped by the
security station and went upstairs.