The Fury - Jason Pinter [52]
in them. He knew what he stood to lose.
I didn't wait another moment. I turned around and
began to run as fast as I could, whispering, I'm going
to hell, I'm going to hell, as my legs churned.
"Stop! Thief!" I heard a high-pitched voice scream.
An arm reached out for me but I shrugged it away.
The N train would be too obvious and too close. If
the train took a long time to pull into the station, I'd be
dead. I could outrun this kid. I had to.
I sprinted east down Fifty-eighth Street as fast as I
could. The kid was screaming behind me. I peeked over
my shoulder, feeling a surge of adrenaline as I saw my
lead increasing. Once I got to Sixth Avenue, I turned
south and saw the entrance for the B and Q trains ahead
of me.
Pulling things into fifth gear, I leaped down the steps
into the station, fumbling as I got my MetroCard out. I
swiped it, went through, and took a millisecond to
decide to head for the downtown B train. I figured if I
was caught, at least he wouldn't know the direction
where I lived.
The platform was all but empty. Bad luck for me. But
there was a red light in the tunnel signaling an ap
proaching train. It couldn't come fast enough. I walked
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Jason Pinter
quickly toward the end of the platform, the weight of
the bag pressing on my shoulder.
As the train rumbled into the station, my breath
caught in my throat as I saw the kid clamber down the
stairs approaching my platform. I hoped he hadn't seen
me.
When the doors opened I slid into the car, peeking
out once more.
The kid was on the platform, peeking into each car.
The train began to move. Faster and faster, it was
bringing me right toward him.
As the train passed where the young kid was
standing, I saw his eyes meet mine. His mouth dropped
open, and I could have sworn I heard a stream of pro
fanity. Then I was gone, into the darkness of the tunnel.
I transferred at the next station onto the uptown B,
then rode it until the 125th and Frederick Douglas
Boulevard station. From there I walked home, the bag
on my shoulder burning a hole.
I was tired, weary, trudging up the stairs, my blood
still pumping, however, with my prize. My guilt had
been overcome by my curiosity.
When I opened the door, I saw Amanda sitting at the
dining-room table eating a bowl of cereal. I forgot how
early it was, that she hadn't even left for work yet.
She was wearing a formfitting tank top that accen
tuated her amazing figure. Her hair was held together
in a ponytail, and her shapely legs disappeared beneath
her chair. I smiled, and she returned it.
"Whatcha got there, sweetie? A present for me
maybe?"
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155
I sat down at the table opposite her. I stuck my hand
in the outside pocket and came out with a cell phone.
The same one the young kid had been using.
Then I unlatched the brass buckles on the outside.
When the bag was unlocked, I folded back the top and
turned it upside down.
Out poured five white bricks the size of VHS cassette
tapes, as well as several thumb-size bags of the stuff. It
also contained a dozen small bags of marijuana with
varying quantities, and several pieces of tinfoil. I didn't
want to open or touch anything I didn't need to, so
whatever was in those packets would remain a mystery
for now. Chances were, it was either coke or crack.
One package, though, was half-open. Sitting on one
loose piece of foil were three small off-white stones that
looked almost like sugar cubes. But I knew exactly
what they were. Rocks of pure crack cocaine.
"Wow," Amanda said, staring at the mass of drugs.
"Remind me to buy my own birthday present next year."
I reached for one of the packages, but Amanda
grabbed my arm. I looked at her to see what was up, and
she was shaking her head like she was scolding a child
about to eat paste.
"Do you really want your fingerprints on those?" she
asked rhetorically. "Don't we have enough problems
with fingerprints where they didn't belong? I assume at
some point we're going to have to get the police
involved, and