The Fury - Jason Pinter [65]
paid him, I believe a good six-figure sum, quite a penny
for a book back in those days. And if they'd refused to
publish, they wouldn't have recouped a penny since
they would have been in breach of contract. So they
allowed Jack to keep that one bit in. Kind of an appease
ment. Jack considered it a footprint that couldn't be
erased by time. And because what Willingham had
written was in the coroner's report, it was a matter of
public record and could stay in. Everything else, they
felt, was conjecture."
"So Jack thought there was more to the Fury, then."
"I believe so, but again I'm speaking from what I
recall twenty years ago. Jack and I haven't spoken about
that book or that story in years. He's written half a
dozen books since then, most of which made him a lot
more money than Through the Darkness. And with no
new leads to track down, no other proof or witnesses,
it was on to new matters. In a city where new stories
materialize every day, if you spend your time hoping a
fresh angle will pop out of the ground you'll miss ev
erything going around right beside your head. Jack's a
great reporter, but he's not stupid."
"He's not a coward either," I said. "He kept that bit
in there for a reason. Like you said, a footprint."
"Maybe he did," Wallace said.
"I need his files," I said.
"Henry," Wallace said, folding his hands across his
chest. "You know better than that. Besides, company
policy states that any work, research or otherwise, done
on books is kept outside of the office."
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"He must have something here," I said. "I've seen
Jack's apartment. He barely had any furniture, let alone
files. Please, do me a favor. Let me see Jack's files. I
know there's a storage room here. I swear I won't take
anything that doesn't pertain to the Willingham case.
And I'll even do the digging for you."
"I can't let you do that," Wallace said. "But I'll meet
you halfway. I'll go through it myself and send it over
to you if I find anything. I'm going to err on the side of
caution, though, so don't expect much."
"Thank you," I said. I stood up, prepared to leave.
Then I saw a copy of that morning's Gazette on
Wallace's chair. I looked up at him, raised an eyebrow.
"Go on, take it," he said, grinning. "But after today
you don't get diddly-squat for free until I see your name
below a story."
22
The subway was hot and humid as I went back uptown.
I had no idea how long it would take for Wallace to get
me those files. The man had been gracious enough to
offer, and frankly I didn't expect much going in. I des
perately wanted to know what Jack knew, what else he
knew about the Willingham murder. And what, if
anything, it had to do with Stephen Gaines.
The strange thing was, the deeper I looked into this,
the further away it seemed to go from Gaines. From him
to Beth-Ann Downing, from Rose Keller to Butch Wil
lingham, there seemed to be a pattern of behavior that
went back twenty years. I had no idea how long, if at
all, my brother had been dealing. But I was damn sure
that it had somehow gotten him killed.
Now, I've read the books. I've seen the TV shows. I
read as much news as I can take until my eyeballs hurt.
I'm well aware that pushing is not a profession made
for duration. People get into it hoping to make a quick
buck, usually because they have no other options. They
have neither the education to get a job punching a clock,
nor the desire to work for a corporation that can termi
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nate them without a moment's notice. There was some
thing romantic about the notion of a drug dealer, some
thing that went against the system. But when I saw
Stephen Gaines that night on the street, I did not see a
man defiant in the face of unspeakable odds stacked
against him. I saw a defeated, emaciated, broken-down
young man. A man scared of something. Something he
felt, for some reason, I could help with.
I was a newspaper reporter. Nothing more, nothing
less. I sincerely doubted Gaines came to me because I
was his flesh and blood.