The Fury - Jason Pinter [91]
be a man named Marvin Barnett, age thirty-one),
and I know he don't take home every penny that
come into his hand.
JO: So where does the rest go?
BW: I don't know that. Don't know about no
"board" neither. Heard rumors about one dude
who runs the whole show, but not like anyone's
ever seen him, so it's probably bullshit.
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JO: So where do you see yourself in five years?
The main man?
BW: Hell no, man. The main man got too many
problems. There's a reason it's called the crown
of thorns. You only sit at the top for so long be
fore someone decides he don't like your way of
doing business. Guys in my spot, as long as we
keep our head down and keep selling, we be all
right. Might not make as much money as the big
man, but I'll be alive a lot longer.
I read the interview again. It wasn't much, but even
then Willingham seemed to think there was some higher
power, some authority figure running the show. The
strange thing is that Butch seemed adamant about not
doing drugs, about respecting the hierarchy of which he
was a part. I wondered if there was a chance Willingham was killed over the book, but the book came out
long after Butch was killed.
In addition, most of the numerous references to
dealers were protected by fake names, monikers used
to protect them in case their employers sought retribu
tion along the lines that Butch had received. From
Jack's perspective, he probably figured he didn't need
to protect Butch Willingham's name since the man was
already dead.
I found it to be a little too much of a coincidence that
just weeks after this interview, the man was found dead
with the words The Fury scrawled in his own blood. It
didn't seem like Butch would have overstepped his
bounds, but I couldn't be sure. Dealing wasn't exactly
the most legitimate enterprise, so it was entirely
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Jason Pinter
possible he was blowing smoke up Jack's ass just to
make himself sound like a good soldier.
Regardless, something had happened in those weeks
between the interview and Butch's death. He'd done or
seen something that required him being "made gone."
Looking back through the interview, I noticed this
line of questioning:
JO: How do you come to grips knowing that the
product you sell will be used by children?
BW: That ain't on me. I got a son, and I raise that
boy right. Clarence gonna be fifteen next month.
He knows if I ever see him lift a pipe or a needle,
he's gonna feel a pain a lot worse than what those
drugs can do to him. Grown-ups make their own
decisions. I ain't got no sympathy for a grown
man who uses. But a child, that's on the parent.
If you can't raise your boy or girl right, and they
end up sucking on a pipe, well, then, that's on the
parents. There's a manhole in my street. City ain't
never bothered to fix it. But I know it's there and
step around that sucker. Someone else falls in? It's
their own damn fault for being stupid.
Butch Willingham had a son. Clarence. It was a long
shot, but there was a chance.
Using my cell phone, I went to 411.com and plugged
in the name Clarence Willingham. Two matches came
back; one living in Crown Heights, the other by Mor
ningside Park on 107th Street.
I called the first number. A man picked up.
"Yeah?"
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"Hi...is this Clarence Willingham?"
"Um, no," the man said, sounding irritated. "This
was Clarence Willingham."
"Excuse me?"
"My name is Clarence Savoy now. Just got married
last month."
"You...married...oh, I get it. Was your father Butch
Willingham?"
"Butch?" the man said with a high-pitched laugh.
"Try Albert. But close." Then Clarence Savoy hung up.
I tried the second number. It rang half a dozen times
but didn't go to voice mail. I let it keep ringing. After
three more rings, a man picked up. He sounded tired,
like I'd just woken him from a nap.
"Who's this?"
"Is this Clarence Willingham?"
"Yeah, who's this?"
"Clarence, was your father named Butch?"
"Yeah, the hell's this about?"
"My name is Henry Parker. I'm a reporter. I was
wondering if I could ask you a few questions."