The Fury - Jason Pinter [96]
creative things to their mind."
"I never lose the sharpness. It doesn't affect my work."
Then Clarence rattled off the names of several mul
tibillion-dollar companies. He took a business card from
a pile on his desk and handed it to me. It had his name,
address, e-mail and Web site URL. The tagline read
Your dream can be a reality. "I have a portfolio of all
my clients. You check out their Web sites, that's all me.
Half a dozen Fortune 500 companies."
"Not bad at all."
The joint had burned out. Clarence didn't seem to
notice.
"That all you need, Parker?" Clarence asked. "I ap
preciate thinking about the good times and all, but my
day is wasting."
"One more thing," I said. "The note your father wrote
on the floor. The Fury. Do you remember your father
ever talking about anyone who went by that name?"
"Nah," Clarence said, waving his hand. "My dad
never brought his work home with him."
"He was killed because of his work," I said. "I'd say
that's taking it home with you."
Clarence didn't take to that comment very kindly, and
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Jason Pinter
stood up. "He never mentioned anyone by that name.
But I know what you're getting at. I've read the books.
I know what some people think. But a hustle's a hustle.
There's no greater power. No Keyser Soze sitting up in
a tower somewhere twisting the wills of men. It's a big
racket, is all it is. People play to make money. The cards
are shuffled every so often, and my dad was one of
those cards. Sucks for him and for me, but that's the way
it goes. So don't go spreading any rumors, 'cause they
ain't true."
I wanted to tell Clarence that for untrue rumors, he
was quite adamant about making sure I knew he thought
nothing of them.
"Thanks for giving me some of your time," I said.
"And I'm sorry for your loss."
"About twenty years too late, but I appreciate the
sentiment."
Clarence led me to the door. The joint was a sad, for
gotten nub in the ashtray. I turned around to shake his
hand, when something caught my eye.
There was a futon resting in the far corner. Red
cushion. Lots of stains from cigarettes, liquor, or both.
Something underneath the sofa was twinkling, shining
in the low light.
I stepped around Clarence to get a closer look.
"What're you doing?" he asked.
I felt a tightness in my chest as I walked to the futon.
Dropping down to one knee, I peered underneath to
see. Something told me I already knew what it was.
I felt a strong hand, Clarence's hand, grip my
shoulder and squeeze. Pain coursed through the joint as
he found the bone and dug in.
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"Listen, man, you've had your fun. Leave or I'm
gonna call the cops."
Ignoring him, I reached under the futon and grabbed
the item. Standing back up, his hand still like a vise, I
opened it to see what lay in my palm.
I felt the grip loosen as we both stared. My heart was
hammering. I couldn't believe it.
Turning to face Clarence Willingham, I held out a
small diamond earring in my hand. The companion to
the earring I found up at Blue Mountain Lake by BethAnn Downing's body.
"Where is Helen Gaines?" I asked.
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"I don't know what you're talking about," Clarence
said, but the tremor in his voice belied that statement. I
looked around. This apartment was too small. There
was nowhere for her to hide. She had to be somewhere
else.
But if Helen Gaines was hiding, if she'd left Blue
Mountain Lake because somebody was trying to kill
her, she wasn't out and about in New York City, sight
seeing and having her caricature drawn in Times
Square. If she'd come to Butch Willingham's son for
help, chances are he knew where she was at this
moment. She had to be somewhere close. In his office,
perhaps. Or somewhere nobody would expect. The
office might be out. Where...
I could hear Clarence screaming at me, trying to
push me out of his apartment. My body didn't respond.
She couldn't be at his office. She'd be somewhere
nobody would know about. Somewhere...
Then I remembered my bag. Bernita. Clarence's words.
Anytime you have something