The Darkness

26

Friday

The call came close to midnight. Morgan wondered what the hell had taken them so long.

He didn’t recognize the voice on the other line. It wasn’t

Chester, and he didn’t think it was Leonard. Not that it mattered much. He assumed there had to be more to the operation than the two guys he’d met. There were twelve other men in that room-well, eleven after the accident with Jeremy-and they’d all been recruited like him.

Leonard had said that they’d each been recruited by a different person, as Leonard had been brought in by this guy Stephen Gaines. If each new recruit was brought in by a different guy, a la Chester, that meant at least eleven people on Chester’s level.

Morgan wondered just how many people were a part of this organization. Then he wondered how long it might take before he could be promoted, and how much money he’d have to bring in. Didn’t matter. He’d do it.

In his mind’s eye, Morgan could see Jeremy’s lifeless body sliding down the wall, clumps of his blood like egg yolk on the wallpaper behind him. Morgan wished he felt remorseful, wished he felt some sort of sympathy for

Jeremy, but as hard as he tried he simply could not.

When Leonard described what the job entailed, it was a zero sum equation: either you had the sack for it or you didn’t.

Jeremy didn’t.

It was clear from the moment the mission was explained. Morgan had seen that look before. He found it a little funny, considering he’d gone so far in business because of his ability to spot men like Jeremy. Men who wouldn’t take the extra step, who worried so much about teetering on the diving board that they couldn’t even see the riches hidden beneath the water’s surface.

Morgan saw it all. He had a knack for it, could see deals before they materialized. That was the rule of thumb: first one in, last one out. See the profits before everyone else did, and stay longer than everyone else who got cold feet.

That look in Leonard’s eye said it all. New product.

That’s when Morgan knew he had to jump in.

When you introduced a new product to the marketplace, you didn’t trust it to people who couldn’t sell it, who couldn’t get the job done. A new product has an extremely narrow window of opportunity to work, and while that door is cracked open, you needed to wedge everything but the kitchen sink in there because once that sucker closed up, it wasn’t cracking open again.

Morgan sold to people. Plain and simple. He sold them investments in their future. He sold them the belief that if they did not trust him then they were putting their family’s stability at risk.

Was this any different?

Morgan had done a few lines in his day. A night out at the strip joint with his buddies, a bump or two in the bathroom to make those lights flicker just a little faster.

He didn’t quite have the taste for it, though, felt if you needed an external force to get high you were simply doing the wrong drugs.

Not that he judged them. Most people were simply not born with the same drive and instincts Morgan had been.

His parents were blue collar all the way, but had good enough credit to get him a decent financial aid package.

Morgan knew a lot of kids from his hometown that weren’t so lucky.

They were the ones who filled up his tank at the gas station. They were the ones who sprayed perfume on his mother when she went to the mall. They were the ones who needed something to take the edge off the real world, because if they spent too much time with their own life and their own thoughts eventually it would occur to them what they had never become.

So this new product, Morgan guessed, was just one more thing to take the edge off. And that was fine. He trusted these guys. Jeremy was a message. Like no limit hold ’em, you’re either all in or you fold.

Jeremy folded. Morgan’s stack of chips wasn’t as high as it used to be, but what was that great line from Rounders?

Kid’s got alligator blood.

Morgan liked the sound of that.

When the caller told him the address, Morgan was a little surprised at first. He’d actually been there once before, a few years back when he’d first started dating this

French model named Claudia who was in town for some photo shoot where she was supposed to pose in a pink tutu atop the Brooklyn Bridge.

Morgan never really understood art.

She’d insisted that they go to the Kitten Club, the rationale being more along the lines of it being a trendy hotspot rather than a place where actual enjoyment could be had.

Morgan remembered that the music was deafening, the light show transfixing, and the drinks ridiculously overpriced.

And then that rich diva Athena Paradis got killed there, and somehow the Kitten Club became even more popular.

Now why Morgan was supposed to be there at seven o’clock in the morning, a good sixteen hours before the club even opened its doors, was beyond him. But it was his first day. And Morgan knew well enough not to ask questions.

He took the subway downtown, then walked to the meatpacking district where the Kitten Club, and its brethren, served generous amounts of alcohol to hip, young New Yorkers seven days a week. At midnight, you couldn’t walk down the block without having to cut through any one of a number of long lines dedicated to keeping impatient drinkers outside until the Lord of the

Velvet Rope decided it was time to allow them entry.

The Kitten Club used to have one of those large neon signs above the awning, this one depicting a feline in naughty attire sipping from some sort of pink cocktail.

The lights were arranged so that it looked like the cat was tipping the drink back. As the glass hit the cat’s lips, the drink actually appeared to disappear down its furry throat.

If you had enough money, you could get anyone to make you anything.

As Morgan approached the entrance, the front door opened up. He immediately recognized the man who held it open.

“Morgan, good to see you,” Chester said. “Feels good to be up bright and early, doesn’t it?”

Chester said this with the slightest air of contempt, as though he knew that Morgan hadn’t needed to wake up before noon anytime in recent memory. Though he felt his cheeks flush slightly red, he did feel a bit of pride in rejoining the workforce.

“If it’s worth getting up for, there’s no such thing as too early.”

“Words to live by,” Chester replied. “Come on in.”

Chester held the door ajar, and Morgan slipped inside. He couldn’t help but find it funny that for the first time he hadn’t needed to wait in line to enter a club.

Maybe he needed to go clubbing at seven in the morning more often.

Chester led Morgan through the club, the earlymorning sun peeking through black-tinted windows, casting an eerie glow on a floor that seemed ghostlike without the cavalcade of dancing, drinking bodies. The first floor of the Kitten Club was essentially one large open space, nearly the length of a football field.

At either end was a bar, about thirty feet long, that housed four different bartenders in order to make sure drinks were served promptly, and that every penny was squeezed out of every patron.

Large birdcages hung above the floor, with doors big enough to fit the dancers who gyrated inside them all night. Morgan could see a pulley system keeping them high, attached to a chain that could be lowered. Still, the dancers had to keep going all night. Made you think twice before entering a giant birdcage.

Chester led Morgan across the first floor, toward a sign marked Restrooms. Morgan followed, but slowed down when Chester turned toward the door to the women’s bathroom.

“Um, dude, you can’t go in there.”

Chester turned around, looked at Morgan like he’d sprouted another head.

“You’re really going to question me? Now?”

Morgan felt a chill travel down his spine. He simply shook his head, and whispered, “Sorry.”

Stupid, Morgan thought. His gut reaction, of course, was to question why the hell they were going into the ladies’ bathroom in a nightclub at seven in the morning.

On the surface, not the most egregious question to be asking. But Morgan should have known better.

So when Chester pushed open the door to the women’s room, Morgan followed obediently behind.

The women’s room was cleaner than most clubs, especially considering it was known for being a veritable petrie dish of chemical indulgences. There was an irony in that the club was owned by Shawn Kensbrook, who was as clean as they came. Hell, the guy became a regular on the Today show after Athena Paradis died.

One of those celebrities, like Puff Daddy or P. Diddy or whatever the hell his name was now who skyrocketed to fame after the death of someone close. And when fame came knocking, the mourning period lasted all of about two more seconds before the checks started rolling in.

Kensbrook himself was clean, but the Kitten Club itself was as dirty as a public restroom. And like a public restroom, Morgan held his nose when he took one whiff of the foul odor that permeated this particular restroom.

He couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but got an idea when Chester walked over to a closed stall door clearly marked Out of Order.

Morgan followed, peeking over Chester’s shoulder as he pushed the stall door open.

Yup, that was it. No doubt whatever had died had done so in this stall.

The toilet seat itself was covered in a brown foulness that nearly made Morgan retch. The wall behind it was chipping, the plaster coming loose. The metal toilet paper holder was rusted and gross, and the floor tiles had hints of yellow that reminded Morgan of writing his name without hands on snow days in his youth.

Without hesitation, Chester stepped through the rusted door and stood over the toilet.

“Dude,” Morgan said, “that’s pretty nasty. I’m sure there’s a working one in here that doesn’t look like something out of Trainspotting. ”

Chester appeared to ignore him, instead leaning forward.

Morgan couldn’t make it out, but Chester was apparently doing something against the wall, either scratching it with his fingernails or pushing on something, he couldn’t tell what.

Suddenly Chester stepped back, and Morgan heard a brief clicking noise before the entire compartment-the toilet and the wall behind it-simply slid backward, revealing a walkway behind it.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Morgan said. “Who are you, James Bond?”

“Guess I got the blond hair right,” Chester said. “Come on.”

Morgan stepped into the passageway. It was a long narrow hallway, metal on both sides, no deviations. At the end of the hallway stood a simple metal door. There was

no doorknob, no metal slats. Nothing except two video cameras perched above the doorway, each pointed down to capture whoever was about to enter.

“Who’s back there?” Morgan said.

“What did I tell you about questions?”

“Not to ask them.”

“You’re a quick learner.”

Chester kept walking until he was standing directly in front of the door. He looked up at the cameras. Smiled.

Morgan was about to ask if whoever was back there could see him, but remembered the previous conversation.

“The cameras don’t work,” Chester said.

“Huh?”

“That’s what you were about to ask. Do you see any wires? Any outlets?”

Morgan eyed the cameras. “Nope. But there’s a red light on.”

“Runs on a battery,” Chester said. “Fakes out most burglars and trespassers. You can buy these things at

Radio Shack for sixty bucks.”

“So then how do they…”

“Trust me, security is a lot tighter than a simple camera. Just don’t bring any of your friends here. They’ll be dead before they count to five.”

“What…”

Before Morgan could finish his question (something he was thankful for), the metal door slid open. Standing there was Leonard.

He was wearing black jeans and a green turtleneck. He held a clipboard in one hand, and gripped the door’s handle with his other.

“Hey,” he said to Chester. Then he looked at Morgan.

“Glad you could make it. You guys are late.”

“Traffic,” Chester said.

“Of course.” Leonard took a pen from the clipboard, checked something on it and went back into the room.

“Come on,” Chester said, and Morgan followed him inside.

The room was fairly small, and resembled an atrium of some sort. There was another door off to the side, and that was all. The only light was overhead track lighting, and Morgan noticed a dozen cameras pointed at different parts of the room.

The first person he saw was Nikesh. The Indian boy was standing in the center of the room. He was wearing a black pinstripe suit, with a red tie and wingtip loafers.

His hair was freshly cut, and Morgan noticed a small shaving nick under his chin.

Nikesh turned around. He nodded when he saw Morgan.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Morgan replied, wittily.

Then Nikesh turned around, and Morgan saw that he had a large briefcase slung over his shoulders. The bag was full, but not overstuffed. There was a combination lock on the front, and the clasp was done.

“Patel, you’re finished here. Flanagan?”

The chubby white kid from the conference room ambled out of the side room. He was also clutching a briefcase, this one stuffed even more. Though the bag looked ready to burst, Chubby-aka Flanagan-seemed to have no trouble carrying it. Obviously whatever was inside didn’t weigh much.

“You two have your orders,” Leonard told them. “And you remember everything I told you.”

Patel and Flanagan both nodded. They looked confident.

Whatever Leonard had told them, they remembered it.

Leonard clicked something in his ear, nodded, then motioned for the duo to follow him. He slid the door open, revealing the corridor. When they’d stepped outside, Leonard pulled the door back into place.

“Your turn,” Leonard said. “Time for orientation.”

Leonard walked over to the side door. This one looked fairly standard, with a doorknob and everything. Leonard simply turned the knob, pulled it open and beckoned

Morgan to follow him.

Tentatively Morgan came forward, surprised at first that the door wasn’t guarded by some super electromagnet or something else similarly complicated.

As he approached the door, another young man stepped out. Morgan recognized him from the conference room. He was black, about five foot ten. Stocky but not fat, with a neatly shaved head. He wore a creamcolored suit and a blue tie, a pocket square neatly tucked into his jacket.

“Theodore W. Goggins,” Leonard said. “This is Morgan

Isaacs.”

Morgan extended his hand. Theodore shook it. His grip was tight.

“Call me Theo.”

“Call me Morgan,” he replied. “So ‘W’ huh? Like

George W. Bush?”

“Do I look like I was born in Texas?” Theo said. “The

‘W’ is for Willingham, my uncle’s last name.”

“Keeping it all in the family,” Morgan said. “Nice.”

Theo laughed. “You keep up, brother, you and me are gonna get along just fine.”

“Get along?” Morgan said.

“You two are partners, for the time being,” Leonard said. “You ever use the buddy system on school trips?”

Neither of the young men answered, but they both knew what he was talking about.

“Same principle. Theo, you’re responsible for Morgan.

Morgan, you’re responsible for Theo. Either of you get into any trouble, it’s up to the other one to help out.”

“No problem,” Morgan said. “That’s a pretty sweet tie,” he noted, admiring the silk.

“Only kind I wear,” Theo said. “Red is too loud. Says you’re trying too hard. Lighter colors-yellow, green- those are pansy-ass colors. Black, white, hell, you’re not even trying. Blue is the perfect in between. It’s bold, but it doesn’t say that. It’s like a backrub. Sounds pretty innocent, but it’s going to get your panties off before the night is over.”

“I’m not wearing any panties. So I guess you already won.”

“Enough, girls,” Leonard said. His voice grew stern, and he moved forward until his face was just inches from

Morgan’s. “Theo is also your insurance policy, Isaacs, and Isaacs is yours, Goggins. If you ever try anything funny, ever do anything to place yourself or your partner in danger…well, there’s a quarter-million-dollar bonus in it for your partner if he turns you in.”

“Wait, what?” Morgan said. “He gets two hundred and fifty grand for ratting on me?”

“Yes and no,” Leonard continued. “I already explained this to Theo, but you need to know it as well. If your partner does anything-talks to the cops, tells his friends, tells his family, tells his fucking shih tzu-if you inform us you get quarter-million-dollar bonus. Tax free.”

Morgan could tell Theo was eyeballing him. He didn’t like it.

“But,” Leonard said, “if one of you lies just to get the money, you won’t need money where you’re going.

So before you decide to play games, ask yourself if the risk is really worth the reward. You can either continue to make money-good money-working for us. Or you can get cute, try to get rich quick, and end up like

Ken Tsang.”

Morgan’s stomach felt like someone had just poured acid inside of it.

Leonard and his people couldn’t have been responsible for Ken’s death-could they?

“Hopefully you’ll never need to know what it feels like to be able to touch your knee to the small of your back,”

Leonard said. “Or for your arms to suddenly grow another joint. Because Ken sure did.”

Theo didn’t move. Did not react. Morgan stared at

Leonard. He was scared, and Leonard seemed to recognize this.

“Now, don’t get ahead of yourself thinking all doom and gloom. Ken was stupid,” Leonard said. “I’m hoping you’re smart. Because if you are, it’s nothing but gravy for all of us. Theo here is your guardian angel, and the bomb collar strapped to your neck. He will protect you at all costs, but if you try and remove him in any way whatsoever-he’ll still be around long after the bomb goes off. Do you get this? Both of you?”

Theo nodded. He didn’t seem to care, didn’t seem affected in the least. It was as though he knew he would never turn. Never lie to these people. He was there for the money. And as long as he did what he was told, that green would pour in.

“I get it,” Morgan finally said. The acid had gone. The look on Theo’s face had made it dry up. This was Morgan’s chance to get his life back. He would never do what Ken did. And he knew Theo would never turn on him.

They both had too much to lose.

“Great. Now that we’re clear on the rules, let’s go over everything. But first, let’s give you a look at your merchandise.”

Leonard opened the door up wider. Theo went back inside, and Morgan followed. And when he saw what was inside, it was all he could do not to gasp.

“How much…” he said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Leonard said.

Morgan looked around. In a dozen neat piles, each about twenty feet wide and five feet tall, were small, individual bags. Each of these bags contained what looked like a different kind of narcotic.

Cocaine. Ecstasy. Weed. Pills. Things Morgan didn’t recognize in the slightest.

And then, in the back corner, he saw something that piqued his curiosity.

Bags filled with what looked like small pieces of black gravel. Rocks so small and so insignificant that they looked like they could have been taken from his grandmother’s driveway.

“What’s that?” Morgan said.

“That,” replied Leonard, “is going to revolutionize our business.”

Morgan stared at it. Theo’s eyes were wide open.

“We call it ‘the Darkness.’ And in one week’s time,”

Leonard said, “you’ll be so busy selling those bags you won’t have time to spend all the money you make.” Then

Leonard smiled. “But I imagine you’ll find the time.”