The Darkness

8

Sifting through ownership records and property deeds was nearly as much fun as it sounded. We found papers for the nearly two dozen companies who currently held leases in the building formerly housing 718 Enterprises, but for whatever reason there was no deed of ownership of the company itself. We found public listings for a brokerage firm, a jewelry store, three law offices, a psychiatrist, a pet psychiatrist, and a tantric yoga studio.

Only in New York.

“Look at this,” Jack said. We were sitting in a conference room, two laptop computers with several open windows each, our eyes beginning to strain from staring at various ownership deeds. I leaned over to the computer

Jack was working on and looked at the screen he had pulled up. “According to tax filings, the law offices of

Kaiser, Hirschtritt and Certilman occupy floors seventeen and eighteen. No other company in the building occupies more than one floor, or even appears to pay for more than one office space. If you were running a drug syndicate from an office, wouldn’t you want a little more privacy than a single office would give you?”

I stared at the screen, thought about the morning I went to the building and watched a stream of young, energetic drug dealers enter and leave with briefcases full of narcotics. I had a hard time picturing them all fitting inside a row of cubicles. Plus I doubted a truck pulled up every now and then to refill their supplies. They needed space to store the drugs. Space to allow for easy pickups for dozens of couriers.

And enough lack of clutter to allow them to pack up and get the hell out of Dodge on a moment’s notice.

“The building is managed by a company called Orchid

Realty,” I said. “According to their Web site, they have different managers for each property. It doesn’t spell out which one is managed by who, but we can call and find out.”

“Screw that,” Jack said. “Why call when we can show up uninvited?”

I smiled. I liked the way Jack thought.

Orchid Realty was on the eighth floor of a stainless steel complex in midtown, not too far from many of the tony properties they managed. Jack and I walked into the lobby side by side. A pair of security guards manned a long wooden desk. They did not seem intimidated by the purposeful look in our eyes. Installed in the front of the partition were two televisions, each running infomercials for the building itself. The sets looked recently installed, and the volume was far too loud. My guess was, with the economy tanking, the building had lost a bunch of leasing companies who couldn’t pay their bills, and were looking for fresh blood (and fuller bank accounts) to replenish the coffers.

We stopped at the security desk, and Jack said, “We’re here for Orchid Realty.”

“Name of contact,” the monotone voice came back.

“Mr. Orchid,” Jack replied.

The guard looked up, a bored sneer on his face, like he knew Jack was screwing with him but didn’t have the time or inclination to care.

“Name of contact,” he repeated.

“Call the front desk,” Jack said. “Tell whoever answers that we’re here to talk to whoever’s in charge of the 718

Enterprises account.” He took out his identification, underlining the words New York Gazette with his thumb.

The guard looked at him, the apathy turning into confusion.

“This is my official ID,” Jack continued. “Which means I have the official authorization to have a news crew down here in less time than it takes for you to put on that cute tie in the morning. It also means you and your friend here will have their friendly faces on our ‘Community Outrage’ Web site, as impeding an official news investigation.” He pointed at the phone. “One phone call.

All it takes.”

The guard’s eyes went wide, and he picked up the phone and dialed three numbers. Jack was full of crap, but news was about information, and that was information they didn’t need to know.

The guard covered the phone’s mouthpiece with his hand, his eyes growing more animated as he spoke.

Clearly the person on the other line wasn’t too keen on us coming upstairs, but it looked like the guard wanted as much to do with our Community Outrage Web site as

I did with bedbugs.

Finally the man hung up, pressed a button and printed out two badges from his computer kiosk. Handing them over, he said, “You promised, right? No cameras or news crew? I don’t want my son to see me on the Internet.”

“We’ll see how things go upstairs,” Jack said. “Come on.”

I followed him to a bank of metal turnstiles, manned by another security guard, this one looking much less awake on the job than the guys at the front desk. We showed him our badges, and he pressed a button that swung the turnstiles. We passed through, made our way to the elevator bank and headed up to the fourth floor.

Jack hummed a tune I couldn’t recognize as we ascended, and I felt slightly anxious, wondering just how far this would take us. I was also somewhat concerned about pulling my weight on this story. As much as I wanted to find out just what the hell was going on with this shadow corporation, earning the respect of Jack O’Donnell was a close second.

The doors opened, and we followed a sterile beige hallway to a pair of double glass doors with the words

Orchid Realty stenciled on them. I opened the door for

Jack, the glass swinging out effortlessly and without a sound. A heavyset woman with curly reddish hair sat behind an oak desk, a pair of old-fashioned headphones resting on her ears that looked less Bluetooth than long in the tooth. The nameplate read Iris Mahoney.

Iris was filing her nails, pausing every few moments to blow nail dust from her hands and onto the floor.

As we approached, her eyes rose and a wide smile crossed her lips. “You must be those boys from the newspaper,” she said. “Welcome to Orchid.”

“Hi,” I said before Jack could open his mouth. “Miss

Mahoney, if it’s not too much trouble we’d like to speak to one of your property managers.”

“Certainly, sir. Which of our managers would you like to speak with?”

“Whoever handles the building which until recently leased space to a company called 718 Enterprises.”

The receptionist pursed her lips, sucked in air and squinted. “Hmm…that doesn’t ring a bell. Let me check our database.”

She put down the nail file and began typing. Two fingered. One finger at a time. Slow enough that I could hear Jack breathing heavier as his frustration grew. Every few moments the lady would mutter a pleasant “no” under her breath and continue typing. After several minutes she looked up at us and said, “I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have any records for a 718 Enterprises. Are you sure you have the right realty corporation?”

“You do manage the building leases at sixteen-twenty

Avenue of the Americas, right?”

“Now that sounds familiar. If my memory serves me, they have a wonderful tantric yoga studio.” She blushed slightly. I pretended not to have heard anything.

“That’s the building,” Jack said. “Listen, hon,” he continued, approaching the desk, a warm smile on his face.

It was shocking to compare this to his countenance downstairs. Different folks responded to different temperaments. Jack didn’t get his reputation by assuming everyone reacted the same way to everything. “We’re not here to cause trouble. We’re investigating a story for our newspapers, it’s our job, really, and we just have a few questions about the building. If you could just let us know who manages that property, we’ll be out of your hair in no time. What do you say?”

The apple-cheeked receptionist smiled, and if I didn’t know any better, it looked like she might have suddenly developed a small crush on the elder newsman. “Hold on one second. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll have somebody out here to assist you right away.”

“You’ve made my day, darlin’.” Her smile widened.

We took seats in two leather chairs. I shuffled through a pile of uninteresting magazines before putting them back. Jack just sat there. He didn’t need any distractions.

After thumbing through the pile of outdated magazines for a second time-in case Victorian Homes had magically been replaced by Sports Illustrated -a middle-aged man with a short haircut and mustache entered the waiting room. His eyes settled on us, and I caught him taking a deep breath. He wasn’t making any secret that he didn’t want to be talking to us, and resented the fact that we were even here.

I stood up, assumed Jack would do the same. When he didn’t, I looked at him. He didn’t seem to have noticed there was someone else in the room; either that or he didn’t care.

“Mr. O’Donnell?” the man said. Now Jack’s eyes perked up. He didn’t say a word, waited for the other man to speak. “Bill Talcott. How can I help you?”

Jack stood up. Gave Talcott a once-over, sizing him up.

Talcott shifted as he stood there, eyes meeting the floor.

Jack was trying to make the guy nervous, take him out of any comfort zone he might have. It didn’t look like Talcott had much of one when he joined us, but I guess Jack wanted to break his spirit completely.

“Thanks for finally joining us,” Jack said.

“My apologies for the wait.” He glanced at Iris with a condescending, apologetic smile, as though blaming her for the delay. Iris didn’t look up from her desk. This did not paint Mr. Talcott in an impressive light.

“Actually Iris was quite helpful,” Jack said. I noticed

Iris’s face look up slightly. “You have no need to embarrass her. Or yourself.”

Talcott’s face went pink, and he stammered. “Of course, I didn’t mean to put anybody down. We’re all under an enormous amount of stress these days, as you can imagine. And if I can say so, without embarrassing myself again, I’m a fan of your work, Mr. O’Donnell.”

Jack nodded, but did not respond to the compliment.

“Should we go somewhere more private?” he said.

“Is this an issue that requires privacy?” Talcott said, confused.

“I’d say so.”

Talcott nodded, said, “Right this way.” We followed him down the hallway behind the reception desk. The corridor was filled with gray metal filing cabinets. A few people stood by, filing, rifling through papers with a quickness that said they’d done it for years. On the walls hung pictures of buildings. Some residential, some commercial, obviously the properties Orchid Realty managed.

We passed by a small kitchen and a large conference room, and eventually were led into Talcott’s office. He ushered us in and closed the door. There were two leather chairs in front of a heavy marble desk. The desk, as well as the windowsills and bookshelves, were lined with snow globes from around the world. The man had literally hundreds of them.

“I buy one in every city I set foot in,” Talcott said proudly. “Three hundred and forty-eight and counting.”

Jack and I sat down. Talcott seemed disappointed that we weren’t impressed. We took out our notepads and pens as Talcott sat down. He waited a moment to see if we might compliment his collection. When it was clear we weren’t going to, he said, “So, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

“First off, Mr. Talcott, this is my associate Henry

Parker. My apologies for not introducing him earlier.”

“Parker,” Talcott said. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“It’s a pretty common surname,” I replied.

“Any relation to Peter Parker?” Talcott asked.

“You mean Spider-Man?”

“Is that the character’s name? I could have sworn I knew someone else named Parker. In any event, your name does ring a bell.”

I looked at Jack, hoping we could move on. He seemed to get the nod.

“Mr. Talcott,” he said, “do you manage the property at sixteen-twenty Avenue of the Americas?”

“I do,” Talcott said.

“Are you aware of a company called 718 Enterprises that, up until recently, occupied space in that building?”

Talcott took a moment before responding, “No.”

Jack’s eyebrows raised. “You’re saying there was never a company at that location with the name 718 Enterprises, or anything similar to that?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes, there was a company, or yes there was not?”

“There was no company with that name at that location.”

Jack turned to me, shifting his whole body. I realized

Jack had never seen the sign for the company, he hadn’t witnessed the young men marching in and out of the building with full bags. I was the only witness, at least the only one who was on our side.

“Mr. Talcott, do you read the news?”

“Of course I do. I’m quite fond of Mr. O’Donnell’s work, as I said.”

“Do you read it regularly?”

“I would say so.”

“Well, then do you recognize the name Stephen

Gaines? Or a company called 718 Enterprises?”

This time Talcott’s “no” was hesitant. There was rec-68

Jason Pinter ognition on his face, but he wasn’t about to incriminate himself.

“Let me give you a little backstory. Stephen Gaines was murdered a few weeks ago. Shot in the head in a dingy apartment in Alphabet City. It was in the news quite a bit, especially after the primary suspect was cleared.”

“That does ring a bell,” Talcott said. “So much strife in the news these days, who can remember a name? But the case does sound familiar. Boy’s father was accused of the crime, wasn’t he?”

“That’s right. Want to know something else?” I said.

Talcott seemed unsure of how to respond, so he simply said, “Sure.”

“Stephen Gaines was my brother.”

“I-I’m sorry to hear that. My condolences.”

“See, my brother worked with those two guys, Scott

Callahan and Kyle Evans. And my brother confided everything in me.” This part was BS. We’d had one conversation lasting thirty seconds and I didn’t even know he was my brother at the time. “And he told me that Scott and Kyle were employed-that’s a loose term-by 718

Enterprises. Who worked out of your building. Now, if you still don’t remember them I can get you the documentation and you’ll see it at the same time we print it.” I looked at Talcott’s desk. Saw a photo of him with a woman and young boy on a beach, all three beaming. “I don’t know how I’d explain to my son why Daddy’s picture is all over the news.”

Talcott turned a ghastly shade of white, and rocked back in his chair. The chair, unfortunately, did not lean back with him, and he nearly toppled over before righting himself.

Talcott cleared his throat before suddenly leaning down to rummage under his desk. I felt my fingers gripping the sides of the chair-was he going for a gun?

My nerves quieted when I saw what Talcott was reaching for a bottle of Glenfiddich single malt, aged twentyone years. Slightly less dangerous than a gun, though from the shaking of his hands my guess was that after we left, Talcott would drink enough to make him sleep like he’d been shot.

He brought up a small tumbler, filled it to the brim, and downed it, closing his eyes. He looked at us, slight embarrassment on his face. Then he pushed the bottle toward us.

“No thanks,” I said. “I didn’t have breakfast.”

Jack looked right past the bottle. I watched his reaction, but there was none.

Talcott coughed into his fist. His eyes were a little watery. I got the feeling he didn’t particularly enjoy the scotch, but needed it enough to get around that small detail.

“You don’t know what it’s like out there,” he said.

“Out where?” said Jack. “What are you talking about?”

“The economy is in the toilet. The dollar is barely worth the paper it’s printed on.”

“I cash my paychecks,” I added. “We know this.”

“But companies…they’re getting hit the hardest. There aren’t as many customers to go around, and the customers that they do have, well the money they pay doesn’t buy what it used to.”

“What’s your point?”

“Sixteen-twenty Avenue of the Americas, we’ve lost a dozen tenants from that building in the last two years.

Two years! And you know how many tenants have moved in? One. That’s a few hundred grand that we used to be making that just disappeared in the wind.”

Talcott paused, eyed the bottle.

“We needed the extra money.”

“And…” I said.

“That company…718 Enterprises…they never leased the property,” Talcott said. “They were never officially on our ledger. They never paid us a dime.”

“Then why did you say…” I replied, but Jack cut me off.

“So what does that mean?” Jack said. “They didn’t pay for the space? How did you bring in money?”

“The company itself didn’t pay us,” he replied, eyes looking at the bottle like it was a well-aged steak. “There was a law firm.”

“Kaiser, Hirschtritt and Certilman,” I said. “They occupied the floor above.”

Talcott nodded, his eyes red. He bit his lower lip. Hard.

“Go on,” Jack said.

“The law firm leased one floor. Eighteen. About a year after they leased it, our tenants on seventeen moved out.

We needed money bad. So when Brett Kaiser came to us and made a proposition, we had no choice. The tenant that occupied that floor had left three months earlier. We couldn’t afford to take another hit without recouping some of our losses.”

“What was the offer?” I said.

“Somebody would occupy the seventeenth floor. Only for legal purposes, the firm would be listed as the leaser.

They would take care of monthly payments for both floors. That was that. We treated it like a tenant was simply occupying two floors.”

“So who was on seventeen?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Talcott said. “That was part of Kaiser’s deal. He said the people on seventeen would never need anything from Orchid, and we should never ever contact

them for any reason. I never went to that floor, and they never even hired a cleaning crew as far as I know. One time, though, one of our maid services told me she accidentally got off on the wrong floor, got lost. She said the offices were closed, and had some sort of security system she’d never seen before. Like something out of the space program, she said.”

“Doesn’t sound like something a law office would employ,” I said to Jack. He didn’t respond.

“There’s something wrong with that company. I don’t know what it is, but I had a feeling that some day somebody would ask me these questions. I never wanted to know what they did. But I had to lease as much space as possible or the building could have gone under.”

“I’m sure Kaiser knew that,” I said. “And knew you wouldn’t ask questions as long as the checks arrived on time.”

“I never needed to or wanted to ask questions,” Talcott said. “There are plenty of tenants whose businesses I’m not fully acquainted with. As long as they’re running a legal operation and paying on time, they have their right to privacy.”

“And you have a right to know where your money is coming from,” I said.

“What if,” Jack said, “you had a choice between getting paid and having a tenant running a legal operation?”

“I’ve never had to make that choice.”

“Never had to, or never wanted to think you had to,”

Jack replied.

Talcott said nothing, but that bottle of scotch was practically gravitating toward his hands.

“One more thing,” Jack said. “Do you have contact information for Brett Kaiser?”

“Sure,” Talcott said. “Cell phone, home phone and e-mail address. Will that be all?”

“Just the contact info,” Jack said. “And if there’s anything else you can think of, here’s my card.”

Jack handed it to him. Talcott stared at it like it might spontaneously burst into flame, then pocketed it.

“Not a problem.” Talcott took a piece of letterhead from his printer and scribbled the information on it. His handwriting was sloppy and careless. My guess was that

Iris was responsible for his “personal” notes.

When he finished, Talcott folded the page and inserted it into an Orchid Realty envelope. Jack took it and stuffed it inside his jacket pocket.

“Pleasure meeting you,” Jack said, pointing at the bottle of liquor. “Now we’ll leave you two alone.”

Morgan Isaacs kept one hand on his BlackBerry, which was nestled snugly inside his front pants pocket. To anyone on the street it looked like he might be playing a game of pocket pool, but this Chester guy was ten minutes late and Morgan didn’t want to miss a phone call. He considered leaving. I mean, who in the hell meets about a job on the street? And Morgan didn’t like to wait. In his previous job, people waited for him. He shared a secretary, a cute piece of ass named Charlotte he could have had at any moment. Sometimes he would send her out for coffee just because he could. When she came back, he wouldn’t even thank her, just go into his office, pour the cup into the bottom of his fake plant, and pull out a can of Red Bull.

But this guy was late. Just a few short months ago,

Morgan wouldn’t wait for anybody. Some asshole wanted him to wait five minutes? Screw you, let’s reschedule.

Now, Morgan didn’t know when he’d even find work again. And with bills piling up he needed to earn scratch no matter what the cost. So if he had to suck up his pride for a little while, so be it. A necessary evil. And whoever this jack-off was who had him wait, well, if the company was good enough, Morgan would be running it within a few years anyway. Then he’d be the one making people late.

He felt a sense of anger rise within him as he watched hundreds of people walking down the streets, oblivious to him, unknowing and uncaring of what he’d been through. Men, women, dressed in natty suits with the finest accoutrements, they had no idea that in the time it took to snap your fingers they could be out of a job just like him. They had no right to be so confident, so careless, while Morgan stood there, his immediate future resting in the hands of a recommendation of Ken Tsang and the charity of some guy he’d never met before.

In the cab ride over-he would have preferred the bus to save money, but Chester didn’t give him a whole lot of time-Morgan wondered whether or not he’d take the position if one was offered. Then he chided himself. Now was not the time to be prideful. The bills would continue to come, the debt would continue to mount. Even a modest income would provide a stint for the bleeding, and at least he would have health care. Time to suck it up for a few months, Morgan had told himself. Guys with his talent and drive didn’t grow on trees. And every bumpy road led to riches down the line.

Morgan squeezed the cell phone-thought he’d felt it vibrate.

“Mr. Isaacs?”

Morgan turned around to see where the voice came from.

Standing directly behind him, almost inappropriately close, was a tall, well-built man with close-cropped blond hair. He had on a pair of rimless Cartier sunglasses, must have run at least five hundred bucks. Not too shabby. His gray suit was stretched over a lean frame, and Morgan could tell the guy had enough strength in those biceps to crush a tin can.

Morgan didn’t blink. Never show weakness, never show admiration. He was never rude, but on a job interview you wanted to appear confident, not too eager. Like they would be lucky to have you work for them.

“And you are…Chester?” Morgan said.

The man smiled and took off his sunglasses, folding them and tucking the pair into his breast pocket. He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“No biggie,” Morgan said. “Just had to reschedule a few things, that’s all.”

“Really? Such as what?”

Morgan stammered, “I, uh, meetings, you know.

Banks. A bank.”

“Oh, well I hope the bank understood,” Chester said with complete sincerity. If this guy realized Morgan was full of shit, he wasn’t letting on. “Let’s walk.”

Morgan followed Chester as he strolled down Fifth

Avenue. He matched the man step for step, tried to keep his stride the same length but damn, the man had long legs. Instead Morgan shortened his paces and walked faster. It was two blocks before Chester spoke again.

“How’s the job hunt going?” he said.

“It is what it is. There’s always room for good workers,

I figure I’ll take a little time, weigh my options and see what the best fit is for me.”

“Really,” Chester said, his voice either distant or disbelieving. “Any good leads? Anything coming down the pike?”

“Always something coming down,” Morgan replied.

“Just a matter of who makes me the most attractive offer.”

“I understand that,” Chester said. “Hold on a second.”

Chester stopped at a vending cart and ordered a hot dog. He paid, then slathered ketchup, mustard and relish on it. He wolfed the dog down in three bites, still standing at the cart, then wiped his lips with a napkin and continued walking.

“Sorry, did you want one?”

“S’okay,” Morgan said. “I just had breakfast an hour ago.”

“Really,” Chester said softly.

Morgan silently cursed himself. It was nearly twelvethirty. The fact that he had a late breakfast gave away that Morgan had woken up late. If he’d woken up late, he had nothing better to do. No job, no interview.

Morgan could feel himself falling behind, and hoped

Chester would let it slide.

“Your friend Ken spoke highly of you,” Chester said.

“It really is a shame. Always the young, talented ones who go before their time.”

“I know what you mean,” Morgan said. The truth was,

Ken was only a half-decent worker. A man with some bad habits and with maybe a quarter of the brainpower

Morgan possessed. He didn’t say any of this to Chester, of course, but if this guy spoke so highly of Ken Tsang he’d be simply blown away by Morgan Isaacs.

If it took this little to impress Chester, Morgan could probably have his job in less than five years.

“I know I mentioned this to you before,” Chester continued, “but Kenneth did some work for our firm. He was a good man, a good soldier, and recommended you as someone who could do the same kind of work if, well, if you ever decided to pursue other opportunities.”

“What kind of work did Ken do for you?” Morgan said. “Whatever it was, modesty aside, sir, I guarantee

Ken didn’t know the half of what I’m capable of.”

“Is that right?” Chester said, eyebrow raised.

“Yes, sir.”

Chester nodded. He seemed pleased.

“I don’t know what kind of money you were making at your last job,” Chester said, “but I hope you’ll find that if you do decide to work for us, the pay will be commensurate with what you’d expect.”

Morgan was slightly surprised, considering this guy was bringing up salary before even discussing the job. It must be either crap work or a crappy salary, and Chester probably figured he wouldn’t waste any time, that if

Morgan didn’t like the payoff, he’d walk away.

“What kind of figures are we talking about?” Morgan said.

“Well, we would have to start you out at the bottom of the ladder. I’m sure you understand. So many people competing for so few jobs these days. If you’re not comfortable with that, I can move on. Ken did give me a few other names.”

Morgan felt his neck grow hot under his collar.

“What kind of money are we talking about?”

Chester stopped walking. He reached inside his coat, pulled out a ballpoint pen. Then he walked over to a garbage can on the corner, tore a page off a loose newspaper. He scribbled something on the paper, then held it out for Morgan to see.

Morgan felt his stomach lurch, felt his hands go cold.

Chester crumpled the scrap up and threw it back into the trash, then he kept walking. Morgan was unable to move for a moment, before snapping out of it and jogging to catch up.

This couldn’t be right. Nobody started at the bottom of any company and made that much money.

Chester was walking faster. Morgan’s short legs couldn’t keep up, so he found himself half walking, half jogging to keep alongside the man.

“If you’re interested,” Chester said, “you’ll be downstairs outside of your apartment tomorrow at 1:00 p.m.

You’ll be dressed just like you are now. Let me make this clear. You do not have the job. Not yet. If you tell anybody about the offer, or if you’re one second late, you’ll never see me again.”

“I’ll be there,” Morgan gasped.

“Good,” Chester said. The man stopped walking. Out of nowhere, a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up alongside them. Chester walked over, opened the door and climbed in.

“Wait!” Morgan said. “Don’t you need to know where my apartment is?”

Morgan’s words faded into the roar of the exhaust as

Chester’s car sped away, leaving the young man confused, excited and ready.