The Mark

34

We sat down in a coffee shop on the corner of 104th and Amsterdam. The hour couldn’t pass fast enough. The diner was empty, save a hefty black chef and an older couple who looked like they’d spent the last twenty years sitting motionless in the same booth.

We hid ourselves behind two oversized menus. I ordered a bagel with cream cheese and a cup of coffee and Amanda did the same. We tore into the food when it arrived and quickly raised our cups for refills. The caffeine was all I could hope for to keep me awake, keep my nerves sharp.

“So if you don’t believe him,” she said, “how do you know Jack isn’t going right to the cops?”

“Because if he’s involved in this, he needs to find out what I know. He wouldn’t want anyone digging any deeper.”

“Jesus, you think…” she said, her body going rigid “…you think he might have something to do with that man at my house?”

That hadn’t crossed my mind.

“It’s possible.” Amanda took a long drink of water.

“So what do you think Jack’s going to find out from those names?” Amanda asked, chewing her bagel, brushing crumbs from her lap.

“I really don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe those people were all related to Larkin somehow, like his third cousins, and he just decided to give them a break on rent.”

“You really think that’s what happened?”

I shook my head.

“No. I don’t.” I took another bite and kept chewing until I felt Amanda’s eyes burning a hole through me. “You okay?”

“No, Henry, I’m not.”

“What’s the matter?”

She paused, cocked an eyebrow. “Honestly?”

“Yeah. Honestly.” I felt a hole gnawing in my stomach. All I wanted to do was reach out, comfort her.

“I’m scared, Henry.”

“I am, too.”

“No,” she said, her eyes vigorous. “Not like I am. You know why I want to work in child advocacy? Because growing up I was sick of nobody standing up for me. I spent every day hoping someone would give me a better life, and now I’m at the point where I really feel I can help people who need it. But here you are, trying to help yourself, me trying to help you, and not only am I scared that something terrible’s going to happen, but no matter what, I can’t control it. I can’t help anything.”

The cold hole in my stomach spilled open, the guilt pouring out. My hand went to Amanda’s cheek. The warmth in her face made me shiver. I gently stroked her smooth skin and watched her eyes close. She closed her eyes, nuzzled her cheek into my palm.

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you,” I said, making no effort to fight my trembling voice. My eyes watered up. I didn’t care. “Without you I’d either be dead or in jail. I’m going to fight this until I can’t fight anymore, and it’s only because of you I can do that. You didn’t leave when you could have. I’d like to think I would have done the same for you, but truthfully I don’t know. Saying thank-you doesn’t even begin to say a thing. But thank you, Amanda.”

Amanda’s laughter was intermittent with sobs. She wiped her face with a napkin and took a sip of water.

“When this is over,” she said, “then we can be thankful.”

I said, “We’ll have a weeklong celebration, just for you. I’ll call it ‘Daviesfest.’ We’ll get all the big bands, have an outdoor concert, fire up the grill and invite some grungy roadies. It’ll be a ball.”

“Can we get Phish? I’ve never seen them live.”

“I think they broke up, but hell. Sure. We’ll get Phish.” She smiled.

“That sounds really nice. Promise me it’ll happen, Henry.” I hesitated, trying to muster up those two words. She saw my mouth open and close, seemed to know what I was thinking. “Better yet, don’t promise me now. Promise later.” I nodded.

Then from the corner of my eye, I noticed the elderly couple shifting in their seats. I tried to stay calm, but something about their demeanor bothered me.

When we came in, they were sitting silently, sipping teas, comfortable as a girl wearing her boyfriend’s sweatshirt. Now they seemed nervous, eyes twitching back and forth. They were huddled together, mumbling. Then the man caught my eye, held it for a second, and that’s when I saw it. A split second of fear flashed across his face, then it was gone.

He stood up, leaned over to his companion, and they got up and left the diner.

The counterman shouted, “Later, Frank, Ethel. Good night, you two crazy kids!”

They didn’t return the sentiment.

I grabbed Amanda’s arm and said, “We have to go.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I think they recognized me.”

“You’re kidding.” She bolted from her chair as I shook my head.

“Come on.”

We left the coffee shop and started walking west. Then uptown. Then east. Then downtown. We must have walked thirty blocks without saying a word. With every step my leg felt like someone was lashing it with a whip. Finally I checked my watch. An hour and a half had passed since I’d spoken to Jack O’Donnell.

We found another pay phone and I rang the Gazette. Once again, Jack picked up on the first ring.

“O’Donnell.”

“Jack, it’s Henry.”

“Christ almighty. The hell’ve you been, Parker?”

“Sorry, I’m not really in charge of my schedule right now.”

“Whatever. Anyway, I’ve got some information on your mystery people.”

“And?”

“And before I say a word, I want to know where you got these names.”

“No way, Jack. The deal is you give me the info and I talk later. Otherwise I’m at the Dispatch and I’ll spill faster than Jeffrey Wigand.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Try me.”

Somewhere, sometime, I’d always wanted to say that. I felt I pulled it off rather well. O’Donnell must have agreed.

“That’s the way it’s gonna be?”

“That’s the way.”

“All right then, Harry Truman, I found three very interesting connections between your friends. Do you want door number one, door number two, or door number three?”

“All of them. What’s the first connection?”

“First? Okay, well, every single one of these folks has done time. And I’m not talking a week in the joint for taking a hit on your mother’s bong. I’m talking serious, get-comfy-in-solitary-confinement time. Every one of these winning personalities has served between two and twelve years in prison.”

I looked at Amanda, the blood draining from my face. I couldn’t tell how much she could hear, but she sensed something was wrong. Cold sweat spread over my body, inking its way down my spine.

“What’s the second?”

“The second is that seven of these men were arrested again within five years of their initial release. Four went down for drug trafficking, two for transporting stolen goods across state lines and one for assault and battery while in possession of narcotics.”

“Jesus.” The words escaped my lips without thought. So far this information was like two successive uppercuts to the jaw, leaving me shaken. All these men lived in one building?

“You want to hear the third, or should we call it a night?”

“No,” I said, numb. “What’s the third?”

“Okay, well, five of these guys are currently deceased.”

I felt bile rise in my throat.

“Did you say five of them are dead?”

“Yes, deceased is a fancy word for dead. Three were shot by the police, one committed suicide, the other was murdered by his partner while robbing a bank.”

“Five of them are dead?”

“You’re a quick one. One more of these fellows was shot during a robbery, but he healed quite nicely, currently lives in Dover. Nice place to convalesce, I hear.”

“Which one lives in Dover?”

“Guy named Alex Reed. He moved after taking a bullet in the gut from a 357. Blew out half his lower intestine. Ironically, he was the one being robbed.”

The information was being processed way too fast. My head hurt. At least ten men in that building had served time, same as Luis Guzman, and five of those ten were dead. If I hadn’t gone back that night, Luis and Christine would have been numbers six and seven.

But there was still one name to give O’Donnell. The one name I’d held back.

“Jack?”

“Yeah, Henry?”

“I need you to run one more name for me.”

“Henry, I’m sticking my neck out as it is. I can’t keep doing this or someone’s gonna lop it off.”

“Please, Jack. Just one more, I promise.”

O’Donnell sighed. “All right. You’d better give me one hell of a story once this is over.”

“I will, you have my word.”

“Okay. So who’s the guy?”

“His name is Angelo Pineiro. I think he might have some sort of connection to the other men on the list.”

Another noise came over the line. Jack wasn’t sighing this time. He was laughing.

“Angelo Pineiro?” O’Donnell said derisively. “That’s who you’re asking about?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Why?”

“Well, do you want the long or the short version?”

“You know him?” I asked. “You recognize the name?”

“Recognize the name? Hell, I’ve written about the guy. Angelo Pineiro. His nickname is Blanket. Affectionately known amongst the law enforcement community as Lucifer’s Right Hand. In short, Angelo Pineiro is the guy who holds Michael DiForio’s dick every time he takes a piss.”