The Fury

27

I woke up the next morning with my boxer shorts dangling off my shoulder, the taste of secondhand vodka in my mouth and a strange pain in my right knee.

Then the previous night came back to me, and I smiled.

Turning over, I saw Amanda lying next to me. She was wearing my old Oregon Ducks sweatshirt. It was at least three sizes too big for her, and I'd seen her spend many nights sitting on the couch reading a book, the sweatshirt pulled over her tucked-in knees.

My body ached as I threw my legs over the side of the bed and surveyed the room. It was stunning. Satin sheets, state-of-the-art stereo, a bar countertop on the porcelain bath, a flat-screen television wider than our bed at home.

Then I noticed the sunlight pouring into the room from what seemed like every angle. Standing up, my breath was taken away by the beautiful view outside and the massive wraparound balcony just outside our room.

I opened the door, stepped outside and felt alive. The cool, crisp air washed over me as my eyes adjusted to the light. The sight of New York from twenty-seven stories up. It truly was a magnificent city, and I smiled when I thought of the last time Amanda and I had hidden out in a hotel room under a fake name. It was a sleepn-save somewhere outside of Springfield, Illinois. Even though I hadn't lost my natural ability to get in way over my head, at least we were starting to hide out in classier hotels.

Reentering the room, I found my jeans crumpled into a ball on the floor, found the room-rate card. When

I looked at it, I nearly had a heart attack. There had to be other hotels in this city that wouldn't wipe me out within days.

Amanda stirred. I got up and went into the bathroom, not wanting to wake her just yet. I ran a hot shower, stayed in a little longer than I needed to, thinking about the previous day.

It was no secret that I would want to get to the bottom of Stephen Gaines's death, and while yesterday I thought about the possibility of Rose Keller or Scotty

Callahan being involved, the options were likely far greater.

The New York Dispatch had certainly mentioned my father's arrest, as did my own paper, and surely a few other locals as well. Anyone who knew me and my rep utation would correctly assume that I would do anything to clear my family's name. It was possible I was being followed, that somebody had seen me talk to Sheryl

Harrison, to Rose Keller, to Scotty. It was even possible that my discovery of Beth-Ann Downing's body had alerted someone to my interest. Whoever killed Stephen wanted it to be seen as one single murder. A lone death, unconnected to anything else.

I knew better. And someone else knew that.

When I stepped out of the shower, a towel wrapped loosely around my waist, Amanda was sitting up in bed, her knees tucked up to her chin, her arms wrapped around them. She smiled at me. Her eyes were blood shot.

"Hungover?" I asked.

"Just a little."

"Hang on." I went to the minibar, did a little trolling and found a packet of Advil. I ripped it open, poured her a glass of water and watched her down the pills.

"Thanks, Henry," she said.

"How you feeling?"

"Like a raccoon run over by a truck. Don't ever let me go drinking with Darcy again."

"I think I told you that the last time you went drinking with her."

"Well, next time come with us, so you can monitor my alcohol intake."

"If memory serves me right, the reason you didn't invite me last night was because you didn't want me to monitor your alcohol intake."

"And you listened to me?" she asked with a smile. I sat back down next to her. She scooted over, rested her head against my shoulder. I could smell her hair, hear her breathing. Then she sat back up and looked at me.

"Now, tell me why we're here."

Sighing, I faced her and told her everything that had happened. About my meeting with Scott Callahan.

Finding the man waiting for me at the apartment last night. The fear that if they knew where I was, that if somebody had been following me, they could have been doing the same for her. Enough young women had been killed in New York coming home from bars over the last few years, the confluence of paranoia made it impera tive we get to safety.

"How long do you think we need to stay here?" she said.

"I honestly don't know. Until I know who killed

Stephen, and know that person isn't a threat to us anymore. With any luck I can do that before my credit card starts getting declined."

"And what am I supposed to do? Just stay here? I don't think so, Henry."

"Today's Friday," I said. "Call in sick. If Darcy shows up, she'll surely vouch for you. Then we have the weekend. And I need to get my father out before the grand jury convenes. But right now I just need to keep you safe. Once things calm down we can talk about what to do next."

"You need to keep me safe?" Amanda said with a laugh. "You realize that since I met you I've had my life jeopardized approximately a hundred and ninety-six times. I won't be surprised if we both get turned down for a life-insurance policy. Safe to say if I never picked you up on the side of the road, Henry, I wouldn't have to worry about my safety quite as much."

I opened my mouth, ready to question why, if that was the case, she was still with me, but smartly stopped before a word came out. I learned a long time ago that she was still here by choice. No other reason. She'd had plenty of opportunities to leave and had not, and every moment I wasted contemplating why only divided myself from the reality of our relationship. She was here to stay. And knowing myself, knowing that I'd learned from past mistakes, as long as it was in her hands, she wasn't going anywhere.

So instead of bucking for a compliment and starting an argument, I just leaned over and kissed her. Her lips were soft, and I could tell she was smiling.

"I've been meaning to ask you," Amanda said.

"Where is your mother in all of this?"

I sat back, rubbed my forehead. "To be honest, I don't know. Probably nowhere. I remember the last few years before I left for college, she and my father barely spoke. It wasn't like she was angry with him, it was as though she'd just withdrawn. To her, he was more like a piece of furniture than a husband. He was there whether you liked it or not. It was your choice to put him there. But like a table or desk, you could ignore it."

"Why didn't she leave him?"

"I don't know. I wish she had. She turned inward.

You saw those knitting needles at the police station- they became kind of her solace. She was a kind woman, never hurt anybody. So whenever he went on one of his rampages, she would take it like more of a man than he ever was, then go back to her needles."

"That's awful."

"She deserved another chance at love, at life. It was almost like at some point she became shell-shocked, just her nerves and her wits fried by everything he'd done. I remember one night when I was about eight. I spent that summer working at a corner deli, restocking shelves a few hours a day for a dollar an hour."

Amanda laughed. "Even for an eight-year-old that's pretty far below minimum wage."

"It wasn't the money. They couldn't afford to send me to camp, and I didn't want to be around the house any more than I absolutely had to. One night I came home around seven, usually when we had dinner. It was one of the few times he was getting a regular paycheck. He got home from work around seven-thirty most days, and he would walk in and head right for the dinner table, sit down and start eating. It didn't matter if we were there to join him. To him, that's what he worked the day for. To be alone. This day, though, he came home early. We both arrived home about seven, and the meat loaf was still in the oven. One thing about her, my mom made the best meat loaf in the world. Onions, red peppers, just deli cious."

I continued. "He went to the table, sat down and noticed there was no food out. No drinks set. He yelled her name-Marilyn-and waited. She came out, stared at him, simply said, 'It'll be about twenty minutes.' It turned out he found out that day they were cutting back his shifts, and he'd lose about twenty percent of his salary. I didn't know this. Neither did she.

"He took a glass, threw it at the wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces. My mother just stood there, her mouth open, more confused than scared. Then he took a plate, did the same thing. It exploded. Then he took another plate, then another, then every piece on the table and threw it at the wall. I remember screaming, telling him to stop, worried he would hit her or me. Instead, he kept throwing until piles of broken glass were laid over our floor like a carpet. He was breathing heavy. My mother just stood in the doorway, mouth open. Then she turned around, went back to the stove and checked the temperature on the food. I called 911, but the cop they sent over ten minutes later was in a bowling league with my dad. Since nobody was hurt and my mother wouldn't press charges, it all went away. After that my father went upstairs, and twenty minutes later the food was on the table and he was eating. Nobody picked the glass up for a week. That's when I knew there was something wrong, that she wasn't like most of my friends' mothers.

And it was eighteen years of my life before I could leave. I actually tried to take her with me, to convince her she could start a new life somewhere. You know what she said to me?"

Amanda shook her head.

"She said, 'Why would I leave everything I have here?' I had to leave before living there sucked the life out of me like it did her."

"Mya," Amanda said. "Me. That's why you always come back."

"I don't know," I said. My eyes felt heavy, my body too tired for the morning. "I just never imagined at any point in my life that I would lift a finger to help that man. And now here we are."

"Doing what you're doing, helping him," she said,

"is why you're not him."

We sat there, the bright day outside hiding something dark that was waiting for me. I stood up. Went to the now-infamous suitcase and found a clean shirt. My cell phone was on the floor. I picked it up, noticed I had a message. It was from Wallace Langston. My heart sped up as I listened, a surge within me as a ray of hope appeared.

"Henry, it's Wallace. I have those files you wanted.

Let me know how you want to get them. Call me. Hope you're okay."

I immediately called him back, Wallace's office picking up on the first ring. His secretary connected me.

It was great to hear the editor in chief's voice.

"Henry, how are you?" he said. "I was beginning to worry."

"About me? Why?"

"If you've given me one reason not to worry about your safety in the time we've known each other, I'm not aware of it."

"I'll try harder."

"So I have Jack's files," he said. "Of course, there could be more at his home, but this is everything he kept at the office pertaining to Through the Darkness. They'll be here waiting for you. They're in my office for the time being."

"Wallace, you're a lifesaver. With any luck this will shed some light on this Fury thing and help get my dad out. And when it's all over, I think there might be a hell of a story."

"I was hoping you might say that," Wallace said,

"And frankly, if there wasn't, we'd need to have a serious chat about all this 'personal time' you've been taking. So in case I'm not here, I'll make sure you have access to my office."

"You know," I said, "is there any chance you could have them messengered over?"

"Why?" Wallace asked.

"Something happened last night, let's just say I need to stay out of sight for a little while."

"What the hell did you do, Henry?" I could sense the frustration in his voice.

"Nothing. Really. It should all blow over soon."

"Spoken like someone who has no idea what he's in for."

"Please, Wallace," I said.

"Fine," he sighed. "I think I have your address some where in my Rolodex here…"

"Actually, I need them sent to a different address."

"Okay, where to?"

"It's on the notepad here, one sec."

"On the notepad?" Wallace asked. "Where the hell are you, a bar?"

"Not exactly. But on that note, there's one more thing…if this does lead to a story, I might need to talk to you about extending my expense account for a few days. Oh, and I'm staying under the name Leonard

Denton."

"Henry," Wallace said, "what the hell have you gotten yourself into?"

I had an hour before the files were to arrive, so I went downstairs and found a deli where I bought a bagel with cream cheese and a bran muffin with two large coffees for breakfast. I could almost feel Wallace's hair turn a deeper shade of gray when I told him where we were staying, but there was a chance if a story came out of all of this that the Gazette would pick up the tab.

Since I might have to resort to selling locks of my hair if the charges remained on my credit card, I hoped for my sake and theirs that one would emerge.

When I got back to the room, Amanda had showered and was wearing a pair of jeans and a tank top. She was sitting out on the balcony, the breeze whipping through her hair, a glass of water on the edge of the lounge chair.

She turned her head to look at me, smiled.

"This is kind of nice," she said. "Maybe we should move in here."

"I'll go buy some lottery tickets."

"Sit down," she said. "Stay a while."

We ate on the balcony, the skyscrapers of Times

Square surrounding us. When the coffee was done, I went inside and brewed another pot from the instant machine and we had seconds. It might have been the greatest breakfast I ever had.

When we finished, the phone rang from inside. I picked it up. It was the front desk. A package had arrived for me.

I went downstairs and signed for the package, a large, bulky padded folder with Wallace's messy handwriting.

A minor miracle it didn't end up somewhere in Antigua.

I brought the package upstairs, cleaned off the bed spread and laid out all the papers in front of me. There were reams of pages, half a dozen thick notebooks filled to the brim. This is what Jack had worked with while writing one of the seminal books of his generation on crime. Just looking at these old pages brought a smile to my face and courage to my heart.

And with those in mind, I began to read.

Amanda stayed in the living room, watching something on television at a low volume. I was perched on the bed amidst a mess of files, trying my best to keep them in order.

From the smell of the pages I could sense that nobody had gone through them in some time. No need to, until now.

I knew that wherever he was, Jack would approve.

The amount of research and notes Jack took was staggering. Through the Darkness was forty-two chapters long, and these pages only touched on twelve of them. Jack had transcriptions of interviews with dozens of people, from street dealers to middlemen, to cops and politicians, to local residents who'd witnessed their streets regress from thriving neighborhoods into third world countries.

He'd looked at this story from every angle. And I would have killed to be able to discuss it with him.

Some of the statistics Jack had uncovered were stag gering, and in the years since the book was published they could have only grown more bleak.

According to the U.S. Department of Justice, over four million people in the United States had used crack cocaine at some point in their life, including nearly five percent of all high-school students. The drug was used primarily by men over the age of twenty-five. The typical user was African-American, aged twenty-eight, with an income at or below the poverty line.

The main reason, Jack had written, that crack cocaine had become so prevalent was due to its relative cheap ness to manufacture, as well as the immediate high it produced. An eight ball, or an eighth of an ounce of rock, cost about thirty dollars depending on where it was pur chased.

According to Jack's interviews, a surprising number of people would actually cook the mixture themselves rather than buy it ready-made, simply due to monetary concerns. It was cheaper to be your own chemist than go to the store. It was carried and sold in everything from glass vials to cellophane to tinfoil, even the rolls people generally used for coins. It was most predomi nant in larger cities with more densely populated urban areas, such as Los Angeles, New York, Baltimore and

Chicago.

It was also surprising to note that in interviews with nearly twenty dealers, Jack was unable to find one person who actually used the drug.

Flipping through the pages, I came upon an interview with Butch Willingham that Jack had apparently con ducted just weeks before Willingham was killed. Wil lingham denied ever using the drug, and in fact said that anyone who did was frowned upon. Jack had pressed in the interview:

BW: People who smoke don't do their jobs. They sit around all day acting stupid. They ain't out there making money. They ain't out there selling product. This a business, man. Isn't one of the first rules of business to always get rid of the bottom ten percent?

JO: I've heard that before:

BW: See, in our line of work, that's more like twenty-five percent. Figure ten percent get stoned, take themselves out of the game. Another ten per cent get busted.

JO: And the other five percent?

BW: They gots ta be made gone. I been around the country, man. Lived in L.A. and Baltimore be fore coming to NYC. Got family and friends everywhere. Cities change but things ain't that different. Don't matter where you are or where you work. If you sell, you gotta sell right.

JO: Butch, you said if someone doesn't sell right, they have to be "made gone." What do you mean by that?

BW: I mean, if you run a business, and some one's screwing up the bottom line, what do you do with them?

JO: Somehow I don't think you're talking about early retirement, a pension plan.

BW: You might call it an early retirement.

JO: So if someone needs to be "taken out," where does that come from?

BW: Come again?

JO: Who decides that bottom five percent? Who makes the final call which people, pardon the ex pression, live or die?

BW: Don't know, man. Ain't up to me, that's for sure.

JO: But surely you don't work for yourself. There are other people higher than you, I guess you might call them the board or something along those lines.

BW: Always report to the crew leader (Note: Wil lingham refused to identify his crew leader's name, but it was confirmed by several subjects to 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.

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 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?"

"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."

I told Clarence about his father and Jack's book. I needed to know if he knew anything else about his father's murder or business practices. Clarence was eight years old when his father died. There's a chance he remembered something.

"I don't talk about this stuff over the phone,"

Clarence said.

"Well, my story is running tomorrow," I lied. "If you see me in person, we can talk about you giving me in formation as an unnamed source. If you don't cooper ate, I can't promise anything."

I heard a rustling noise in the background. Then a female voice said, "Who is it?"

I must have interrupted Clarence. Too bad for him.

He shushed whoever was there and said, "Listen, man, I'll tell you whatever I know about my dad, but this is opening some seriously old wounds."

"Great. I'll be there in half an hour. What's your address?"

He gave me his address, which I jotted down before hanging up.

I checked my watch. It was almost noon. I stopped at a Staples store and bought a new tape recorder, some pens and paper. These were the tools I brought along when conducting interviews, when talking to sources.

I hadn't used them much recently because this investi gation had been more personal than professional. I thought everything revolved around my father's arrest.

Only now could I see how wrong I'd been.