Parker 05 - The Darkness (9 page)

Gaines? Or a company called 718 Enterprises?"

This time Talcott's "no" was hesitant. There was rec-68

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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

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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."

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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

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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?"

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"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."

9

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

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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

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75

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."

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"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