Curt drove a Ford Fusion. The key was in the tire well just like he said. As I climbed into the car and adjusted the seat, I couldn’t help but think Curt was a pretty conscientious guy to own a hybrid. I started the car and put my cell phone in the cup holder by the armrest, just to be sure I wouldn’t miss it if he called.
For the next few hours, most likely, Curt would be on his own. He wasn’t supposed to call me unless there was an emergency, as anything that could lead the dealer to know he was being followed was curtailed until we met up later.
So all I had to do now was wait.
I picked through the CDs. Some good stuff. Jay-Z, Lil
Wayne, T-Pain. Then, underneath all of them, I found a
Barry Manilow CD and I cracked up. When this was over,
Curt would surely have to explain himself on that one.
An hour in, I ran to the corner deli and got a big, steaming cup of coffee and a muffin. So far this was the lamest stakeout ever. I wasn’t even staking anything out,
I was just sitting in a car on the side of the street, waiting for a call so I could then follow someone. I couldn’t complain, though. It wasn’t too long ago I did just what Curt was doing, following one of these dealers, trying to find out just where their stash was hidden.
And then I found it, but when we went back it was gone. They obviously hadn’t given up, but had simply moved to a new location.
Tonight we were going to find out where 718 Enterprises was hoarding their stash. Then Curt would take it down with his fellow boys in blue, Jack and I would get the exclusive, eyewitness story, and everyone would go home happy.
At least that’s how it all played out in my mind. What happened next was something, far, far different.
Two hours into my stakeout of, well, nothing, my cell phone rang. It was Curt.
I picked up it, said, “Hey. Where are you?”
“One-hundred-twelfth and Amsterdam,” Curt said. “I’m pretty sure our boy is going home for the night. He just took off his tie, and he’s swinging that briefcase like it’s full of air, not powdered substances. Start making your way over here. I’ll call you when I get a more precise location.”
“On my way,” I said.
“See you soon, Dick Tracy.”
Starting the car, I pulled onto the street, turned my beams on and began the drive over to 112th and Amsterdam, just on the western edge of Morningside Heights.
It was a foggy night, a fine mist surrounding the yellow streetlamps, casting an eerie glow over New York. Most cars had their windshield wipers on. Mine made a rapid snick snick every thirty seconds, wiping the condensation away in a perfect arc.
The streets uptown weren’t particularly crowded for a
Saturday night, most of the Columbia University crew were either in bed or already at the bar and beginning their long trek to drunkenness. Meanwhile I was in a car, heading to meet my cop friend, hoping to finally put to bed once and for all who had killed my brother. And who was poisoning the city.
This neighborhood was familiar. I’d met a guy up here named Clarence Willingham, the son of a small-time dealer who’d been killed by the Fury twenty years ago.
Clarence was still trying to come to grips with his father’s murder and his family’s history of drug abuse and dealing. It was only then that I learned the truth about how close Clarence was to my own family. Secrets. Sometimes I wondered if more secrets were kept from us in the light of day as opposed to the dark of night.
I idled on the corner of 110th, right where Columbus
Avenue turned into Morningside Drive. I’d just put the car in Park when I was jolted by a rapping on the passenger side window. Whipping around, I saw Curt Sheffield’s face peering in at me, his eyes squinting as rain began to fall harder around him.
He mouthed the words open up and I unlocked the door.
As he slid inside, Curt ran his hands through his hair, spraying a layer of rain onto the seats. He was wearing jeans and a brown coat, sneakers and a T-shirt. He looked like a normal guy.
“If that’s your undercover look, I gotta say it works.”
Curt ignored me. “His name is Theodore Goggins.”
“How’d you get that info?”
“He stopped into a Starbucks. I waited outside, but saw him pay with a credit card. After he left, I waited a minute and went inside and told them I found his
ATM card. And I needed his name in case I couldn’t catch up with him. He lives just down the block. Definitely not his building, because he had to buzz up. But the guy who lived there said ‘come on up, Theo’ as he buzzed him in.”
“He worked in finance,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“All these guys do. Tens of thousands of young professionals out of work in this city, most of whom lived a few miles beyond their means. Then they get laid off when the economy goes in the crapper, and they’re left with huge mortgages and bills on toys and apartments.
That’s where 718 comes in. They offer to pay these outof-work go-getters to go house to house. They make good money. It’s a win-win. They can still afford the lifestyle they’re accustomed to.”
Curt sat back, put his hand on his forehead. He looked troubled.
“That’s why,” he said.
“Why what?”
“The narcotics division. They haven’t been able to find out where this drug, Darkness, where it’s coming from or who’s selling it. But they’re looking in the wrong place. They’re so busy turning over logs and monitoring alleys that they’re not noticing the business assholes.”
“Nobody looks at a guy in a suit and thinks he’s guilty of anything more than white-collar stuff. Fraud and laundering, but these guys are much dirtier.”
“Ken Tsang,” Curt said. “That’s where we got a lead on Morgan Isaacs. They worked at the same bank, both got laid off on the same day and Ken’s coworkers said they were friendly. We cross-checked his phone records and found half a dozen calls a day to the same 718 number I found on a dead man’s cell phone. Ken was working for these creeps. I’m willing to bet on it.”
“And you found him with less bone density than the Pillsbury Doughboy,” I said. “That probably doesn’t bode well when it comes to finding Morgan Isaacs in one piece.”
Curt just sat there, rain dripping from his hair into his lap as we watched cars zip down the street, the errant noises of a night unaware of its own shadow. We could see Theodore Goggin’s awning from the car, and we kept the windshield on fast enough where we wouldn’t miss any activity.
And so we waited. Sat in the car until the morning. When
Theodore Goggins would leave his apartment and head toward wherever it was that the refills were being kept.
All we could do was keep each other awake through our silences and the knowledge that something foul was lurking just beneath the streets of our city. But it wasn’t until the next day that we realized just how deep those sewers ran.