to be up bright and early, doesn’t it?”
Chester said this with the slightest air of contempt, as
though he knew that Morgan hadn’t needed to wake up
before noon anytime in recent memory. Though he felt
his cheeks flush slightly red, he did feel a bit of pride in
rejoining the workforce.
“If it’s worth getting up for, there’s no such thing as
too early.”
“Words to live by,” Chester replied. “Come on in.”
Chester held the door ajar, and Morgan slipped
inside. He couldn’t help but find it funny that for the first
time he hadn’t needed to wait in line to enter a club.
Maybe he needed to go clubbing at seven in the morning
more often.
Chester led Morgan through the club, the earlymorning sun peeking through black-tinted windows,
casting an eerie glow on a floor that seemed ghostlike
without the cavalcade of dancing, drinking bodies. The
first floor of the Kitten Club was essentially one large
open space, nearly the length of a football field.
At either end was a bar, about thirty feet long, that
housed four different bartenders in order to make sure
drinks were served promptly, and that every penny was
squeezed out of every patron.
Large birdcages hung above the floor, with doors big
enough to fit the dancers who gyrated inside them all
night. Morgan could see a pulley system keeping them
high, attached to a chain that could be lowered. Still, the
dancers had to keep going all night. Made you think twice
before entering a giant birdcage.
Chester led Morgan across the first floor, toward a
sign marked Restrooms. Morgan followed, but slowed
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191
down when Chester turned toward the door to the women’s bathroom.
“Um, dude, you can’t go in there.”
Chester turned around, looked at Morgan like he’d
sprouted another head.
“You’re really going to question me? Now?”
Morgan felt a chill travel down his spine. He simply
shook his head, and whispered, “Sorry.”
Stupid, Morgan thought. His gut reaction, of course,
was to question why the hell they were going into the
ladies’ bathroom in a nightclub at seven in the morning.
On the surface, not the most egregious question to be
asking. But Morgan should have known better.
So when Chester pushed open the door to the women’s
room, Morgan followed obediently behind.
The women’s room was cleaner than most clubs, especially considering it was known for being a veritable
petrie dish of chemical indulgences. There was an irony
in that the club was owned by Shawn Kensbrook, who
was as clean as they came. Hell, the guy became a
regular on the Today show after Athena Paradis died.
One of those celebrities, like Puff Daddy or P. Diddy or
whatever the hell his name was now who skyrocketed
to fame after the death of someone close. And when
fame came knocking, the mourning period lasted all of
about two more seconds before the checks started
rolling in.
Kensbrook himself was clean, but the Kitten Club
itself was as dirty as a public restroom. And like a
public restroom, Morgan held his nose when he took
one whiff of the foul odor that permeated this particular restroom.
He couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but got an
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idea when Chester walked over to a closed stall door
clearly marked Out of Order.
Morgan followed, peeking over Chester’s shoulder as
he pushed the stall door open.
Yup, that was it. No doubt whatever had died had done
so in this stall.
The toilet seat itself was covered in a brown foulness
that nearly made Morgan retch. The wall behind it was
chipping, the plaster coming loose. The metal toilet paper
holder was rusted and gross, and the floor tiles had hints
of yellow that reminded Morgan of writing his name
without hands on snow days in his youth.
Without hesitation, Chester stepped through the rusted
door and stood over the toilet.
“Dude,” Morgan said, “that’s pretty nasty. I’m sure
there’s a working one in here that doesn’t look like something out of Trainspotting. ”
Morgan couldn’t make it out, but Chester was apparently
doing something against the wall, either scratching it with
his fingernails or pushing on something, he couldn’t tell
what.
Suddenly Chester stepped back, and Morgan heard a
brief clicking noise before the entire compartment—the
toilet and the wall behind it—simply slid backward, revealing a walkway behind it.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Morgan said. “Who
are you, James Bond?”
“Guess I got the blond hair right,” Chester said. “Come
on.”
Morgan stepped into the passageway. It was a long
narrow hallway, metal on both sides, no deviations. At the
end of the hallway stood a simple metal door. There was
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193
no doorknob, no metal slats. Nothing except two video
cameras perched above the doorway, each pointed down
to capture whoever was about to enter.
“Who’s back there?” Morgan said.
“What did I tell you about questions?”
“Not to ask them.”
“You’re a quick learner.”
Chester kept walking until he was standing directly in
front of the door. He looked up at the cameras. Smiled.
Morgan was about to ask if whoever was back there
could see him, but remembered the previous conversation.
“The cameras don’t work,” Chester said.
“Huh?”
“That’s what you were about to ask. Do you see any
wires? Any outlets?”
Morgan eyed the cameras. “Nope. But there’s a red
light on.”
“Runs on a battery,” Chester said. “Fakes out most
burglars and trespassers. You can buy these things at
Radio Shack for sixty bucks.”
“So then how do they…”
“Trust me, security is a lot tighter than a simple
camera. Just don’t bring any of your friends here. They’ll
be dead before they count to five.”
“What…”
Before Morgan could finish his question (something
he was thankful for), the metal door slid open. Standing
there was Leonard.
He was wearing black jeans and a green turtleneck. He
held a clipboard in one hand, and gripped the door’s
handle with his other.
“Hey,” he said to Chester. Then he looked at Morgan.
“Glad you could make it. You guys are late.”
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“Traffic,” Chester said.
“Of course.” Leonard took a pen from the clipboard,
checked something on it and went back into the room.
“Come on,” Chester said, and Morgan followed him
inside.
The room was fairly small, and resembled an atrium
of some sort. There was another door off to the side, and
that was all. The only light was overhead track lighting,
and Morgan noticed a dozen cameras pointed at different parts of the room.
The first person he saw was Nikesh. The Indian boy
was standing in the center of the room. He was wearing
a black pinstripe suit, with a red tie and wingtip loafers.
His hair was freshly cut, and Morgan noticed a small
shaving nick under his chin.
Nikesh turned around. He nodded when he saw Morgan.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” Morgan replied, wittily.
Then Nikesh turned around, and Morgan saw that he
had a large briefcase slung over his shoulders. The bag
was full, but not overstuffed. There was a combination
lock on the front, and the clasp was done.
“Patel, you’re finished here. Flanagan?”
The chubby white kid from the conference room
ambled out of the side room. He was also clutching a
briefcase, this one stuffed even more. Though the bag
looked ready to burst, Chubby—aka Flanagan—seemed
to have no trouble carrying it. Obviously whatever was
inside didn’t weigh much.
“You two have your orders,” Leonard told them. “And
you remember everything I told you.”
Patel and Flanagan both nodded. They looked confident.
Whatever Leonard had told them, they remembered it.
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195
Leonard clicked something in his ear, nodded, then
motioned for the duo to follow him. He slid the door
open, revealing the corridor. When they’d stepped
outside, Leonard pulled the door back into place.
“Your turn,” Leonard said. “Time for orientation.”
Leonard walked over to the side door. This one looked
fairly standard, with a doorknob and everything. Leonard
simply turned the knob, pulled it open and beckoned
Morgan to follow him.
Tentatively Morgan came forward, surprised at first
that the door wasn’t guarded by some super electromagnet or something else similarly complicated.
As he approached the door, another young man
stepped out. Morgan recognized him from the conference room. He was black, about five foot ten. Stocky but
not fat, with a neatly shaved head. He wore a creamcolored suit and a blue tie, a pocket square neatly tucked
into his jacket.
“Theodore W. Goggins,” Leonard said. “This is Morgan
Isaacs.”
Morgan extended his hand. Theodore shook it. His
grip was tight.
“Call me Theo.”
“Call me Morgan,” he replied. “So ‘W’ huh? Like
George W. Bush?”
“Do I look like I was born in Texas?” Theo said. “The
‘W’ is for Willingham, my uncle’s last name.”
“Keeping it all in the family,” Morgan said. “Nice.”
Theo laughed. “You keep up, brother, you and me are
gonna get along just fine.”
“Get along?” Morgan said.
“You two are partners, for the time being,” Leonard
said. “You ever use the buddy system on school trips?”
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Neither of the young men answered, but they both
knew what he was talking about.
“Same principle. Theo, you’re responsible for Morgan.
Morgan, you’re responsible for Theo. Either of you get
into any trouble, it’s up to the other one to help out.”
“No problem,” Morgan said. “That’s a pretty sweet
tie,” he noted, admiring the silk.
“Only kind I wear,” Theo said. “Red is too loud. Says
you’re trying too hard. Lighter colors—yellow, green—
those are pansy-ass colors. Black, white, hell, you’re not
even trying. Blue is the perfect in between. It’s bold, but
it doesn’t say that. It’s like a backrub. Sounds pretty
innocent, but it’s going to get your panties off before the
night is over.”
“I’m not wearing any panties. So I guess you already
won.”
“Enough, girls,” Leonard said. His voice grew stern,
and he moved forward until his face was just inches from
Morgan’s. “Theo is also your insurance policy, Isaacs,
and Isaacs is yours, Goggins. If you ever try anything
funny, ever do anything to place yourself or your partner
in danger…well, there’s a quarter-million-dollar bonus in
it for your partner if he turns you in.”
“Wait, what?” Morgan said. “He gets two hundred
and fifty grand for ratting on me?”
“Yes and no,” Leonard continued. “I already explained this to Theo, but you need to know it as well. If
your partner does anything—talks to the cops, tells his
friends, tells his family, tells his fucking shih tzu—if you
inform us you get quarter-million-dollar bonus. Tax
free.”
Morgan could tell Theo was eyeballing him. He
didn’t like it.
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197
“But,” Leonard said, “if one of you lies just to get
the money, you won’t need money where you’re going.
So before you decide to play games, ask yourself if the
risk is really worth the reward. You can either continue
to make money—good money—working for us. Or
you can get cute, try to get rich quick, and end up like
Ken Tsang.”
Morgan’s stomach felt like someone had just poured
acid inside of it.
Leonard and his people couldn’t have been responsible
for Ken’s death—could they?
“Hopefully you’ll never need to know what it feels like
to be able to touch your knee to the small of your back,”
Leonard said. “Or for your arms to suddenly grow another
joint. Because Ken sure did.”
Theo didn’t move. Did not react. Morgan stared at
Leonard. He was scared, and Leonard seemed to recognize this.
“Now, don’t get ahead of yourself thinking all doom
and gloom. Ken was stupid,” Leonard said. “I’m hoping
you’re smart. Because if you are, it’s nothing but gravy
for all of us. Theo here is your guardian angel, and the
bomb collar strapped to your neck. He will protect you
at all costs, but if you try and remove him in any way
whatsoever—he’ll still be around long after the bomb
goes off. Do you get this? Both of you?”
Theo nodded. He didn’t seem to care, didn’t seem
affected in the least. It was as though he knew he would
never turn. Never lie to these people. He was there for the
money. And as long as he did what he was told, that green
would pour in.
“I get it,” Morgan finally said. The acid had gone. The
look on Theo’s face had made it dry up. This was Morgan’s
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chance to get his life back. He would never do what Ken
did. And he knew Theo would never turn on him.
They both had too much to lose.
“Great. Now that we’re clear on the rules, let’s go
over everything. But first, let’s give you a look at your
merchandise.”
Leonard opened the door up wider. Theo went back
inside, and Morgan followed. And when he saw what
was inside, it was all he could do not to gasp.
“How much…” he said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Leonard said.
Morgan looked around. In a dozen neat piles, each
about twenty feet wide and five feet tall, were small, individual bags. Each of these bags contained what looked
like a different kind of narcotic.
Cocaine. Ecstasy. Weed. Pills. Things Morgan didn’t
recognize in the slightest.
And then, in the back corner, he saw something that
piqued his curiosity.
Bags filled with what looked like small pieces of black
gravel. Rocks so small and so insignificant that they
looked like they could have been taken from his grandmother’s driveway.
“What’s that?” Morgan said.
“That,” replied Leonard, “is going to revolutionize
our business.”
Morgan stared at it. Theo’s eyes were wide open.
“We call it ‘the Darkness.’ And in one week’s time,”
Leonard said, “you’ll be so busy selling those bags you
won’t have time to spend all the money you make.” Then
Leonard smiled. “But I imagine you’ll find the time.”
27
“Nobody knows anything.”
Even though I was holding a telephone to my ear, I
wanted to wrap my hands around the piece of plastic and
choke the life out of it.
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
“I’m telling you, Henry,” Curt said. “Nobody here
knows a damn thing about Paulina Cole’s article. Nobody
knows who gave her those quotes, nobody knows where
she got her information, and if it makes you feel any
better nobody here has even heard of this so-called magic
drug, Darkness or whatever. It’s like she pulled the whole
thing out of thin air.”
My head hurt. Both from the chewing out by Wallace,
the frustration in having been scooped by Paulina Cole,
and the feeling that Curt was telling the truth. Curt had
his finger pretty well placed on the pulse of the NYPD,
and whenever a bombshell was about to drop, even if he
didn’t clue me in ahead of time he was rarely surprised.
Right now, though, he spoke as if he was as pissed off as
I was. It sounded like Curt felt he’d been scooped by
Paulina as well.
“This whole thing doesn’t make any sense,” I said.
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“And the details about the rocks inside the balloon—you