Free Parker 01 - The Mark by Jason Pinter

in such spur-of-the-moment circumstances was like spotting one of those rare white elks or Haley’s comet or some shit.
    They came to a metal door, green with rust, a grated slat on top. Blanket knocked. The slat opened. A pair of eyes popped into view.
    “Hey, Blanket. Charlie. Mike’s waiting for you.”
    “I was afraid you’d say that. How bad is it?”
    “He forgot to eat breakfast this morning.”
    “Fuck me, that’s bad.”
    The man gave a nervous laugh, threw back a dead bolt and opened the door.
    A large mahogany conference table was set up in the middle of the nondescript gray room. It smelled of ammonia and dust. The table looked out of place, like a de Kooning on the wall of a prison cell. Water pitchers lined the table. There was no alcohol. This wasn’t a social gathering. A dozen men were seated, and appeared to be in various states of unease. All older men, gray hair slicked back and oily. Dull ties. Questioning eyes. Waiting for answers. One man sat at the head of the table, facing the doorway. His green eyes were serrated blades.
    “Blanket,” Michael DiForio said.
    “Boss.”
    Blanket looked at the man’s face: thin nose, arched eyebrows. Olive complexion. Trim in his tapered suit. He looked hungry. Now sixty-one, more athletic than most men half his age, Michael DiForio was vying to lead his family and usher in a new era of prosperity. Like Gotti before him, DiForio was a legend in his hometown, and a savvy real estate developer to boot. Everything about the man commanded respect, and in return he would offer his friendship. He was smart, ruthless, vicious, but always in control. Except for today. Today, DiForio looked like a man who, for the first time, had to question everything.
    Now Blanket stood opposite this man, and all eyes waited.
    Michael finally spoke, his voice calm.
    “What’s the news?”
    Blanket cleared his throat and tried to speak in a confident voice.
    “Well, my sources told me…”
    “Fuck the pussyfooting. Speak.”
    Blanket toed the floor, looked up.
    “The cops don’t have Parker yet. That’s a fact. He fled the scene before the boys in blue showed up. This morning some towel head at a meat market called 911, claimed Parker stole a newspaper after threatening his sons. Cops’re combing the area, but they couldn’t find a doughnut if they fucking sat on it. Rumor has it since they killed a cop, the Feds will be called in soon.”
    DiForio looked like he was about to swear, then held back. “Have they locked down the building on 105th yet?”
    Blanket nodded. “Place is tighter than my old lady.”
    “Fuck,” DiForio spat. It startled Blanket, this sudden loss of composure. DiForio rubbed his temples. “What are Parker’s outs?”
    Blanket scratched the back of his neck and looked at Michael. “Well, Port Authority’s out of the question. There’s no way he’s buying a bus ticket out of New York without a thirty-eight going up his ass. Airports, not a chance. Guy’s a college grad, figure even nowadays that’s worth something, so he’s too smart to try and use a passport.”
    “What else?”
    Blanket coughed.
    “The Path could be a tough one. They’re sending cops to cover entry points at 33rd and Union Square, but there’s a definite chance he could have made it to Jersey.” The Path was an underground train service running to and from New Jersey. It was as hard to monitor as the subway system and ran just as often. There were several stations in the city, and a constant, bustling stream of crowds. “The kid doesn’t have any relatives there, maybe some college friends, who knows. Definitely nobody who’d take a bullet or get sent to lockup for him.”
    “He got a girlfriend?” DiForio asked. Blanket stayed silent. Michael stood up, pushing his chair back. Metal scraped against metal. His voice effortlessly thundered in the small room. “Blanket, does he have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? He like transvestites?”
    “Actually, boss, I’m not