running
a sharp blade over his face during a hot shower, the feel
of patting his skin after drying off. He knew that whenever he felt like that, things would go his way. A big paycheck. Some honey who knew he brought home the
money whereas that bearded artist who spent every penny
he owed on cheap paints and canvas could not.
Cleanliness. Right next to godliness. Perhaps somewhere in that equation was Morgan Isaacs.
He didn't dare bring a cup of coffee with him, or anything more than his wallet and keys. He had no idea what
this guy Chester wanted, this guy with the hair so blond
it nearly disappeared in the sunlight. He didn't look like
he belonged in New York, this guy. His ear-length blond
hair and lanky but strong build reminded him of a pro
98
Jason Pinter
surfer, maybe one of those guys you saw pumping iron
on Venice Beach. Someone who took care of their body
for a reason. Not a gym rat like most New Yorkers, but
someone whose vocation required it.
The day was crisp, the streets quiet after rush hour.
Morgan wondered why Chester wanted to meet at one,
such an odd time. Something about the whole deal
smelled not quite right, but Ken Tsang was nothing if not
a bloodhound for straight-up cash, so if he ended up
working with this guy there had to be money involved.
Just when he was thinking about what kind of payday
could be involved, a shiny black Lincoln Town Car pulled
up right in front of Morgan, the tires screeching to a halt.
Morgan watched as a driver exited, an older white guy
wearing one of those hats that said he'd probably been
driving rich folks around most of his life, and opened the
back door. When nobody came out, Morgan stepped
forward. Chester was sitting inside. He was wearing a
sharp gray suit and sunglasses, his blond hair a striking
contrast against the black leather.
Chester tapped the seat next to him and said, "Get in."
Morgan nodded and slid into the backseat, pulling
the door closed behind him. The car sped off as swiftly
as it stopped. Morgan turned to see Chester staring at
him, smiling.
"Glad you could make it," he said. "You ready to make
some money?"
Morgan smiled right back.
The car cruised effortlessly downtown, turning left
onto Fifth Avenue. Morgan felt a slight lump rise in his
throat as they sped by his old office building. It wasn't
right that he was gone. All his life Morgan Isaacs had
dreamed of making his living in finance, working for a
The Darkness
99
bank or a hedge fund, having a different, brilliant suit for
every day of the week. He would have one of those
massive corner offices, a bar stocked with decanters filled
with the most expensive liquors money could buy. He
would have a beautiful young secretary, some hot girl just
out of college who had no desires in life other than to
work until the day she met someone like him, someone
like Morgan, who could satisfy their every need and pay
the bills so she would never have to work another day in
her life. She would have dinner ready, shop (but not too
much), be a doting mother and always have a good reason
as to why Daddy came home late.
He wouldn't be one of those absentee fathers. No,
Morgan actually looked forward to having children. He
wanted vacations to the Greek islands, ski trips to Telluride.
He wanted a pied-a-terre in France, a vacation home in the
Bahamas. He wanted to send Christmas cards and have
picture frames littering his massive desk. He wanted everything. Right now, sitting in the back of this shiny black car,
with a perfect stranger next to him on whom Morgan's
future might well depend, this was most definitely not the
direction Morgan had expected his life to take.
This was not too much to ask, Morgan thought. Everything was going perfectly until the economy went
downhill faster than an Olympic skier and soon he was
out on his ass with thousands of other men just like him.
Men with GPAs in the high threes, impeccable references
and several
a sharp blade over his face during a hot shower, the feel
of patting his skin after drying off. He knew that whenever he felt like that, things would go his way. A big paycheck. Some honey who knew he brought home the
money whereas that bearded artist who spent every penny
he owed on cheap paints and canvas could not.
Cleanliness. Right next to godliness. Perhaps somewhere in that equation was Morgan Isaacs.
He didn't dare bring a cup of coffee with him, or anything more than his wallet and keys. He had no idea what
this guy Chester wanted, this guy with the hair so blond
it nearly disappeared in the sunlight. He didn't look like
he belonged in New York, this guy. His ear-length blond
hair and lanky but strong build reminded him of a pro
98
Jason Pinter
surfer, maybe one of those guys you saw pumping iron
on Venice Beach. Someone who took care of their body
for a reason. Not a gym rat like most New Yorkers, but
someone whose vocation required it.
The day was crisp, the streets quiet after rush hour.
Morgan wondered why Chester wanted to meet at one,
such an odd time. Something about the whole deal
smelled not quite right, but Ken Tsang was nothing if not
a bloodhound for straight-up cash, so if he ended up
working with this guy there had to be money involved.
Just when he was thinking about what kind of payday
could be involved, a shiny black Lincoln Town Car pulled
up right in front of Morgan, the tires screeching to a halt.
Morgan watched as a driver exited, an older white guy
wearing one of those hats that said he'd probably been
driving rich folks around most of his life, and opened the
back door. When nobody came out, Morgan stepped
forward. Chester was sitting inside. He was wearing a
sharp gray suit and sunglasses, his blond hair a striking
contrast against the black leather.
Chester tapped the seat next to him and said, "Get in."
Morgan nodded and slid into the backseat, pulling
the door closed behind him. The car sped off as swiftly
as it stopped. Morgan turned to see Chester staring at
him, smiling.
"Glad you could make it," he said. "You ready to make
some money?"
Morgan smiled right back.
The car cruised effortlessly downtown, turning left
onto Fifth Avenue. Morgan felt a slight lump rise in his
throat as they sped by his old office building. It wasn't
right that he was gone. All his life Morgan Isaacs had
dreamed of making his living in finance, working for a
The Darkness
99
bank or a hedge fund, having a different, brilliant suit for
every day of the week. He would have one of those
massive corner offices, a bar stocked with decanters filled
with the most expensive liquors money could buy. He
would have a beautiful young secretary, some hot girl just
out of college who had no desires in life other than to
work until the day she met someone like him, someone
like Morgan, who could satisfy their every need and pay
the bills so she would never have to work another day in
her life. She would have dinner ready, shop (but not too
much), be a doting mother and always have a good reason
as to why Daddy came home late.
He wouldn't be one of those absentee fathers. No,
Morgan actually looked forward to having children. He
wanted vacations to the Greek islands, ski trips to Telluride.
He wanted a pied-a-terre in France, a vacation home in the
Bahamas. He wanted to send Christmas cards and have
picture frames littering his massive desk. He wanted everything. Right now, sitting in the back of this shiny black car,
with a perfect stranger next to him on whom Morgan's
future might well depend, this was most definitely not the
direction Morgan had expected his life to take.
This was not too much to ask, Morgan thought. Everything was going perfectly until the economy went
downhill faster than an Olympic skier and soon he was
out on his ass with thousands of other men just like him.
Men with GPAs in the high threes, impeccable references
and several
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