Pariah

EIGHTEEN

He tries to act as though he hasn’t noticed a thing. He knows he’s at a disadvantage for several reasons. First of all, he’s still under the influence of numerous pints of Guinness. Second, he has just blinded himself with the lights in the bathroom, while the intruder’s eyes, on the other hand, are presumably fully accustomed to the darkness. Third, he cannot remember precisely where he put his gun when he got undressed. Last, but not least, he is as naked as the day he was born, which leaves him feeling kind of defenseless.

Straining to build a mental map of the room in front of him, he stumbles his way back to the bed and tries to make up his mind as to what to do now.

The gun, or the light switch?

His best guess is that his Glock is in the drawer of the bed table. But he could be wrong about that. And even if he’s right, he can’t see well enough to shoot anything.

So, he thinks, It’s the light then. But what’s the point in that? It might blind the guy for all of two seconds, but I still don’t have a weapon, and he might just decide to start blasting away.

Final decision — the gun first. He reaches into the drawer, acting all nonchalant like looking for tissues or some such, then dives for the light switch, hoping to get the drop on the guy. Okay, it’s not exactly the most foolproof plan in the world, but hey, I don’t have many options here.

Of course, if he’s mistaken, and there’s nobody else in the room, then he’s going to feel such a dick.

He sits on the edge of the bed, puts his head in his hands and lets out a groan.

‘God, my head,’ he mutters. ‘I so need a painkiller for this.’

He stretches for the drawer, slides it open, dips his hand inside.

Nothing. Except a Gideon Bible. Which in his experience doesn’t make the best of weapons.

‘Jesus, Mr Doyle, you are the world’s worst actor. I hope they never send you undercover on any narco busts, that’s the best you can do.’

Doyle turns toward the voice coming from the corner of the room. A lamp flares into life, and he squints to make out the figure seated next to the circular writing table.

‘I guess you’re looking for this,’ the man says, waving Doyle’s Glock in the air. ‘Boy, do you sleep heavy. I should have put the TV on while I was waiting, all the difference it’d make to you.’

Doyle blinks a few times at the familiar face. Tries to match it up with a name in his mental record book. The guy is big. Looks like he hits the weights. He has a wide jaw and dimples in his cheeks. His thick black hair has a pronounced widow’s peak.

‘I think you were having a bad dream there, buddy. Something about a door? What’s that about? You get stuck in a revolving door one time?’

Then it clicks. ‘Sonny Rocca.’

The man smiles. A big white grin. Perfect teeth.

‘I’m flattered. You remember me. I didn’t realize I’d left such a lasting impression. I’m touched, really.’

‘I like to take a mental snapshot of those people I’m gonna have to visit again someday.’

‘You planning to come see me again? That’s nice. Please, drop in anytime. I’ll make you some cannoli. My grandmother’s recipe.’ He touches forefinger and thumb to his lips, kisses them away. ‘Perfetto.’

‘You still running errands for Tweedledum and Tweedledee?’

Doyle watches Rocca’s face cloud over, and he knows he’s stung him.

‘If you mean am I still in the employ of Mr Bartok and his brother, then the answer’s yes.’

Doyle nods thoughtfully. ‘So they still won’t have you, huh?’

Sonny Rocca grew up in Little Italy, that area of Manhattan north of Chinatown that has been home to Italian-Americans since the immigrant influx of the late nineteenth century. As a teenager Rocca ran with gangs, got involved with petty crime and auto thefts. His one avowed ambition in life was to become a true mobster, a made man, a goodfella, a wiseguy.

The problem was that not one of the families would take him into its bosom. For one thing, his mother wasn’t Italian; she was Norwegian — as blond and fair-skinned and non-Mediterranean-looking as they come. It’s one of the reasons that Rocca has always overplayed the Italian side of his heritage, sometimes to the extent of sounding like a stereotype in a badly written play.

These days, as others have proved, full Italian blood isn’t the essential ingredient it used to be, but Rocca has other baggage too. Three years ago he became engaged to a girl who was the beloved niece of a high-ranking mobster. Naturally, his actions were purely tactical: he never really loved the girl, as he frequently proved through his bedding of other women. All was fine until she found out about his infidelity and called off the engagement, at which point Rocca found his ladder of success hauled away and some very mean individuals put in its place.

Schooled as he was in the ways of organized crime, Rocca settled for the next best thing. A family partnership that was willing to accept him with open arms. The Bartok brothers.

Lucas and Kurt Bartok are not Italian; like their composer namesake they are of Hungarian descent. As such, they don’t give a rat’s ass for the Cosa Nostra or its codes of conduct. They work alone, and they have carved out quite a comfortable niche for themselves, thank you very much. Occasionally they resort to acts of violence, and when they do it can be so extreme as to make even the Italian mobs balk. The elder brother in particular, Lucas, has a penchant for disemboweling people with a meat hook. Legend has it that Lucas once used his butchery skills to carve an enemy into many pieces before having the choicest cuts delivered to the victim’s family members as Thanksgiving presents.

What saves the Bartoks from a nasty collision with rival organizations is the activities of the younger brother Kurt. Very much the brains of the outfit, Kurt’s specialty is information. His sources tend to be police officers he has turned using bribes, coercion or both. The information he gleans from the cops is extremely useful not only in safeguarding his family’s own criminal undertakings, but also as a commodity for selling on to other outfits, thereby keeping them sweet. All told, it’s a highly successful operation — an example to us all as to how to run a profitable and expanding business. Corporate America should be proud.

The reason Doyle knows all this is because three months ago he collared the Bartoks and Rocca for their part in a raid on a warehouse owned by a firm called Trogon Electronics. Naturally, with the lawyers they could hire and the people they could buy, they beat the rap before it even got to court. But word is that the Bartoks, and Lucas in particular, have never forgiven Doyle for his temerity. In his turn, Doyle feels no love for the Bartoks or their employees; hence his barb about Rocca’s inability to follow his true calling.

The struggle to maintain his composure is clear on Rocca’s face. It’s a while before he finds his jovial side once more. ‘Well, I think you know much more about that than I do, Mr Doyle. About people not wanting to accept you, I mean.’

Touché, Doyle thinks. How quickly word gets around.

‘How’d you get in here, anyway?’

The disarming smile again. ‘I ain’t just a pretty face, you know. I got skills, talents. The way I can get into places, some people think I can walk through walls.’

‘So you paid someone at the desk to make you another key card. Yeah, that’s mysterious all right. Look, you mind if I put some pants on? I’m feeling kind of exposed here.’

‘Sure, go ahead.’ With Doyle’s gun he gestures to the phone on the table. ‘You want I could call room service, get some fresh coffee sent up?’

‘Nah, that’s okay. You won’t be staying that long.’

Doyle stands up, but stumbles slightly and has to put his hand against the wall to steady himself.

Rocca says, ‘You sure about that caffeine? You look like you could do with it.’

Doyle frowns, finds his boxers and pants, and pulls them on. Being in a room with a criminal pointing your own gun at you is bad enough; being naked to boot is downright humiliating.

He sits on the bed. ‘All right, Sonny, what do you want? This payback time? Is that it? Lucas Bartok not able to sleep at nights with the thought of his arresting officer still walking the streets?’

‘Come on, Mr Doyle. I wanted to cap you, I coulda done it while you were counting sheep or opening doors or whatever.’

‘Maybe you got instructions to make me suffer first. That’s more Lucas’s style.’

‘Believe me, if Mr Bartok decided he wanted you dead, he’d come and do it himself, and then you would be wishing I got to you first. No, you got it all wrong. I’m here to offer you some assistance.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t need a maid. The hotel’s got its own housekeepers.’

Rocca laughs. ‘You’re a funny guy, Mr Doyle. That’s what I like about you. Always with the jokes, even when you got nothing left to laugh about.’ He leans forward on the chair. ‘See, what I hear is that you’ve been dumped. And I ain’t just talking about a wife or a girlfriend here; I’m talking about everyone. The whole world has put you out with the garbage.’ He shakes his head. ‘You know, every time I think about that I find it hard to believe. How is it possible for one person to be so obnoxious that the whole world turns against them? That really has to be a first. You should get in the record books for that one.’

‘Au contraire, Sonny. People are dying to meet me.’

Rocca slaps his palm on the table, laughs even louder. ‘See, there you go again. The jokes. Dying to meet you. That’s clever. Very funny.’

‘I got plenty more, you want to hear them.’

‘Another time, maybe. Another time. But seriously, this thing about people dying wherever you go, that must be a bit of a downer, no?’

‘It does kinda take the shine off the day.’

Rocca jabs his gun toward Doyle. ‘Exactly what I thought. I can see how that could start to get a little depressing after a while. Mr Bartok thinks so too. Which is why he’d like to talk to you.’

‘Don’t tell me. He wants to make me an offer I can’t refuse.’

Rocca jabs again, and Doyle starts to worry about the position of Rocca’s trigger finger.

‘Don’t think I don’t get the reference. The Godfather, right?’

‘I can do it in a Marlon Brando voice if you prefer.’

‘So how about it? You willing to come with me and have a little chat with Mr Bartok?’

Doyle glances at the bedside clock. ‘Now? It’s two in the morning.’

Rocca looks askance at him. ‘It’s Saturday night. The city’s still rocking. Come on, Mr Doyle, live a little.’

Doyle sighs. ‘You mind if I finish dressing?’

‘Please. It’s cold out there. Don’t want you to catch your death.’

Doyle points a finger and thumb at him, pistol-style. ‘I see what you did there. You’re catching on.’

He finds the shirt he tossed on the floor a few hours ago. It’s a little crumpled, but it’ll do. It’s not like he’s going for a job interview.

‘Speaking about catching my death, what about you? You not afraid to step outside with me, case it leads to you getting your head blown off?’

He isn’t looking directly at Rocca as he asks this, but he catches sight of him in the wall mirror. He sees that Rocca is temporarily flummoxed, as though the notion that this might be putting him in danger has never occurred to him. It takes Rocca a few seconds to come up with a response.

‘If this guy knows anything, and from what I hear he knows a lot, he’ll understand that nobody hurts the Bartok family or anyone who works for them. Maybe you cops can’t find him, but believe me, Mr Bartok would hunt him down and the outcome would not be pleasant.’

To Doyle the reply lacks conviction, but he lets it go and finishes dressing.

‘You done?’ Rocca asks, getting up from the chair.

‘All except my nine. You mind if I have it back? I still feel naked without it.’

Rocca hefts Doyle’s gun in his hand. ‘It’s okay with you, I’ll hang onto it for a while.’

Doyle shrugs. ‘All right. Just don’t look at me to save your ass when the boogeyman starts shooting at us.’

He watches Rocca’s face, and again the reaction isn’t what he expected. He can’t fathom it, but something’s going on in Rocca’s mind. Maybe he really is starting to worry about this assignment.

They head toward the door. ‘Nice jacket,’ Rocca says. ‘Quality leather. You like my suit?’

Doyle gives him the once-over. ‘Sharp.’

Pleased with the compliment, Rocca puffs out his chest. ‘It’s Italian.’

‘I might have guessed,’ Doyle says.