Pariah

TWENTY

When Lucas has left the room, Kurt Bartok gestures toward a chair on the other side of his desk. As Doyle wanders over and takes a seat, Rocca and the other henchman take up positions behind and to either side of their boss. They stand quiet and still, like two stone lions.

‘I hope my brother didn’t upset you too much, Detective. He has very forthright opinions about some things.’

‘Nah. He’s just a big cuddly bear. He should do kids’ parties; they’d love him to bits.’

Bartok’s expression becomes dark. He leans forward slightly. ‘Let’s get one thing straight before we start. You never mock a member of my family. Never. Do you understand?’

Doyle remembers now why he always regarded Kurt as the more dangerous of the two brothers. With Lucas, what you see is what you get. There are no hidden depths, no subtleties. If he says he’s coming at you, then start running or get ready to fight for your life. With Kurt it’s a different story. He’s his brother wrapped up in a false skin, able to shed it at anytime. He is not handsome by any means, but he can be a perfect gentleman, and that seems to attract people. He’s the college graduate: the one who got his brother’s share when brains were being handed out. He can be convincing too, able to bend wills with his logic and voice of reason. And that’s where the danger lies. Because he puts you at your ease, makes you believe he’s your friend, your ally. If and when he strikes, you’ll never see it coming.

Doyle recalls the time he arrested this crew. Rocca and the Bartoks, cooped up in the pen at the station house. Lucas throwing himself at the sides of the cage, cursing and raging about how he was going to tear the place apart and rip the limbs from every cop he found. But Kurt just stood there. Impassive. Watching. Studying every move that Doyle made. Seemingly making mental notes of everything that was said. Doyle remembers thinking to himself then that Kurt is the one to be wary of. He’s the real threat in that cage.

‘So, to business,’ Bartok says, all sweetness and light again. He relaxes in his seat, then pats down his sculpted hair. ‘I hear you’ve landed yourself in a little predicament.’

Doyle has already decided he’s going to play a defensive game here. Let Bartok do all the talking.

‘You heard that, huh?’

‘I didn’t have to listen very hard. You’re the talk of the town. You’re probably the only person that everybody wants to discuss, but nobody wants to be near. A unique position to be in, don’t you think?’

‘It’s nice to have a specialty. I can also whistle through my nose.’

Bartok hums a note of amusement. ‘It’s good that you can make light of it. Although I don’t really think you find it so humorous. I think that, deep down inside, it’s killing you.’

Doyle mulls over his next words carefully. Bartok isn’t buying his feigned lack of concern. He sees right through that, and he plans to keep scraping away at that raw nerve until Doyle is a gibbering neurotic mess, malleable in any way Bartok chooses.

‘Look, I appreciate the interest in my psychological well-being and all, but I don’t need to be talking to no Sigmund Freud right now. You got something for me, put it on the table.’

‘You’re an impatient man, Detective. I can see that you don’t like to wait around. I think that’s one of the reasons this is so difficult for you. You want to be out on the hunt, not left at home like some abandoned housewife.’

Doyle puts the tip of his index finger on Bartok’s desk. ‘On the table.’

Bartok tents his fingers in front of him. ‘You’ve been asking a lot of questions lately.’

‘I usually find it’s the best way to get answers.’

‘You’re asking, “Why me? Who’s got me in their sights?”’

‘You been reading my diary? Try the pages on my bachelor party; they’re a lot more fun.’

‘I don’t need to read your personal outpourings to know you’re desperately in need of a friend right now, Detective. Perhaps I can be that friend.’

‘No offense, Kurt old buddy old pal, but when I get that desperate I’ll talk to the trees. Sometimes they make a lot of sense, did you know that?’

‘Can they tell you who killed your two partners?’ Here we go again, Doyle thinks. ‘Two partners plus a few other people.’

Bartok shrugs. ‘A pimp, a couple of whores, a junkie fence. I don’t think you’re really interested in them.’

It’s Doyle’s turn to lean forward. ‘Now you got me getting heated. I’ll make you a deal. You don’t tell me how to do my job, and I won’t make jokes about the birds flying around in your brother’s skull.’

Doyle can see Bartok’s jaw clenching. There is visible annoyance there, but tempered by the acceptance of a fair point.

‘All right,’ says Bartok. ‘Allow me to rephrase: Can your arboreal friends tell you who killed all those people?’

‘No. Can you?’

‘Not at the moment.’

‘What I thought.’

‘But I believe I could find out.’

‘You do, huh? And what makes you think you can do that?’

Bartok pats at his hair again, preening himself. ‘Detective Doyle, in case you don’t already know it, my business is information. It’s how I make my livelihood. I keep my ear to the ground, my nose to the air.’

‘That’s a neat trick. Can you put your thumb up your ass at the same time?’

Bartok ignores him. ‘It’s the information age, Detective. Data is the new commodity. Tapping into the right sources can be like drilling into an oil well or a gold mine. The talent lies in finding the right places to look.’

‘Uh-huh. You wanna give me a clue as to what those sources might be?’

Bartok laughs. ‘Don’t give up your day job, Detective. If that’s your best attempt at negotiation, you’d never make an entrepreneur. Now, are you interested?’

‘Let me get this straight. The guy who’s popping all these people connected to me, you’re saying you know who that is?’

Bartok raises a corrective finger. ‘Not quite. I’m saying I can find out who it is.’

Doyle pauses for a moment. There it is, the bait is being dangled in front of him. But Doyle knows it hides a nasty hook.

He says, ‘For a price.’ A statement rather than a question.

‘Ah, now you’re starting to get the hang of business practice. A little blunt, perhaps, but we can work on that. Yes, like everything in life, it has a price.’

‘And that price is?’

‘Don’t worry. I don’t want your money. I know you’re running up large hotel and laundry bills at the moment. I’m more interested in a like-for-like deal. My information for your information.’

‘Information on what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure there’s a whole range of juicy nuggets you could toss my way.’

‘Give me a for-instance.’

‘A for-instance? Hm, let me see. Well, rumor has it that some of the men of your precinct are assisting in an undercover operation to catch one Ramon Vitez in the act of selling large quantities of heroin. I’d be very interested to learn a few more of the details of that operation.’

‘Goodbye, Kurt. It’s been fun.’ Doyle stands abruptly, causing Rocca and the other heavy to flinch. He looks at Sonny. ‘You mind if I have my piece back now?’

Rocca starts to walk toward Doyle, reaching into the back of his waistband.

‘Did I say you could move?’

This from Bartok. A question dripping with threats. Rocca looks down at Bartok, who glares back at him with an intensity that could melt glaciers. Rocca slips back to his post like a scolded dog into its kennel.

Doyle says, ‘It’s over, Kurt. Give me my gun now, or I’m walking out of here anyway and coming back with an army.’

‘Yes, because the NYPD is bending over backwards to help you right now, isn’t it?’

‘The gun, Bartok. Now.’

‘You need help. I’m offering it to you. Take it.’

‘I don’t need your help. Not at that price.’

Doyle turns, and starts to walk away. He doesn’t want to go without his gun, but what choice does he have?

‘Then why did you come here tonight?’

The question stops him. Yes, why did I agree to come here? I know how Bartok works. If I’m honest with myself, I could have reasoned that the meeting would lead to this. So why didn’t I just say thanks but no thanks?

‘Twenty-four hours, Detective.’

Doyle faces Bartok again. ‘What?’

‘I can give you a name in twenty-four hours, max. Maybe even a lot sooner than that. You think the NYPD can match that?’

Doyle cannot help but stand there and listen. He knows he should follow his impulse to get the hell out of here, but he can’t move. Bartok has hypnotized him.

Bartok continues: ‘You think the NYPD is even trying to solve your case? While you’re out of the way, nobody is getting killed. Maybe that’s good enough for them. Maybe some of them like having you out of their hair. I mean, they’re not exactly rallying around you at the moment, are they? Think about it. How often are they phoning you with updates? How often do they ask you to provide them with more leads? And even if there was a team of hotshot detectives on the case twenty-four-seven, how much hope do you have that they’ll crack it? The killer’s clever, from what I hear. How long do you think it’ll be before they catch him? Days? Weeks? Months? Can you wait that long? Are you prepared to sit alone in your pit of a hotel, unable to see your family or anyone else for months on end? I know I couldn’t do it. I don’t think there are many human beings who could. We’re sociable animals. The drive to interact is in our genes. Denial of such a basic need would cause many of us to self-destruct.’

Bartok pauses, allowing his message to sink in. ‘I’m offering you your life back, Detective Doyle. By tomorrow night, you could be free from your personal hell, able to return to your home, your family. I think the price I’m asking is tiny in comparison to that freedom.’

‘Don’t dress it up in ribbons and bows, Kurt. You’re trying to buy me. Another pocket cop to add to your collection. That’s what it comes down to.’

‘As I said, you have a tendency to be blunt about things. I prefer to think of it as the start of a long and mutually beneficial business arrangement.’ He puts the tip of his finger on the desk, exactly as Doyle did earlier. ‘So there you have it. It’s on the table, just as you asked. What’s your answer?’

Doyle stares into Bartok’s questioning eyes and thinks, My answer should be go fuck yourself. Stick your offer up your ass and then wait here while I bring in a shit-load of cops to raid your club and haul your ass off to jail.

But he doesn’t say any of this. For one thing, he knows he can’t touch Bartok. Nobody else in this room is about to confirm that this little powwow ever took place. And for another thing, he’s not sure yet that he wants to reject the offer.

Shit! Am I really thinking that? Am I really even considering the possibility of entering into a partnership with this crazy bastard? Fuck that! It’s ridiculous. Absurd. I’d sell my own mother before cozying up with Bartok.

And yet. .

‘I’ll think about it.’

Bartok blinks. ‘You’ll think about it?’

‘I need time to weigh it up. You’re asking a lot.’

‘I’m offering a lot. It should be a no-brainer.’ He sighs softly, then looks down at his finger still poised on the desk surface. ‘The deal stays here until the end of the day. Midnight. After that. .’ He takes his finger away to show Doyle that, after midnight, all bets are off. ‘In the meantime, I’ll start to make some inquiries. By the time you call, I should have the information you need.’

‘If I call.’

Bartok’s smile is smug. He gestures to Rocca, who escorts Doyle to the door. Doyle turns one final time to Bartok and says, ‘By the way, you’ve got some hair out of place there.’

As he is engulfed by the throbbing music once more, Doyle smiles inwardly at the thought of Bartok scrabbling for the mirror in his desk drawer.

In the passenger seat of the Lexus, Doyle tries to get his fogged brain to think rationally about Bartok’s offer. Behind the wheel, Rocca seems to read his thoughts.

‘You gonna make the deal? You should. Mr Bartok’s a fair man. He’ll treat you square.’

Doyle looks at Rocca. ‘Kurt Bartok is a conniving sack of shit. His brother should have been put down at birth. Tell me something, Sonny, why do you work for those savages? I saw the way they treated you back there.’

For a while, Rocca doesn’t say anything. He keeps his eyes on the road ahead.

‘Sometimes,’ he says finally, ‘you don’t have a lot of choice, you know? When you’re drowning, and there’s only one guy putting his hand out to save you, you take it, right? You don’t question his motives, you don’t try to work out whether he’s a good guy or a bad guy. You just take the hand. And from that moment on, he owns you. Even if he treats you bad sometimes, he still owns you. You get what I’m saying?’

Doyle doesn’t answer. He understands exactly what his philosopher companion has just said.

Pretty much the same thought has already gone through his own head.