Pariah

TWENTY-THREE

Doyle throws down the dregs of his drink and leaves the table. On the way past the bar, he feels he should say something apologetic to the girl with the legs-cleavage-smile combo, but she has already moved on from George and engaged another guy in conversation. The whiskey-drinking loser with the socialization problems is probably already a distant memory.

He goes back upstairs to a room that’s starting to feel the equivalent of a prison cell, except without even the company of a psychotic, tattoo-adorned Nazi to break the monotony. He picks up the phone again and makes another call.

‘Cal!’ Rachel says. ‘Just a minute. Amy wants to talk to you.’

There is a moment of confused fumblings and whispers of ‘Talk to Daddy,’ before Amy’s breathy voice comes on the line.

‘Daddy!’ she squeals. Her tone sounds several octaves higher than normal, its intense childish innocence punishing him more than he would like.

‘Hi, sweetie,’ he says. ‘How you doing? Are you being good for Mommy, like I asked you?’

‘Yes, Daddy, but, but, but. . I am a little bit sad.’

‘Sad? Why’s that, honey?’

‘Because, because I have to go to bed soon, and I asked Mommy if you were coming home tonight, and she said she didn’t think so, and I said I wanted you to be here because of the burglars. And then Mommy said-’

‘Hold on, hon. What burglars?’

‘The burglars who come into people’s houses and take all your toys and stuff. My friend Ellie, who isn’t my friend anymore because she’s always nasty to me, she said that burglars break your windows and come into your house at night when everybody’s asleep, and they take all your things, even your best toys and Christmas presents, and I said they won’t come in our apartment because my Daddy’s a policeman and he’ll put them in jail, and she said yes they will because your Daddy’s not there anymore, and I said-’

‘Amy, listen to me. The burglars won’t come. You know why?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’ve told all the other policemen to watch our apartment from outside. At night, when you’re asleep, they sit outside and watch, and they make sure no burglars will come. And they’ll be there every night until I come home.’

‘Well, I want you here. You’re the best policeman and the best Daddy, and that’s why I couldn’t sleep last night and I had to get into bed with Mommy.’

‘You couldn’t sleep?’

‘No. I got scared, and I. . I. . I. . wet the bed a bit.’

There is a silence between them then. A few seconds that are devoid of sound but which, for Doyle, are bursting with barely contained anguish. As his vision blurs, he thinks about what he is doing to his family.

‘It was only a little bit,’ Amy adds hastily. ‘That’s okay, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sweetie, that’s okay. But there’s nothing to worry about. I’m coming home real soon. I promise.’

‘When?’

‘Soon. Maybe even tomorrow.’

Amy’s voice drops in volume then, but only because she has turned away from the receiver and is talking to her mother. ‘Yay!’ Doyle can hear her saying. ‘Daddy’s coming home! Daddy’s coming home!’

And then there is more fumbling with the phone, and when Rachel’s voice comes on the line there is an unexpected sternness to it.

‘Is that true, Cal? That you’re coming home? Because if it’s not, then you’re being so unfair to Amy.’

‘Rach. It’s true. There’s been a break in the case. All goes well, it’ll be over by the morning.’

There is another period of silence, and then comes an audible sigh of relief from Rachel.

‘Thank God!’ she says.

Well, thanks to someone, Doyle thinks. But God is probably the last one on the list on this occasion.

For the next few hours, he resumes his pastime of sitting and waiting and thinking. His mind hunts in desperation for alternatives to the decision he has made, but the only one it can find involves waiting some more, and he doesn’t think he can do that any longer. Not with the lack of progress the NYPD is making. Not with the pleading voice of Amy still ringing in his ears.

At two minutes before midnight, he picks up the phone and dials the number on the card that Sonny Rocca gave him.

‘You’re cutting it fine, Mr Doyle,’ Rocca says.

‘I’m a last-minute kinda guy. I like to keep people guessing. It adds to my mystique.’

‘You sure you want to do this?’

‘What, you trying to talk me out of it now?’

Rocca chuckles. ‘I’ll be right over.’

‘Some days are special,’ Rocca says as he drives. ‘Red-letter days. Days that change your life forever. You know what I mean, Mr Doyle?’

In the rear of the Lexus, Doyle stares at the back of Rocca’s head.

‘You think this is one of those days?’

‘I know it is. Soon as I heard your voice on the phone, I thought, this is it. This is where it all starts to change.’

‘Remind me to make a note in my diary,’ Doyle says. ‘I’ll send a thank-you card to the Bartoks every year.’

Rocca laughs. ‘You’re a funny guy, Mr Doyle. A real comedian.’

Doyle wonders, What’s Rocca got to be so happy about? He hoping we’ll be some kind of blood brothers now? Another addition to the family of oddballs?

And I could do without all the fuss he’s making. Like it’s some kind of historic victory or major coup for the Bartok clan.

But then who am I kidding thinking this is just a five-minute pact? What am I expecting — that I’ll just pass some info to Bartok and he’ll give me a name, and then I’ll never see him again? Do I really believe that it’ll stop there?

Doyle knows it won’t. He knows that once he’s in Bartok’s pocket he’s there to stay, like a handkerchief, waiting for Bartok to pull him out and blow his nose on him whenever he feels like it.

Rocca pulls the Lexus into the narrow alley next to Bartok’s club, parks it tight against the wall like he did the previous night. He gets out first, and like a chauffeur, opens the rear door to let Doyle out. Doyle steps out onto the cobblestones, already feeling slippery beneath his feet. He guesses that, by the morning, the city will be covered in a film of frost.

He waits for Rocca to lead the way toward the club, but Rocca just stands there, a dumb smile on his face as he stares at Doyle.

‘What? Having second thoughts? And after all the drinks I bought you? You men are all the same.’

Rocca’s laugh forms a cloud in front of his face. ‘Two things, Mr Doyle. First, your piece.’ He holds out his left hand, sheathed in a tan leather glove.

Doyle looks around as he hesitates. Giving up his gun is anathema to him. It’s one of the few things that’s become ingrained in him since his days in the Academy: never give up your sidearm. Last night was different: Rocca took the gun while he was asleep. But now he’s being asked to surrender it voluntarily. He would rather hand over very item of clothing he’s wearing if it meant he could keep his Glock.

‘Bartok still doesn’t trust me?’

Rocca shrugs. ‘Maybe after tonight he will.’

Because he’ll have something on me, Doyle thinks. He sighs another cloud of vapor and, with reluctance, plucks his Glock from its leather holster and slaps it onto Rocca’s gloved palm. It seems to Doyle an immensely symbolic act; he almost feels like he should offer his gold shield too.

Rocca drops the gun into a pocket of his overcoat. It’s a stylish gray coat; Italian, no doubt.

‘The other thing: I have to search you.’

‘I ain’t wired, if that’s what’s worrying your boss.’

Rocca just shrugs again, as if to say that he has his orders and so there’s no point debating it.

Doyle puts his arms out, in invitation for Rocca to go ahead. While he’s being patted down, he says, ‘Tell me something. Your boss not worried about the risk he’s taking by talking to me? Could be he’s putting himself right at the top of some sicko’s hit list.’

Rocca laughs like this is the best joke ever. ‘You’ve seen how Mr Bartok operates, how careful he is. You think me frisking you like this is just for kicks? Wherever he goes, he practically has a whole army with him, me included. You don’t get near to Mr Bartok unless he wants you to.’

‘Just asking. So far, this whacko’s been pretty resourceful.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t you worry about it. Besides, aren’t you forgetting something?’

‘What?’

Rocca completes his search, and pulls Doyle’s lapels neatly back into place. ‘Mr Bartok knows who this guy is. It gives him a certain. . leverage. Anytime he wants, all he has to do is click his fingers and the guy is history.’

As they start walking round to the club entrance, Doyle says, ‘Do you know who the guy is?’

Rocca halts and turns, that disarming grin on his face. ‘You know, I do like that coat of yours, Mr Doyle. I think I might get me one just like it.’

For a Sunday night, it seems to Doyle as though there’s a heck of a lot of people who don’t seem worried about having to get up for work the next morning, the dance floor being as overcrowded and as noisy as it was the previous night. And then he realizes what an old fart he sounds like.

Bartok’s goons don’t appear any more relaxed either. They stand glued to their stations throughout the club, monitoring the patrons and waiting for their opportunity to knock a few heads together. The closer Doyle gets to Bartok’s office up all those stairs, the more menacing the heavies seem to get, as though Bartok has positioned himself at the apex of some kind of hierarchy of malevolence. It crosses Doyle’s mind to tell them to chill, that he’s one of them now, but it’s a thought that seems bitter rather than funny.

Rocca knocks and enters, Doyle trailing behind. Facing them on the other side of his expansive and expensive desk, Kurt Bartok sits observing their entrance as he sips from a cocktail glass. The thick drink looks like partly congealed blood.

‘Detective Doyle! How nice of you to drop in again. Bruno, make yourself useful and fetch the man a seat.’

Looking as though he hasn’t shifted an inch from his spot behind Bartok since the previous night, the big bodyguard hefts his muscles over to a solid oak chair against the wall, picks it up as though it’s a matchstick, and puts it into place at Bartok’s desk. All the while, his eyes are fixed on Doyle as though he’s debating whether there’s enough meat there for his next meal. Bruno’s a good name for him, Doyle thinks. A bear’s name. A name for someone who could crush you with a hug, or cave in your skull with one swipe of his paw.

Doyle sits himself down. As if he’s just provided a cue, Rocca and Bruno take up their customary flanking positions behind Bartok.

‘Don’t you people ever sleep?’ Doyle asks.

‘Sleep is for losers. There’s far too much to be done.’

‘Why? You one of Santa’s helpers?’

Bartok smiles and smacks his lips. He tips a manicured hand toward his drink. ‘Can I get you something? A little refreshment? I hear you’re a Bushmills man.’

‘Not for me, thanks. It’s past my bedtime.’

Bartok leans back, touches a hand to his beloved hair. ‘Speaking of Santa, I assume you’ve come here to exchange presents.’

‘Or you could just give me mine. The joy is in the giving, you know.’

‘Is that so? I’ve always found receiving much more pleasurable. Especially when it comes to receiving knowledge. A snippet of information I never knew before. You’d be amazed at how little of that it takes to make me happy.’

‘I’ll send you an encyclopedia for Christmas. Keep you going for years. Me, all I want’s a name. How about it, Santa? You want me to sit on your knee while you whisper it in my ear?’

Doyle detects a slight tensing in Rocca and the other guard-dog standing behind Bartok. They’re not used to hearing people being so impudent with their master. Any minute now they’ll start barking.

Bartok picks out a cocktail stick from his drink. He slides the pierced olive into his mouth and spends a minute rolling it around before chewing and swallowing.

‘My brother hates olives,’ he says. ‘He calls them phlegm-balls. I don’t think he’ll ever make it in marketing. So often the money is in choosing the right name, don’t you agree? Take the name you’re interested in, for example. What would you say that’s worth?’

What’s it worth? How do I measure something like that? What’s it worth to get your life back, to be able to see your family again?

‘Depends. If it’s the name of someone who’s already dead or out of reach, then not very much.’

‘And if it’s someone who’s very much alive? Someone not so far away? Someone who is still determined to keep you in this state of extreme isolation? What’s it worth to hear that name, to know that you can leave here and go straight to that man and arrest him or kill him or torture him or do whatever else you need to get your revenge?’

It’s the first time Doyle has been presented with any realistic prospect of confronting his persecutor. Would I, he wonders, just collar him? Would that be enough to give me closure?

He doesn’t think so. He thinks too much hatred has built up inside for him simply to follow the rules like this was any run-of-the-mill criminal.

But he’ll worry about that when he gets the name.

‘How do I know you’ve got the right guy? The NYPD have been on this twenty-four-seven. I got snitches out there who could tell me who shot JFK quicker than they can get me a name for this perp. So what’s so special about you?’

Bartok takes another dainty sip of his drink, then puts the glass down and twirls the stem between his fingers.

‘As I told you last night, Detective, my commodity is information. I have a lot of data on a lot of things and a lot of people. Sometimes it comes in useful, sometimes it doesn’t. But just in case, I never throw any of it away. It all gets filed, most of it up here.’ He taps his temple, then smoothes down his hair on the off chance he’s just disturbed it. ‘On this occasion we have. . serendipity. You want something; I heard that you want it; I now have it. It’s nice when things fall into place like that, don’t you think? Makes you want to believe in fate.’

‘If you’re giving me the runaround. .’

Bartok flops back in his chair. He looks irritated now. ‘Detective Doyle, this is starting to become tiresome. I made you an offer in good faith. My assumption was that you came here tonight because you decided to accept that offer. If you’ve changed your mind, then feel free to leave and go back to your scant existence in your miserable flea-pit of a hotel. It’s time, as the saying goes, to piss or get off the pot.’

So there it is, thinks Doyle. What’s it gonna be? Haven’t you already made up your mind? Are you really gonna get up and walk out of here without that name?

‘You want to know about Ramon Vitez.’

Bartok says nothing. He purses his lips slightly and waits.

Doyle says, ‘I’m not involved in that operation.’

He sees the fury igniting in Bartok’s eyes, a twitch appearing on the corner of his mouth.

‘But,’ Doyle adds, ‘I know one or two things.’

Bartok continues to wait. The room is silent, save for a steady pounding. Doyle isn’t sure whether it’s from the dance floor or his own heart. He opens his mouth, finds himself choking on his own words. This goes against everything in which he believes, everything he is.

‘New Year’s Day. Seven a.m. When all the revelers are still sleeping it off. East River Park. The handover will take place at a bench under the Williamsburg Bridge. That’s all I know.’

More silence. Bartok finishes his drink and passes a reptilian tongue over his thin lips, then smoothes his hair again.

‘Good enough?’ Doyle asks.

‘It’s a start,’ Bartok answers, and Doyle can see the devilish glee on the man’s face.

Stay calm. He’s fucking with your head. Stay calm.

‘The name, Kurt. Give me the name.’

‘In a moment. I need a little more. . persuading.’

Doyle leans forward suddenly, almost coming off his chair. Again he notices how Rocca and Bruno brace themselves.

‘Persuading is the last thing you want me to do, Kurt. You haven’t seen how I can persuade people. I’ve given you what you asked for, so you-’

‘You’ve given me nothing,’ Bartok says. He reaches for a drawer, slides it open. He pulls out a notepad and pushes it across the desk. On the top sheet of paper it says, ‘Ramon Vitez. East River Park. Jan 1.’

Doyle stares at the sheet for some time, then raises his gaze to Bartok. ‘What the fuck is this?’

‘Call it a test. A validation of your sincerity. You’ll be glad to hear that you’ve passed with flying colors. Now, tell me something I don’t know.’

Doyle leaps to his feet so fast, the heavies are almost caught off guard. He sees them reach beneath their jackets and start toward him.

‘Fuck you, Bartok!’ Doyle says. ‘You want to play games, do it with someone who’s prepared to lie down and roll over. I’m outta here, and when I come back, all the data in the world ain’t gonna save you from what I got in mind.’

He starts toward the door, wondering how far he’s going to get. Wondering whether they’re prepared to let him leave. Once again, he’s regretting giving up his gun. He gets to the door, reaches for the handle. .

‘He’s close, Detective Doyle.’

Doyle halts. Despite himself, he wants to hear what Bartok has to say.

‘He’s close,’ Bartok repeats. ‘You know him, in fact. And he knows oh so much about you. Don’t you want to know who it is?’

Doyle lowers his hand. I have to know, he thinks. I’ve come this far.

He turns to face Bartok. Rocca and Bruno are toward the front of the desk now, their hands still inside their jackets. A sneer on his ugly face, Bruno is straining against his leash, anxious to release some pent-up violence. Rocca’s face is impassive. He has no axe to grind, but there is no doubting his loyalty or conviction.

‘Come on, Detective. You’re already committed. Whether I knew about Vitez or not, the fact that you told me about him is enough to lose you your job and get you put in jail. You’ve proved yourself. All I’m asking for now is for you to demonstrate your usefulness. Please, sit down. Finish what you came here for.’

It’s true, Doyle thinks. He has me. I’m in. You can’t get back in the plane once you’ve jumped.

Slowly, he walks back to the chair. Bartok flicks his wrist and his guards back away, Bruno looking like he’s just had a prime steak snatched away from him.

Doyle sits down. Tries counting to ten before saying, ‘What do you want to know?’

Bartok waves his hand. ‘I’ll leave it to you. Surprise me.’ He says this as though he’s a food critic inviting a restaurant owner to impress him before he writes his review.

Doyle consults his mental menu and tries to avoid the expensive items.

‘Tito Sloane, one of Blue Tucker’s soldiers. Took a hit last month in a Chinatown parking lot. Tucker blames your crew for the hit, saying you claim he ripped off one of your mules.’

‘Ah, yes, Mr Tucker. Such a fantasist, and yet he’s determined to cause me a lot of problems at the moment.’

‘It’s gonna get worse. Tucker plans to even the score by acing one of your own operatives.’

He sees the sudden concern on Bartok’s face.

‘Who? When?’

‘I don’t know. Soon. Story is he’s psyched up for a war.’

Bartok blinks several times in a way that suggests he’s trying to bat away his anger. ‘The future killing of an unnamed associate at an unknown time and place, coming from a man who is widely known to despise me, is hardly one of the most valuable or even interesting pieces of information, Detective. You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘I’m not done. Suppose I told you I know a way to take the heat off?’

‘Go on.’

‘Have a word with Lionel Dafoe. He was the one who offed Sloane. Something about a beef over his girlfriend. It was also him spread the rumor it was down to you. You want proof, the nine he used for the hit is still in his apartment. The girlfriend will also confirm the story.’

Bartok thinks about this for a minute. Doyle wonders whether it’s enough. Because what he hasn’t told Bartok is that Dafoe has already fled to Mexico. Giving Bartok some proof that will take Tucker’s heat off him is one thing, but he’s not going to be responsible for setting up Dafoe to be killed.

Bartok says, ‘And you know this how?’

‘From a CI of mine, whose information was always reliable.’

‘Was? That wouldn’t be poor old Spinner, would it? Such a shame about him. I hear that his wasn’t the quickest or most painless of endings.’

Doyle doesn’t want to talk about Spinner. Not with this monster.

‘Your move, Kurt. You’ve been paid. I want my goods.’

Bartok smiles. He makes Doyle wait that little bit longer.

‘Yes, I think you’ve earned your stripes. Perhaps now you’ll join me in a little drink to celebrate our new relationship?’

‘The name,’ Doyle says, and will keep on saying until he gets it.

‘All right,’ Bartok agrees. ‘The name. As I said, it’s a man you know already. You can stop digging into your past because-’

He doesn’t get any further.

Primarily because his throat has just exploded.

A hole has opened up in his neck, sending a fountain of blood spurting across his desk and onto Doyle’s leather jacket.

Bartok looks surprised that he can’t speak any longer. He sits there, his mouth moving soundlessly, seemingly unaware that the source of all that gushing blood is himself.

Doyle’s reaction isn’t exactly immediate either. He doesn’t know what has just happened here. The shock of what he has just witnessed has confused and paralyzed him. And then he zooms out, takes in the wider picture, sees the movement behind the man choking to death on his own blood.

Bruno is also clearly puzzled. His arms come up and his fingers grapple comically with thin air as though he’s operating some complex invisible machinery. By the time he works out that he should be reaching for his gun, it’s too late. Sonny Rocca is already on him, his gun arm outstretched, his silenced weapon making phut-phut sounds as it spits. Bruno stares uncomprehendingly while his chest is drilled. When anger finally appears on his face, it is there for the fleetest of moments before being obliterated by a salvo of bullets that take out his teeth, then his nose, and then his right eye. Bruno stiffens, leans back like a toppling domino, and crashes to the floor with the force of a felled elephant.

Doyle is already on his feet. His hand dives automatically under his coat, finds itself clawing at the empty leather of his holster. He starts moving toward Rocca, no thought yet as to what he might do when he gets there. Rocca whirls on him, aims his gun at Doyle’s face.

‘Back!’

Doyle brings his hands up, takes a step in reverse. He watches as Rocca moves calmly back to Bartok, now clutching at his neck, trying in vain to plug the hole there as he coughs and splutters.

No, thinks Doyle. Don’t.

Rocca observes his boss for a second or two, not a hint of compassion on his face. It’s like he’s studying the behavior of an amoeba under a microscope.

Please don’t.

With casual ease, Rocca raises the dark semi-automatic again, and Doyle can only look on helplessly as bullet after bullet smashes into Bartok’s head and face. Even when Bartok’s body slides lifeless from his chair and lies crumpled on the wooden floor, Rocca stands over him and continues with the steady eradication of his ex-employer’s features.

I have one chance, Doyle thinks. And it will come only if Sonny Rocca hates his former boss badly enough.

So he watches and waits, listening to the muffled explosions, the clatter of empty cartridges hitting the floor, thinking that the destruction seems to be going on forever.

And then it happens. The slide on Rocca’s gun jerks back and stays there, announcing that its work is done: there are no more bullets to be fired.

Doyle makes his move. He believes it’s the fastest he’s ever shifted. His high-school sprinting instructor would have been proud of him.

He manages to cover all of one yard.

Rocca is ready for him. His other hand, which Doyle hadn’t even noticed dipping into his pocket, now comes up and points at Doyle. And it’s not empty.

The soles of Doyle’s shoes squeal as he applies his brakes. For the umpteenth time, he mentally slaps himself for agreeing to surrender his Glock. He thinks, finally, that he’s learned his lesson. Certainly he’ll never do it again.

Because now, for the first time in his life, he’s staring into the business end of his own gun.

‘Back!’ Rocca says again. He twitches the gun muzzle to one side. ‘Back in the chair.’

Doyle takes a few steps backwards, his eyes never leaving Rocca’s.

‘Why, Sonny?’ he asks. ‘What the fuck’s this about?’

Rocca doesn’t answer. He swaps his guns over, putting the loaded Glock into his right hand. Then he steps over Bartok’s

corpse, edges around the desk, the Glock aimed squarely at

Doyle’s forehead. He comes to a halt. Continues to point the gun.

He stands like that for several seconds, as if allowing Doyle the

opportunity to say a final prayer.

‘I was beginning to like you, Mr Doyle,’ Rocca says. ‘So long.’ Doyle senses the change in Rocca. He realizes that Rocca has

just made his decision. He sees the whiteness of Rocca’s knuckle

as he tightens his trigger finger.

Doyle closes his eyes and thinks of Rachel and Amy.