The Helper

ELEVEN

When the cops from the Eighth Precinct say they’re heading over to the Island, they don’t always mean Staten Island. Or Long Island. Or Roosevelt Island, Governors Island, Liberty Island, Randall’s Island, or even Riker’s Island, for that matter. Quite often, what they are referring to is a drinking den more properly known as Gilligan’s. Which isn’t an island at all, except in the poetic sense of being a place to escape from life’s hustle, bustle and trouble. Television has a lot to answer for.

Gilligan’s is situated on Avenue A, and has been for a long time, even back in the days before all the other bars and restaurants sprang up in this area — back when Alphabet City was not as friendly an area as its preschool-sounding name might suggest (although it was certainly capable of giving visitors an education they would never forget). What has always made the Island a safe watering hole is the fact that, on an average night, you probably have more chance of finding a cop here than in the Eighth Precinct station house.

Doyle guesses the place hasn’t changed much since those fun-filled days of yore. It has always been styled as an Irish pub, but unlike more recent pretenders to that title it manages to pull it off. As soon as Doyle opens the door, the Irish music draws him inside. Admittedly, it’s emanating from a music system rather than a live ceilidh band, but he always knows that as soon as he knocks back some of that smooth Guinness and tunes in to the Irish lilt of the garrulous bartender, he is able to transport himself back to the land of his childhood. Or at least to a censored and somewhat romanticized version of what he recalls of those bygone days.

Except that tonight he cannot drink alcohol. He must remain as sober as a judge on antibiotics. Someone’s life may depend on it.

For the hundredth time, he thinks back on what he was told over the phone.

Do you like the music, Cal? Remind you of home? Making you thirsty for a drop of the black stuff?

Irish music — check. Drink — check. Guinness — check.

He approaches the bar, more alert than he has ever been before in this place. He tries to perceive and absorb every detail. As he walks, he notices for the first time how loud his footsteps seem on the wood-planked floor. He scans faces. Many are familiar. He receives smiles, nods, a couple of handshakes, one or two slaps on the shoulder. He is aware that his responses are muted to the point of being rude, but he knows he cannot afford to narrow his focus. His eyes search every corner of the room, on the lookout for anything unusual, anything suspicious, anything warranting further scrutiny.

‘A late start for you tonight, Cal.’

This from the bartender. He is also the owner of this bar, and his name is Patrick Gilligan, although most know him as Paddy. The previous owner was Paddy’s father, another Patrick Gilligan. He died of cirrhosis of the liver, but before he succumbed to the devil that is drink, before he took ownership of the pub, he was a cop. Paddy here never became a cop, but he should have been, in Doyle’s opinion. Doyle has seen him defuse many a potentially explosive situation simply by walking up to the offenders and telling them how things are going to be. He is one of those people whose mere presence demands respect, even among those who wear a badge.

Cops do like a drink, though, don’t they? Even guys who aren’t cops themselves but who are the sons of cops have been known to find themselves in the company of drink.

Not a cop — check. Son of a cop who drank — check. In the company of drink now — check.

It all fits.

Doyle looks into the eyes of the big man behind the counter — eyes as blue as his own are green — and thinks, If I get this wrong, Paddy, if I fuck this up, then you are a dead man.

‘Cal?’ says Paddy. He already has a glass in one hand and the other on the Guinness pump-handle.

‘Yeah, sure,’ says Doyle, nodding for Paddy to pour him one out. He has no plans to drink it, but he also knows that he can’t sit there with an orange juice in front of him unless he wants to draw attention to himself.

Says Paddy, ‘You come straight from the House?’

Even talks like a cop, thinks Doyle.

‘Yeah,’ says Doyle. ‘There was some OT on offer. And with my daughter’s birthday coming up. .’

‘I know what you mean. Grab it while you can. You never know what’s around the corner.’

Well, you certainly don’t, thinks Doyle.

They pass a few more pleasantries back and forth while the ancient art of Guinness-pouring is carried out in the proper leisurely fashion. Then Doyle says, ‘You got a newspaper back there, Paddy? I need some downtime.’

Paddy finds a New York Post and hands it across. ‘You find any good news in there, let me know.’

‘You’ll be the first,’ says Doyle, hoping that tomorrow’s edition won’t have Paddy’s face splashed all over it. Hoping even more that Paddy’s face doesn’t get splashed all over anything tonight.

Doyle carries his drink and his newspaper to a quiet spot at the end of the bar. Somewhere he can get a good view of anyone who comes near Paddy. He opens the newspaper, puts his hand up to the side of his face so that nobody can see what his eyes are really doing, and waits.

It’s the most awkward he has ever felt in a bar. Not drinking, but with a beautiful tall glass of black and white just demanding to be poured down his gullet. Not reading, but with an expanse of images and headlines tugging at his eyeballs for attention. And all this while trying to appear to be just another harmless customer winding down after a hard day at the office.

When Paddy looks across and catches his eye, Doyle hastily picks up his glass, raises it in a salute, and pushes his lips into the creamy foam. He takes the tiniest of sips, and when Paddy looks away, he puts the glass down again. The taste of the beverage on his tongue is sheer torture. He’s starting to think he should have ordered an OJ after all.

He is also thinking that maybe he should just let Paddy know what’s going on. Tell him to leave the bar now, go upstairs, and lock himself away in a room until midnight has come and gone. Until another day is here and Paddy is free to enjoy it and all the other days that will follow.

Except that he knows it won’t solve a thing. Because, despite what the caller said about midnight being the deadline, the killer could just try again later. Or maybe another night entirely. And Doyle can’t spend the rest of his midnights coming to Gilligan’s, even if he could permit himself to drink the beer. His only chance to catch the perp is to let him think he has a chance of completing his mission tonight. Which means that Paddy has to be kept out of the picture. He has to be unaware that his hours — or rather his minutes now — may be numbered.

It’s not an easy choice for Doyle. And he’s not sure that Paddy will ever forgive him.

He checks his watch. Eleven-fifteen. Only forty-five minutes to go.

Doyle allows his attention to wander from the bar. His gaze skips from table to table, from booth to booth. Everyone chilling. Alcohol-emboldened guys eyeing up girls. Girls discreetly flicking their own eyes toward their admirers. Cops exchanging stories about the job. Dirty jokes. Laughter. Nobody alone. Nobody looking like they have an appointment with death tonight. It’s all good.

It occurs to Doyle that this is a weird choice of location for a hit. Most of the cops he knows carry guns when they are off-duty. Even those who don’t take their service sidearms usually carry a smaller, lighter weapon. That’s potentially a lot of muzzles pointing at anyone who starts trouble in here.

Doyle slips a hand under his jacket. His fingers find the reassuring cold metal of his own Glock 19.

How the hell is he going to get away with it? he wonders. Does he even expect to survive?

But then this killer is one clever son of a bitch. He’s already proved that.

‘You sick or something?’

Doyle realizes that Paddy is talking to him. He doesn’t understand the question until he sees Paddy nod his head toward Doyle’s full glass.

‘It’s my second,’ says Doyle. ‘Terry just poured me one.’

Paddy stands there looking unconvinced. ‘Still not up to your usual standard. How am I going to turn a profit with you drinking at that rate?’

Doyle laughs, but when Paddy doesn’t turn away, he’s glad for the ring of his cellphone. He answers it and gives his name.

‘It’s me, Detective.’

‘Gonzo?’

‘Yeah. I’m still outside the apartment building, like you asked. Only I thought you should know: Dr Vasey has just come out the front door.’

Doyle glances at his watch again. Eleven-twenty.

‘He’s leaving? Which way’s he going?’

‘Heading west on Sixty-first.’

That’s not toward here, Doyle thinks. Where the hell’s he going?

‘He’s staying on foot?’

‘Yeah. I’m going to follow him.’

‘Gonzo. .’ He wants to stop him, but he also wants to know what Vasey is up to. ‘All right. Stay with him. When he gets where he’s going, give me another call. And be careful, okay?’

‘Don’t you worry about me, Detective. I can do this. I’m watching him like a hawk, and he doesn’t suspect a thing.’

Doyle rings off. He doesn’t like this. Vasey leaving his apartment at this time of night is just too much of a coincidence. He starts to wonder if he did the right thing in sending Gonzo after him. He worries about it until his phone rings again barely ten minutes later.

‘Detective, it’s me. Gonzo. I, uhm, I lost Vasey.’

‘You lost him? You’ve only been tailing him for a few minutes. What did he do, jump in a taxi?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know. We got as far as Sixty-second and Park, and then he just disappeared. I’ve been looking everywhere. There’s no sign of him.’

Doyle sighs. He realizes there’s no point blaming the kid.

‘All right, Gonzo. You did your best.’

‘I’m sorry, Detective. What should I do now?’

‘Go home. Vasey could be anywhere. It might be hours before he gets back. Go home.’

This time, there’s no protest. ‘All right. I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

‘No need, Gonzo. Take it easy.’

He ends the call. Despite his quirks, Gonzo is a good kid. Not detective material, but a good kid nonetheless.

So, he thinks, Vasey’s on the prowl. Whatever happens tonight, he’s got some explaining to do.

Doyle continues his vigil. He can feel his adrenalin level increasing with every minute that passes by. While everybody else is getting more drunk, more relaxed, Doyle is becoming increasingly wired. His whole body feels so tight it could snap.

At eleven-forty-five a middle-aged man staggers over and takes the barstool closest to Doyle. Doyle gives him the once-over. He’s in a suit, but his tie has been dragged away from his neck with such force that it has created a tiny knot that looks impossible to unpick, and his top shirt-button is unfastened. His movements are unsteady, his eyes unfocused. He has a tumbler of what looks like whiskey in his hand.

‘I think women are wonderful,’ he slurs. ‘Don’t you? Women? Wonderful?’

‘Sure,’ Doyle answers.

‘Especially,’ the man says, ‘younger women. They have a certain. .’ his eyes roll around in his skull as he searches for his next words, ‘. . a certain. . firmness. Wouldn’t you agree? Firm. Not saggy. I don’t like women who flop around all over the place. They’re so. . untidy. What do you think?’

‘I think I’d like to read my newspaper,’ Doyle says.

‘Take my wife,’ the man continues. ‘Please. Take her.’ He laughs uproariously at the old joke, then suddenly switches back into serious mode. ‘A terrific lady, my wife. But no longer of the desired level of springiness, if you know what I mean. She has become yet another victim of gravity. Yes, my friend, gravity.’

Doyle tunes him out. While the drunk prattles on, Doyle’s antennae lock on to Paddy. As time ticks by, the bar becomes busier. Doyle recognizes a few of the newly arrived faces — cops who have just come off their tour. Others he has never seen before, and they are probably the ones he needs to worry about. They mill around the bar, waiting for their turn to be served. Paddy deals with them one by one. He is unconcerned by anything except his customers. Doyle watches them all. Watches where their hands go, the expressions on their faces, the way they move.

The drunk is saying something about whiskey now. For some reason, Doyle finds his attention pulled back to the man. He watches him toss back the rest of his drink.

‘One for the road,’ the man says.

He slips gracelessly from his barstool and zigzags toward Paddy.

Doyle takes a quick peek at his watch. Two minutes before midnight. Just two more minutes.

He gets down from his own stool. Prepares himself to spring into action. His eyes are fixed on Paddy and those in front of him. He begins to move closer to the throng.

From this new position he can see the clock behind the bar. Its large hand edges ever closer to the vertical. Doyle stares at the group of men at the counter. They wait patiently. They don’t seem nervy, don’t look as if they’re about to blow somebody’s brains out. The drunk is among them now. Again Doyle’s eyes are drawn to him, and he doesn’t know why.

He thinks about it.

And it all seems so wrong.

This man hasn’t been here for the whole night. Doyle would have noticed him. So he’s been somewhere else, happily throwing back whiskey. Then why the sudden switch to this bar? Why sit by Doyle, not drinking except to knock back that one tumbler? Was there really alcohol in that glass? Did he have to choose a time so close to midnight to make his way over to Paddy? And why the rush to head over there anyhow? Why not just stay where he was and wait to be served?

Doyle is certain something is about to go down. He edges closer to those at the bar. His senses seem to sharpen. He is attuned to every sound, every movement.

The clock behind the bar begins to chime twelve. Doyle never even knew this clock had a chime.

The drunk pushes closer to the counter. He is no longer swaying. He pulls open his jacket, slips his hand inside. Doyle reaches under his own jacket. Closes his fingers around the butt of his Glock. The clock chime seems pounding now. Midnight is here. The drunk pulls out his hand. Doyle starts to draw his gun. It’s happening.

And then it isn’t happening.

The dark shape in the drunk’s hand is a wallet. The man opens it up, peers inside, begins to sway again.

Doyle slowly eases his Glock back into his holster, but keeps his hand on the weapon.

His eyes flick over the other people grouped here. No unexpected moves. No reaching for guns. No diving across the counter to get at Paddy.

The clock is silent again.

Paddy continues to take orders and pour drinks. The customers walk away happy. The drunk’s turn comes. He orders a double Jim Beam. As he turns and walks past Doyle, he burps, and Doyle smells the stench of the alcohol on his breath. He really is intoxicated.

So what the hell?

What the fuck is going on?

‘Cal? What can I get you?’

Doyle blinks at Paddy, almost surprised that the man is still able to talk to him.

Why aren’t you dead, Paddy?

Doyle checks the clock. Four minutes into the new day, and Patrick Gilligan is standing there, as hale and hearty as ever.

‘Uhm. . It’s okay. I’m good.’

‘Well, if that’s good, I’d hate to see you when you’re feeling unwell. You’re a strange one tonight, Cal.’

Doyle forces out a smile, then goes back to his spot at the end of the counter. He climbs onto his barstool and pulls his glass into his chest. He stares at Paddy and fails to comprehend.

He decides to give it a few more minutes. Ten past twelve, that should do it. Then there can be no mistake, no more leeway for a slow watch or whatever. But inside he knows it’s over. His adrenalin is already leaking away. There’ll be no floor show tonight, folks.

So he waits until ten past. Waits and watches in the knowledge that it’s a waste of time. And then he picks up that glass of Guinness, tips it to his mouth and begins to chug it back, thinking as he swallows that he’s never waited so long to down a drink in his life.

He doesn’t want to think any more about the information he was given over the phone. He is too tired for any kind of analysis. Something has gone wrong, and he doesn’t want to know what it is. Because it will be bad. He wants to get drunk instead, so he can forget.

But he doesn’t get let off that lightly.

He thinks at first that it’s his mind teasing him cruelly. Reminding him of the phone call. Haunting him with that Irish jig.

When he realizes that it’s real — that the music is actually being played here in Gilligan’s — he almost chokes on his beer.

He slams the glass down. Guinness splashes out of it and onto his sleeve. He looks at Paddy again, sees that the man is innocently polishing a wineglass. But over to his left is the other bartender, Terry. And Terry is standing over the CD player.

Doyle jumps from his stool and races to the other end of the bar counter.

‘Cal?’ says Paddy. ‘What’s wrong with you, man?’

Doyle ignores him. He gets to where Terry is standing.

‘Terry! TERRY!’

Terry looks round, raises his eyebrows when he recognizes

Doyle.

‘The music, Terry. Why are you playing that music?’

Terry waves the plastic CD container that’s in his hand.

‘This? A guy came in earlier. Asked me to play it right after midnight. Gave me twenty bucks for it. He said it was for sentimental reasons. I’m a little late, so I hope he’s okay about it. Nice tune, huh? Catchy.’

‘This guy. What did he look like?’

Terry shrugs. ‘Tall. White. I don’t really remember. I was busy.’

‘What color hair?’

‘I don’t know. He was wearing a baseball cap. Why are you asking?’

‘Gimme the case, Terry.’

Terry walks over and hands the CD case to Doyle. Doyle looks at the cover, then turns it over. He reads the title of the first track.

And then he gets it.

Shit.

He drops the case on the counter and runs for the door. He knows people will be watching him, wondering what the hell’s biting his ass, but he doesn’t care.

He crashes through the door, keeps running to the next block where his car is parked. He gets in the car, fires it up. He takes it up to Fourteenth Street, then aims it west, desperately trying to remember the address. He knows it’s in the West Village, but he can’t remember the street. He hits the gas pedal.

Cops do like a drink, though, don’t they? Even guys who aren’t cops themselves but who are the sons of cops have been known to find themselves in the company of drink.

A clue, yes. But also meant to throw him. Sean Hanrahan isn’t a cop, and he is the son of a cop. And he’s also too fond of the booze.

But here’s the thing: Hanrahan used to be a cop. That’s why Doyle discounted him.

Hanrahan was the desk sergeant at the Eighth when Doyle arrived. Being an Irishman himself, he took Doyle under his wing. Showed him the ropes. Introduced him to the other cops. Made him feel at home. He also wasn’t swayed by the baggage that Doyle carried with him from his previous precinct, following the death of Doyle’s female partner.

Yet Hanrahan was weighed down with baggage of his own. When he was on patrol he was involved in a shootout in which his partner was killed. Hanrahan received a flesh wound in the leg, but his damage went deeper than that. He moved to the desk job, but he also moved to the bottle. Three months after Doyle arrived, Hanrahan retired from the force. The other cops threw a ‘racket’ — a party — for him, and Doyle landed the job of seeing him home. Doyle gave him the usual parting invitation to call in at the station house any time, but even then he had a feeling he would never see Hanrahan again.

Now — unless he is mistaken — that could well be the case.

Doyle takes a left onto Seventh Avenue. He looks at the street names at each intersection. When he sees Charles Street, he knows it’s the one. He hangs a right, praying that it’s all a mistake. I’ve got it wrong, he thinks. Hanrahan’s okay.

He can’t remember the number of the building, but it doesn’t matter. The flashing roof lights of the police patrol cars give it away. And in that moment Doyle knows there’s no error. He slows as he passes the cars, and a uniformed officer on the stoop of the apartment building glances toward him. He steps on the gas again. Being spotted here would raise too many questions.

He continues down the narrow tree-lined street, takes the next left onto Bleecker. The sight of more white-and-blue police vehicles parked here reminds him that he’s too close for comfort to the Sixth Precinct station house, so he keeps on driving. Seeing Seventh Avenue ahead of him again, he takes a right onto Barrow Street, then parks the car in a quiet spot opposite the Greenwich House Music School.

And then he lets it out.

He gives out a long roar of pain and anger while he pounds his fists on the steering wheel and slams his elbow into the door and smashes his heels into the footwell. And even when he is spent, even when all he has left are the tears streaming down his face, he can still hear that stupid Irish jig. He will probably be unable to get it out of his head for a long time to come.

The song called ‘Hanrahan’s Last’.