David Jackson - The Helper

Doyle sighs. The kid’s a tryer, he thinks. You have to give him that.

‘Go home, is what you should do. Isn’t there something on TV you could be watching?’

‘Nah. They’re all re-runs. This is much more exciting.’

‘Believe me, it gets stale pretty fast. When you’ve been sitting there for five hours or whatever, you’ll wish you hadn’t bothered. Now go home, Gonzo.’

‘But-’

‘Gonzo, were you listening to anything I said to you before about what cops do and what lab technicians do, and about them being totally different things?’

‘Sure, but. . well, Vasey’s a suspect, isn’t he? And I bet you don’t have the time to watch him constantly. Even if you do have a partner .’

Doyle smiles at the emphasis on the final word, intended to show him how hurt Gonzo feels. Gonzo is right, of course. The squad doesn’t have the resources to watch Vasey around the clock, and Doyle isn’t sure how profitable it would be anyhow. But tonight. . well, maybe Gonzo could be of some use after all.

Doyle checks his watch. ‘All right, Gonzo. Here’s what we’ll do. Are you prepared to sit on Vasey until midnight?’

‘You mean it? Absolutely. I’ll stay here all night if you-’

‘No, midnight’s fine. If Vasey leaves his apartment before then, I want you to call me, okay? Don’t do anything. Don’t approach him, don’t go in the building, don’t do anything except watch the place. Is that understood?’

‘Perfectly. I will monitor and report. Don’t worry, Detective, I won’t let you down. I’ve got a flask of coffee here to keep me awake.’

He needs caffeine to keep him awake until midnight, thinks Doyle. Jesus.

‘Nice to hear you’re fully equipped. Speak to you later.’

He ends the call. He is almost surprised to realize there is a smile on his face. Gonzo’s childish enthusiasm has just brightened his night.

But it quickly fades when the enormity of what may happen next reasserts itself in his thoughts.

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.