David Jackson - The Helper

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?