David Jackson - The Helper

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’.