David Jackson - The Helper

‘You can’t do this. I’m gonna report you. Your badge is gone, mister.’

Doyle picks up a glass globe paperweight from Repp’s desk and hefts it in his hand. Repp eyes him warily.

‘Stop being a wuss, Travis, and talk to me. You know as well as I do that you’re in deep shit here. This thing with Mrs Sachs stops now, understand?’

‘No, actually. Why don’t you explain it to me?’

‘You’re fleecing her. Your two-bit operation is falling down around your ears and you’re fleecing a little old lady to make some cash. You know how despicable that is, Travis? How do you even live with yourself?’

Repp puts his finger in his mouth to suck away the blood, then takes it out again and stares fearfully at it like it’s a fatal wound.

‘You’re talking outta your ass. I never made any guarantees to her about her daughter. The only thing I did was put some doubt in her mind. If she doesn’t want me to follow it up, she’s free to tell me so.’

‘Just a little doubt, huh? What about the photos?’

‘What about them? They were sent over by a guy who does occasional jobs for me. We think it could be the daughter. Again, no guarantees.’

‘So you won’t mind if I talk to this wonderful guy you can afford to employ in this economic recession you keep reminding me about? Get his side of the story?’

‘Sure. If you can find him. Last I heard he’d decided to vacation in Honolulu while he’s in that neck of the woods.’

‘Uh-huh. And what about Pinter?’

Repp tears his gaze away from his gashed finger and furrows his brow. ‘Who?’

‘Now who’s the one with the memory of a goldfish? Pinter. Works for Invar Insurance? Said he saw Patricia Sachs at the Port Authority Terminal?’

‘Oh! Oh, him, yeah. That was two years ago. I haven’t heard from him since then. I don’t think he even works for Invar anymore.’

‘That’s real convenient, Travis. So what this all amounts to is a couple of crappy photographs and your word, with anyone who can back it up currently unavailable for comment. That’s what you have, right? That’s what you think is good enough for Mrs Sachs to send you on a holiday to Hawaii?’

‘I don’t think anything. That’s for Mrs Sachs to decide. Like I say, if she wants out, that’s fine with me.’ He sucks his finger again. ‘You know, I think this is gonna need stitches. I’ll probably need a tetanus jab too. I should sue your ass.’

Doyle shakes his head in disgust. ‘How many others are there, Travis?’

Repp smiles. ‘Nine. I got nine other fingers.’

Doyle slams the paperweight down on the desk, causing Repp to jump in his chair. ‘Not for much longer, Travis. I’ll ask you again. How many others are there like Mrs Sachs? How many schemes like this you got going?’

‘All right, you got me. Thirty-seven. Last week I sold the Brooklyn Bridge to a Texan billionaire who’s looking for a new water feature in his backyard. I mean, Jesus, what kind of answer do you expect from me? I’m legit, get it? Maybe I’m not rich or successful, but at least I can sleep at night. Can you? Is everything you do so lily-white that you don’t hate yourself sometimes?’

Doyle doesn’t want to answer that. Doesn’t even want to think about it. He tells himself that this isn’t about him. It’s about Repp. And everything about Repp and his setup tells Doyle that this is a con. Mrs Sachs is being given false hope, with the added indignity of having to pay handsomely for the privilege.

But he can’t prove it. Not without an extensive and costly investigation into Repp’s background and practices. His squad isn’t going to be interested, not when a bunch of serial murders has just landed on its lap, thank you very much, Detective Doyle. And the District Attorney’s office and the judges he would need to approach for warrants are just going to tell him to act his age. All he can do for the moment is hope that his strong-arm tactics are enough to make Repp think twice about continuing with his foolhardy scheme.

Doyle gets up from the desk. ‘Don’t pack that grass skirt just yet, Travis. Think about what you’re doing to that poor lady. Try imagining she’s your own grandmother.’

‘My grandmother is dead. And when she was alive she was a bitch.’

‘Okay, so picture her coming back to haunt you. Either way, I want you out of Mrs Sachs’s life, and especially out of her wallet.’

Doyle moves to the door. ‘Next time, it won’t be your finger in that drawer. It’ll be a much smaller part of your anatomy. Take it easy, Travis.’

As he walks through the outer office, he winks at Hayley and she goes all coy and giggly.

What I take from one I give to another, thinks Doyle. It’s nice to keep things in balance.

‘Which would you rather be — a clown or a fish?’

‘What?’

‘A clown or a fish? Which one would you rather be? If you could only be one.’

Doyle considers the question with the seriousness it surely deserves. Such matters cannot be regarded lightly.

‘Okay, well I think probably a clown. Because then I could take off my outfit and make-up and become a normal person.’

Amy shakes her head vigorously. ‘No. You can’t do that. Whatever one you choose, you have to stay like that, for the rest of your life.’

‘Oh. Well, that’s different. A clown or a fish?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about a clownfish?’

‘A what?’

‘A clownfish. You know, like Nemo.’

‘Oh, okay. But that’s still just a fish. Is that what you want to be?’

‘Yes. A fish. Because clowns are scary, and I wouldn’t want to scare you.’

Amy beams at him. ‘That’s a very good answer, and so you can have a prize.’

‘A prize? For me?’

‘Yes.’

She reaches for a tin box on her nightstand. She calls it her Shiny Box. Anything shiny, glittery or of perceived worth in a child-centered value scheme goes in here. The hinges creak as she lifts the lid and takes something out. She hands it to Doyle. A button. It has ‘Captain Awesome’ written on it in lightning-yellow letters on a pale-blue background.

‘Why, thank you, Amy.’ He pins it onto his shirt. ‘Now I really feel important.’

‘Good. You can borrow it for one week.’

A whole week. Doyle feels supremely honored.

He tucks Amy into her bed, kisses her goodnight, then goes into the living room. Rachel is there, languishing on the sofa and watching an old movie. Black and white, with lots of clipped British accents. Brief Encounter , maybe.

Rachel glances up at him as he enters. ‘What’s that?’ she asks, gesturing to the same point on her own chest.

‘I got a promotion. I made captain.’

‘Does that mean I have to salute you now?’

‘Absolutely. And you have to do everything I say, at all times.’

‘Pah! In your dreams, mister.’

She turns back to the television. Doyle stands behind the sofa, watching it with her.

‘Is this gonna make you cry?’

‘Probably.’ She points down to a cardboard box on the rug. ‘I have tissues at the ready, just in case. You want to join me?’

‘Does it have any car chases?’

‘No.’

‘Any gunfights? Explosions? Martial arts? Babes in bikinis?’

‘No to all the above. Stop trying to be so stereotypically male. You know you like a good cry as much as the next woman.’

‘I do not.’

‘No? What about ET ?’

‘That’s an exception.’

‘Uh-huh? And I suppose Free Willy is an exception too. And that movie where all the people come out of comas.’

‘ Awakenings . All right, enough already. I admit I’m in touch with my feminine side. There, I’ve said it.’