David Jackson - The Helper

But tonight, at least, it’s done.

And yet his unease continues.

He goes back downstairs and tries to treat himself to a more comfortable chair in front of the television. It normally does the trick. He gets lost in a program and he feels his tension slowly dissipate to the point where he feels relaxed enough to go to bed. His own bed. Not the one in that room.

But tonight there is no respite. Something niggles. He can’t concentrate on the television, and that means he won’t sleep and tomorrow he’ll be grouchy as hell. And that’s not right. It’s not fair. Not when you’re doing your best to help people.

He knows what the problem is. His mind keeps showing him images to remind him. Keeps stabbing a pointy little finger into his consciousness. Look at this , it says. What are you going to do about it?

It’s the nerdy looking guy. The one with the red hair and the glasses.

He was there outside Vasey’s apartment building, staring up at the broken window and talking to someone on his phone.

It should have meant nothing. The geek should have been just a passer-by. Someone who was just getting in or out of his car who heard a noise and happened to look up.

He would have been happy with that explanation. It would not have taken a shoehorn to fit an occurrence like that into his picture of what took place.

Except for one thing. Something that happened on the previous night.

Before helping out that drunk of a police sergeant, the killer had driven over to Vasey’s place. He wanted to finalize his plans. Work out precisely how he was going to help Vasey.

He’d parked up on Sixty-first Street and sat there for a while, staring up at the building. All was well until, just yards ahead of him, he noticed the driver of another car was doing exactly the same thing. Craning his neck to look up at the building. At one point the guy got out of his car and stretched his arms.

He had red hair and glasses.

It was the same guy.

And this is what has him worried. What was the geek doing there, not once but twice? Why did he feel it necessary to watch Vasey’s apartment?

The guy doesn’t look remotely like a cop, but could he be one? Could the police be onto him so soon?

It’s a thought that makes him shudder. He won’t sleep tonight, and it’s all the fault of that four-eyed fuckwit. Doesn’t the prick know that there are people who are desperate for help out there?

Perhaps not. But that’s not the point. Nothing must be allowed to obstruct the mission.

What makes it hard is that such people aren’t in need of his help. But if they’re in the way, they have to be removed. He’s already proved to himself that he’s capable of doing that, with the doorman at Vasey’s building.

And if he could do it once, he can do it again.

It’s Friday evening. Doyle’s last conversation with his helper was on Tuesday evening. Vasey was killed on Tuesday night.

That’s three whole days. Of nothing.

Nothing doesn’t just mean lack of progress on the investigation. It also means no murders. Not a single person murdered in this city in the past three days — whether explicable or not.

Nothing further on the calls to his cellphone either. They’ve stopped. Dead.

To Doyle it’s almost as though his refusal to take the helper’s calls has brought the killing spree to an end. As if the killer needs to feed off his little chats with Doyle in order to have the fuel to carry out his mission.

He knows it can’t be that simple. The killer must be up to something. More murders will take place. He can feel it deep in his bones.

It’s not a comforting sensation.

It’s like knowing there’s a massive spider hidden in the room with you, just waiting to jump out when you least expect it.

His guess is that the swarthy bastard behind the counter isn’t genuinely Italian.

Italian-American, perhaps. He’d give him that much. A Mediterranean set of genes there somewhere, no doubt. But severely diluted over several generations. Long enough for him to have lost that accent which sounds so affected it’s laughable.

The name, too, has to be fake. Peppe. Clearly he has adopted that moniker purely for the alliteration it lends to the name of this dump. Peppe’s Pizza Piazza . A nice ring to it, sure, but a tad convenient, wouldn’t you say? But then the owner’s real name is probably something like Timothy, which wouldn’t quite conjure up the same romantic imagery of a moonlit dinner overlooking canals with gondolas and bullet-riddled mafia victims floating by.

He’s willing to bet that the guy lays claim to a stupid surname too, again for the effect. Roni, perhaps. Ciao. My name is-a Peppe Roni. Come in and-a taste-a my spicy sausage.

And a piazza? Hardly. San Marco in Venice is a piazza. Navona in Rome is a piazza. This is more of a. . well, a room , basically. Even the use of the word ‘restaurant’, which also appears on the signage outside, is kind of stretching the definition to breaking point. Sure, there are a few small tables and some chairs here, but you’d hardly want to spend more than the time it takes to wolf down a few slices in these surroundings. Peppe and the other pseudo-Italian who works here are probably wondering why their only sit-in customer is spending so much time over his meal.

If only they knew.

The pizza must be damn good, though. It’s clearly what keeps this place going. Say what you like about the ambience, there’s a steady stream of people coming in for take-out orders. They might not be willing to sit here for long, but they obviously crave the product.

He’s not really in a position to judge the quality of the pizza here. He decided long ago that he couldn’t really class himself as a pizza person, despite the alliteration. He would much prefer a steak, medium rare, or perhaps some nice sea bass. Throw in a bottle of Chianti or Chardonnay and mood-enhancing music and lighting — heaven! Company or no.

And so his acquaintances — he can hardly call them friends — would puzzle over why he is now sitting in front of a fourteen-inch pie, heaped high with all kinds of meat toppings.

If only they knew.

He’s had one slice. It was bearable, but it took him ten minutes to get through it. But then he’s not very hungry. He never is when there’s work to be done.

He takes a sip from his glass of San Pellegrino and looks around. The man who calls himself Peppe (ha!) is handing change to a woman who, judging from her planetary-scale girth and acne-peppered complexion, eats nothing but junk food. He watches as she waddles out of the building, and then he catches Peppe’s eye.

Peppe points across to his table. ‘Is-a good?’

In response, he smiles and raises his hand, the index finger and thumb joined together in a circle to signify approval. As he does so, it occurs to him that perhaps the gesture signifies something different in Italy. Like maybe, Suck my dick . Not that this guy would know, impostor that he is.

He checks his watch. Seven p.m. precisely. Should be anytime. .

A phone rings.

. . now.

The phone is on the wall behind the counter, next to the cash register. Peppe plucks at the receiver and brings it to his ear with a flourish.

‘Good-a evening. Peppe’s Pizzas.’

Peppe listens for a moment, and then: ‘Ah, Miss Peyton. How are-a you this evening?. . The usual?. . Very good. And the time? Is it at eight o’clock?. . Excellente . We will-a see you then. Good-a-bye.’

Seated at his table, the man listens to all this and feels his heart rate accelerating with each word. He watches Peppe disappear behind the scenes to pass on the order, and presumes that he is doing so to avoid having to reveal his lack of mastery of the Italian language.