David Jackson - Pariah

He knows how much little things like this mean to a child. In the grand scheme of things it’s nothing; to a six-year-old girl it’s everything. The empty seat in the theater tomorrow will create a bigger emptiness in her heart — one that he may never fill. He knows this because of all the holes that were opened in his own heart as a kid. They never close over, not fully.

For that alone — never mind all the other things — Doyle swears vengeance. You want to break my daughter’s heart, then go ahead. Just know that when I catch you, I’m gonna tear out your own heart and make you eat it, you fuck.

For what he can afford, the Cavendish Hotel near Union Square seems decent enough, although the reception staff are none too happy about a booking for an indeterminate number of nights, what with all the Christmas shoppers swarming into town at the moment. In the end Doyle stretches himself to a three-night reservation, extracting in return (inequitably, it seems to him) a verbal agreement that the hotel staff will do their utmost to keep the room available for longer if required.

His room is clean, the carpet isn’t too threadbare and the bed isn’t too concave in the middle, but Doyle can’t settle. Things aren’t where he expects them to be. The smells are different; the noises are different. He’s not used to a bathroom without a window, and a view from the bedroom that’s fascinating only if you have a thing for bricks. Worst of all, he’s alone. He cannot reach out for the warmth of his wife in the bed next to him; he cannot lift up his daughter and smell the shampoo in her hair.

Doyle throws his clothes into drawers, then calls Rachel on the phone. He lies about how comfortable he is here, and understates the truth about how much he’s missing his family. After the call he kills some time reading the hotel information brochures, then murders another hour or so staring at the flat-screen TV. It just makes him wonder how long it’ll be before living in a box like this drives him insane.

Despite his tiredness, he is bursting with a high level of contained energy. To release it, he does some sit-ups and push-ups, then takes a shower. But still he feels like a caged lion with claustrophobia.

When he can stand it no longer, he escapes his room and goes in search of the bar.

The bartender is a swarthy Greek called George. Doyle asks him if the hotel has Guinness on tap, but they don’t.

‘Okay, make it a whiskey. Irish. Be as generous as you like.’

When it’s poured, he raises the glass. ‘To absent friends.’

He knocks it back, slams the glass down on the counter. ‘Hit me again, George,’ he says.

And keep on hitting me till I’m numb.

When Doyle gets into the squadroom at seven-thirty that morning, he sees that Franklin is already in his office, deep in conversation with the sergeant heading up the midnight tour. As Doyle sits at his desk it’s as though it causes a buzzer to sound somewhere, because he sees the two men raise their heads and look across at him through Franklin’s window. A dead giveaway to Doyle that he’s the subject of their discussion.

Two minutes later, when the sergeant walks out to tidy up the tail end of his tour, Franklin beckons Doyle to enter. Wishing he’d stopped off to buy some Tylenol this morning, Doyle blinks against the pain he experiences with each step toward the lieutenant’s office.

‘You want to talk to me about what happened last night?’ Franklin asks.

Doyle is unsure as to what his boss already knows. So he tells him everything. Finishes by placing the latest letter from the killer on Franklin’s desk.

Franklin coasts a hand over his thinning hair. ‘Shit, Cal! What a fucking mess.’

It’s something Doyle can’t deny, so he doesn’t even try.

Franklin says, ‘You sure Rachel and Amy are safe? We need to send some uniforms over?’

Doyle considers this. He knows that Rachel would hate the idea. ‘No. I think they’re okay. I’ve done what that bastard wanted.’ He pauses. ‘You hear anything on the victim?’

‘A hooker from the West Side. From what you’ve just told me, it was probably only the fact that she didn’t look a whole lot different from your wife that got her killed. Shitty reason to die.’ He blows air in exasperation. ‘This’ll hit the desks of the brass this morning, Cal. You know I can’t sit on it. Somebody’s gonna make a connection, somebody else is gonna make a recommendation, and I’m gonna get a phone call.’

‘How long do I have?’

‘Who knows? Hours? Minutes? To be honest with you, Cal, I’m not even sure I’m doing the right thing waiting for that call.’

Doyle leans forward, rests his arms on the edge of the lieutenant’s desk. ‘Mo, please don’t pull me off this just yet. Not until you have no choice. I can’t be pacing a hotel room while all this is going on.’

Franklin picks up a pencil, taps it on the arm of his chair while he considers his next move.

‘You don’t look well to me, Cal.’

Doyle blinks. Does he look so obviously wrecked?

Franklin says, ‘I think maybe you should have called in sick today, at least for this morning. Maybe you’ll feel better around, say, after lunch, when I’m in meetings at 1PP.’

It dawns on Doyle then. He’s just been given a pass.

‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘I do feel kinda nauseous.’ Which isn’t that far from the truth.

He gets out of his chair and moves toward the door. ‘Thanks, Mo.’

Franklin waves him away. ‘Get out of here before I catch whatever it is you got. An affliction like that could be the death of an old guy like me.’

The five-story tenement building on Suffolk Street in the Lower East Side stinks of piss and stale cooking. On the second floor, Doyle pounds his fist on the door of apartment 2A for the fifth time.

A few yards away, a neighboring door opens and yellow light spills out into the dark hallway. A huge black woman in an indecently short nightdress steps out as if entering the spotlight on a stage. Doyle waits for her to start singing.

‘Hey! You ever think of using the damn doorbell?’

‘It ain’t working,’ Doyle says, and pounds again.

‘Hey, hey! Your momma ever show you how to knock on a door? Politely, I mean. Like this.’ With surprising grace, she extends a pudgy knuckle and raps lightly on her own door. ‘You see?’ she says quietly. ‘These apartments ain’t so big. Don’t need no sledgehammer to make yourself heard.’ She straightens up, raises her voice again. ‘Now show some consideration, you damn ignoramus.’ She hefts her bulk back into her apartment and slams the door with a force that is sure to wake up the whole building.

Doyle sighs and raises his fist again, holding it poised in the air when he hears the locks being taken off.

The door opens, and Doyle is greeted by a face that is less animated than many he’s viewed in the morgue.

‘Jesus, Spinner. It’s like waking the dead. You always sleep through people taking your door off its hinges?’

Spinner pries open one encrusted eyelid. ‘I need my beauty sleep. Ugly lunk like you could do with a bit more of it yourself.’

Doyle says, ‘You waiting for me to produce a bottle of wine before you invite me in?’ but then doesn’t linger for an answer before pushing the door open wider and stepping over the threshold.

The living room is a wreck. Unwashed dishes everywhere. Dark stains on the table and the carpet. There’s a smell of blocked drains. In various stacks on the floor are collections of items that Spinner hasn’t fenced yet — DVD players, GPS units, game consoles — all neatly packaged in brown cartons. Stamped onto each of the boxes is the outline of a squat-bodied bird with a long tail, sitting on a branch.