David Jackson - Pariah

Spinner says, ‘But I’ll do what I can, okay? Because you’re a buddy, right? Because we go back a long way. Because there was a time when you and me, we weren’t so different.’

Silence descends again. The two men face each other in the room, both lost in their thoughts, their memories. Both recalling a time when they had the same dreams for a better future. Both wondering how it was possible for their paths to diverge so greatly, and yet for them still to be thrown together in this crummy apartment.

The door. He remembers the door vividly. It’s painted in cream and has a crack running down its center panel. The handle is in aged brass, and there are finger marks all around it.

And it’s swinging shut. Slowly, to be sure, but it’s definitely swinging shut. He is certain about that, oh yes. He can still see it now. Moving.

Doyle snaps himself out of it, focuses on what’s happening on the sidewalk ahead of him. Two uniformed cops, outside of a bodega here on 120th Street. They have responded to a call to deal with an EDP — an Emotionally Disturbed Person — and have been trying to reason with the man for the last ten minutes.

The man, who looks to Doyle to be homeless and in his early fifties, points back to the bodega as he speaks. Despite the intense cold he has no coat, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. His tirade becomes more animated, and Doyle notices how the cops tense when the man rips open his shirt. Even from here Doyle can see the vicious pink scar that runs all the way down his chest. The man points to it, then up at the sky. From the way that the cops glance at each other, Doyle guesses that the man has started blaming aliens or satellite death rays or some such for his disfigurement.

The debate goes on for another ten minutes before the cops eventually calm the man down and convince him to pull his shirt together and go on his way. Even then, the man stops every few yards and yells something at the waiting officers.

Good job, boys, Doyle thinks. Now let’s see how you handle this one.

He gets out of his car, starts walking toward the two officers. His stride is steady, purposeful, but the cops are unaware of his approach. It’s only when he’s a few yards away that they turn to face him, still shaking their heads and laughing over their previous encounter.

The smiles evaporate when they see Doyle.

Officer Danny Marino points a warning finger. ‘Get the fuck out of here, Doyle. If you know what’s good for you. .’

‘I got a question for you, Marino.’

‘Stick it up your ass. I’m outta here.’ He starts walking around to the driver’s side of his radio car.

‘Not good enough, Marino. I need an answer.’

He starts to follow, but Marino’s partner, a testosterone-infused gym rat called Smits, blocks his path.

‘You heard him, Detective. He doesn’t want to speak to you.’

Doyle looks him hard in the eye. ‘This doesn’t concern you, Smits. Step out of the way.’ He tries to go around the man-mountain, but finds himself facing a wall of muscle again. Only this time Smits compounds his mistake by putting a restraining hand on Doyle’s chest.

Doyle slaps the hand away, then shoves Smits backwards so hard that he has to windmill his arms to maintain his balance. His back thuds into the patrol car, rocking it on its suspension, and for a second or two, Smits appears surprised that anyone would have the temerity to do such a thing. But then a pearly-white grin spreads itself across his face. Like he’s been looking forward to an opportunity like this for a long time.

He launches himself off the vehicle like he’s a charging bull, head down and eyes up, nostrils flaring.

It’s an easy one for Doyle. He uses Smits’s huge momentum against him, standing his ground then quickly sidestepping and landing a full-force punch on his opponent’s cheek as he sails past.

Smits shakes his head, puts on a smile as if to pretend that the blow was like being hit by cotton candy. But it’s obvious to Doyle that the man is already beaten. He just doesn’t know it yet.

When Smits bellows and comes back at him, it’s without confidence. Doyle can see the uncertainty, the fear in his eyes. When Smits shoots his arm out, it’s easily blocked, and Doyle counters with one, two jabs to the chin. He finishes with a swinging roundhouse to the jaw that feels to him as though it should take Smits’s head off his shoulders. When it collides, saliva flies from Smits’s mouth as he crashes against the door of the radio car and slides down it, his eyes rolling back in their sockets.

Doyle’s thoughts turn back to Marino a millisecond too late. He catches a flash of rapid motion in the corner of his eye, just as something whips into his skull with a sickening crack that makes Doyle wonder if his brains are about to spill out. He falls headlong toward the white and blue sector car, almost tripping over the feet of the befuddled Smits. His hands come up instinctively to protect his face, and he feels sharp pain as his forearm smacks into the stiff metal support strut holding the windshield.

He knows this could be the end for him, but instinct comes to his rescue again and he allows gravity to yank him down as he whirls to face his attacker. This time the millisecond is in his favor, as Marino’s baton skims the top of his head before it collides with the vehicle’s side window, shattering it and showering Doyle with a thousand glinting fragments of glass.

Doyle knows there can be no delay in his reaction. As Marino pulls his arm back for the coup de grâce, Doyle pushes himself up and off the sidewalk. He throws his whole weight behind his right fist, driving it hard into Marino’s solar plexus, so hard he swears he feels it connect with the man’s spine. It’s like uncorking a champagne bottle: there’s an explosion of gas and wet spray from Marino’s mouth, and his eyes look fit to shoot out in the same direction. Doyle doesn’t wait to find out if Marino is still combat-fit. He follows with an uppercut to Marino’s chin that practically causes the cop to levitate above the sidewalk before crashing down into a crumpled heap.

With Marino rolling on the ground, clutching his belly and wondering why he can’t suck up any oxygen, Doyle glances at Smits again and sees that he’s fumbling for his sidearm. Doyle whips out his own Glock and levels it at Smits.

‘Don’t do it, Smits. So help me God, I’ll take you out.’

Smits slowly withdraws his hand. Tries to glare at Doyle through eyes that don’t seem altogether in sync.

Doyle alternates his aim between Smits and Marino, alert for any sign that one of them wants to try his luck. He’s oblivious to anything that exists outside of their own three-cornered world, and starting to realize how absurd that world has become. He feels ashamed that he’s had to draw down on these officers like he’s a gunslinger from a spaghetti western. His shame turns to embarrassment when he hears the whoops and cheers coming from farther up the street. He risks a glance upwards, sees that an audience has gathered to watch the fun. A knot of black kids, all astride their bicycles.

‘Shoot ’em,’ one of the kids shouts.

‘Yeah, go on. Dead those motherfuckers.’

Great, Doyle thinks. Me being such a fine example to the impressionable youth of this city.

Seconds later, Marino regurgitates his last helping of coffee and donuts onto the sidewalk.

‘Gross,’ says one of the kids. ‘Yo! Watchoo waitin’ for? Put that motherfucker outta his misery.’

Doyle moves closer to Marino, kicks his shoe. ‘You gonna answer my question now, Marino?’

Marino struggles a bit more for breath. ‘Fuck you, Doyle. You fucked my wife and then you murdered her. The only help you’ll get from me is to put you in a body bag.’