David Jackson - Pariah

What saves the Bartoks from a nasty collision with rival organizations is the activities of the younger brother Kurt. Very much the brains of the outfit, Kurt’s specialty is information. His sources tend to be police officers he has turned using bribes, coercion or both. The information he gleans from the cops is extremely useful not only in safeguarding his family’s own criminal undertakings, but also as a commodity for selling on to other outfits, thereby keeping them sweet. All told, it’s a highly successful operation — an example to us all as to how to run a profitable and expanding business. Corporate America should be proud.

The reason Doyle knows all this is because three months ago he collared the Bartoks and Rocca for their part in a raid on a warehouse owned by a firm called Trogon Electronics. Naturally, with the lawyers they could hire and the people they could buy, they beat the rap before it even got to court. But word is that the Bartoks, and Lucas in particular, have never forgiven Doyle for his temerity. In his turn, Doyle feels no love for the Bartoks or their employees; hence his barb about Rocca’s inability to follow his true calling.

The struggle to maintain his composure is clear on Rocca’s face. It’s a while before he finds his jovial side once more. ‘Well, I think you know much more about that than I do, Mr Doyle. About people not wanting to accept you, I mean.’

Touché , Doyle thinks. How quickly word gets around.

‘How’d you get in here, anyway?’

The disarming smile again. ‘I ain’t just a pretty face, you know. I got skills, talents. The way I can get into places, some people think I can walk through walls.’

‘So you paid someone at the desk to make you another key card. Yeah, that’s mysterious all right. Look, you mind if I put some pants on? I’m feeling kind of exposed here.’

‘Sure, go ahead.’ With Doyle’s gun he gestures to the phone on the table. ‘You want I could call room service, get some fresh coffee sent up?’

‘Nah, that’s okay. You won’t be staying that long.’

Doyle stands up, but stumbles slightly and has to put his hand against the wall to steady himself.

Rocca says, ‘You sure about that caffeine? You look like you could do with it.’

Doyle frowns, finds his boxers and pants, and pulls them on. Being in a room with a criminal pointing your own gun at you is bad enough; being naked to boot is downright humiliating.

He sits on the bed. ‘All right, Sonny, what do you want? This payback time? Is that it? Lucas Bartok not able to sleep at nights with the thought of his arresting officer still walking the streets?’

‘Come on, Mr Doyle. I wanted to cap you, I coulda done it while you were counting sheep or opening doors or whatever.’

‘Maybe you got instructions to make me suffer first. That’s more Lucas’s style.’

‘Believe me, if Mr Bartok decided he wanted you dead, he’d come and do it himself, and then you would be wishing I got to you first. No, you got it all wrong. I’m here to offer you some assistance.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t need a maid. The hotel’s got its own housekeepers.’

Rocca laughs. ‘You’re a funny guy, Mr Doyle. That’s what I like about you. Always with the jokes, even when you got nothing left to laugh about.’ He leans forward on the chair. ‘See, what I hear is that you’ve been dumped. And I ain’t just talking about a wife or a girlfriend here; I’m talking about everyone . The whole world has put you out with the garbage.’ He shakes his head. ‘You know, every time I think about that I find it hard to believe. How is it possible for one person to be so obnoxious that the whole world turns against them? That really has to be a first. You should get in the record books for that one.’

‘ Au contraire , Sonny. People are dying to meet me.’

Rocca slaps his palm on the table, laughs even louder. ‘See, there you go again. The jokes. Dying to meet you. That’s clever. Very funny.’

‘I got plenty more, you want to hear them.’

‘Another time, maybe. Another time. But seriously, this thing about people dying wherever you go, that must be a bit of a downer, no?’

‘It does kinda take the shine off the day.’

Rocca jabs his gun toward Doyle. ‘Exactly what I thought. I can see how that could start to get a little depressing after a while. Mr Bartok thinks so too. Which is why he’d like to talk to you.’

‘Don’t tell me. He wants to make me an offer I can’t refuse.’

Rocca jabs again, and Doyle starts to worry about the position of Rocca’s trigger finger.

‘Don’t think I don’t get the reference. The Godfather , right?’

‘I can do it in a Marlon Brando voice if you prefer.’

‘So how about it? You willing to come with me and have a little chat with Mr Bartok?’

Doyle glances at the bedside clock. ‘Now? It’s two in the morning.’

Rocca looks askance at him. ‘It’s Saturday night. The city’s still rocking. Come on, Mr Doyle, live a little.’

Doyle sighs. ‘You mind if I finish dressing?’

‘Please. It’s cold out there. Don’t want you to catch your death .’

Doyle points a finger and thumb at him, pistol-style. ‘I see what you did there. You’re catching on.’

He finds the shirt he tossed on the floor a few hours ago. It’s a little crumpled, but it’ll do. It’s not like he’s going for a job interview.

‘Speaking about catching my death, what about you? You not afraid to step outside with me, case it leads to you getting your head blown off?’

He isn’t looking directly at Rocca as he asks this, but he catches sight of him in the wall mirror. He sees that Rocca is temporarily flummoxed, as though the notion that this might be putting him in danger has never occurred to him. It takes Rocca a few seconds to come up with a response.

‘If this guy knows anything, and from what I hear he knows a lot, he’ll understand that nobody hurts the Bartok family or anyone who works for them. Maybe you cops can’t find him, but believe me, Mr Bartok would hunt him down and the outcome would not be pleasant.’

To Doyle the reply lacks conviction, but he lets it go and finishes dressing.

‘You done?’ Rocca asks, getting up from the chair.

‘All except my nine. You mind if I have it back? I still feel naked without it.’

Rocca hefts Doyle’s gun in his hand. ‘It’s okay with you, I’ll hang onto it for a while.’

Doyle shrugs. ‘All right. Just don’t look at me to save your ass when the boogeyman starts shooting at us.’

He watches Rocca’s face, and again the reaction isn’t what he expected. He can’t fathom it, but something’s going on in Rocca’s mind. Maybe he really is starting to worry about this assignment.

They head toward the door. ‘Nice jacket,’ Rocca says. ‘Quality leather. You like my suit?’

Doyle gives him the once-over. ‘Sharp.’

Pleased with the compliment, Rocca puffs out his chest. ‘It’s Italian.’

‘I might have guessed,’ Doyle says.

The car is a fully specced Lexus. Rocca drives, with Doyle slumped in the back, allowing himself the short-lived luxury of feeling like a VIP. Both men know that, at anytime, Doyle could make a play to retrieve his gun and take control of the situation, but what’s the point? This isn’t a kidnapping; it’s a lift to a meeting. At the moment, Doyle feels no need to give Rocca any grief.

They drive over to the Meatpacking District — a small patch of west Manhattan into which once were crammed a couple of hundred slaughterhouses and packing plants, and where the air hummed with the odor of dead flesh. Now most of the meat-processing companies have gone, to be replaced by clubs and bars and restaurants, and the smell on the night-time breeze is mostly that of money.