David Jackson - Pariah

Doyle remembers now why he always regarded Kurt as the more dangerous of the two brothers. With Lucas, what you see is what you get. There are no hidden depths, no subtleties. If he says he’s coming at you, then start running or get ready to fight for your life. With Kurt it’s a different story. He’s his brother wrapped up in a false skin, able to shed it at anytime. He is not handsome by any means, but he can be a perfect gentleman, and that seems to attract people. He’s the college graduate: the one who got his brother’s share when brains were being handed out. He can be convincing too, able to bend wills with his logic and voice of reason. And that’s where the danger lies. Because he puts you at your ease, makes you believe he’s your friend, your ally. If and when he strikes, you’ll never see it coming.

Doyle recalls the time he arrested this crew. Rocca and the Bartoks, cooped up in the pen at the station house. Lucas throwing himself at the sides of the cage, cursing and raging about how he was going to tear the place apart and rip the limbs from every cop he found. But Kurt just stood there. Impassive. Watching. Studying every move that Doyle made. Seemingly making mental notes of everything that was said. Doyle remembers thinking to himself then that Kurt is the one to be wary of. He’s the real threat in that cage.

‘So, to business,’ Bartok says, all sweetness and light again. He relaxes in his seat, then pats down his sculpted hair. ‘I hear you’ve landed yourself in a little predicament.’

Doyle has already decided he’s going to play a defensive game here. Let Bartok do all the talking.

‘You heard that, huh?’

‘I didn’t have to listen very hard. You’re the talk of the town. You’re probably the only person that everybody wants to discuss, but nobody wants to be near. A unique position to be in, don’t you think?’

‘It’s nice to have a specialty. I can also whistle through my nose.’

Bartok hums a note of amusement. ‘It’s good that you can make light of it. Although I don’t really think you find it so humorous. I think that, deep down inside, it’s killing you.’

Doyle mulls over his next words carefully. Bartok isn’t buying his feigned lack of concern. He sees right through that, and he plans to keep scraping away at that raw nerve until Doyle is a gibbering neurotic mess, malleable in any way Bartok chooses.

‘Look, I appreciate the interest in my psychological well-being and all, but I don’t need to be talking to no Sigmund Freud right now. You got something for me, put it on the table.’

‘You’re an impatient man, Detective. I can see that you don’t like to wait around. I think that’s one of the reasons this is so difficult for you. You want to be out on the hunt, not left at home like some abandoned housewife.’

Doyle puts the tip of his index finger on Bartok’s desk. ‘On the table.’

Bartok tents his fingers in front of him. ‘You’ve been asking a lot of questions lately.’

‘I usually find it’s the best way to get answers.’

‘You’re asking, “Why me? Who’s got me in their sights?”’

‘You been reading my diary? Try the pages on my bachelor party; they’re a lot more fun.’

‘I don’t need to read your personal outpourings to know you’re desperately in need of a friend right now, Detective. Perhaps I can be that friend.’

‘No offense, Kurt old buddy old pal, but when I get that desperate I’ll talk to the trees. Sometimes they make a lot of sense, did you know that?’

‘Can they tell you who killed your two partners?’ Here we go again, Doyle thinks. ‘Two partners plus a few other people.’

Bartok shrugs. ‘A pimp, a couple of whores, a junkie fence. I don’t think you’re really interested in them.’

It’s Doyle’s turn to lean forward. ‘Now you got me getting heated. I’ll make you a deal. You don’t tell me how to do my job, and I won’t make jokes about the birds flying around in your brother’s skull.’

Doyle can see Bartok’s jaw clenching. There is visible annoyance there, but tempered by the acceptance of a fair point.

‘All right,’ says Bartok. ‘Allow me to rephrase: Can your arboreal friends tell you who killed all those people?’

‘No. Can you?’

‘Not at the moment.’

‘What I thought.’

‘But I believe I could find out.’

‘You do, huh? And what makes you think you can do that?’

Bartok pats at his hair again, preening himself. ‘Detective Doyle, in case you don’t already know it, my business is information. It’s how I make my livelihood. I keep my ear to the ground, my nose to the air.’

‘That’s a neat trick. Can you put your thumb up your ass at the same time?’

Bartok ignores him. ‘It’s the information age, Detective. Data is the new commodity. Tapping into the right sources can be like drilling into an oil well or a gold mine. The talent lies in finding the right places to look.’

‘Uh-huh. You wanna give me a clue as to what those sources might be?’

Bartok laughs. ‘Don’t give up your day job, Detective. If that’s your best attempt at negotiation, you’d never make an entrepreneur. Now, are you interested?’

‘Let me get this straight. The guy who’s popping all these people connected to me, you’re saying you know who that is?’

Bartok raises a corrective finger. ‘Not quite. I’m saying I can find out who it is.’

Doyle pauses for a moment. There it is, the bait is being dangled in front of him. But Doyle knows it hides a nasty hook.

He says, ‘For a price.’ A statement rather than a question.

‘Ah, now you’re starting to get the hang of business practice. A little blunt, perhaps, but we can work on that. Yes, like everything in life, it has a price.’

‘And that price is?’

‘Don’t worry. I don’t want your money. I know you’re running up large hotel and laundry bills at the moment. I’m more interested in a like-for-like deal. My information for your information.’

‘Information on what?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure there’s a whole range of juicy nuggets you could toss my way.’

‘Give me a for-instance.’

‘A for-instance? Hm, let me see. Well, rumor has it that some of the men of your precinct are assisting in an undercover operation to catch one Ramon Vitez in the act of selling large quantities of heroin. I’d be very interested to learn a few more of the details of that operation.’

‘Goodbye, Kurt. It’s been fun.’ Doyle stands abruptly, causing Rocca and the other heavy to flinch. He looks at Sonny. ‘You mind if I have my piece back now?’

Rocca starts to walk toward Doyle, reaching into the back of his waistband.

‘Did I say you could move?’

This from Bartok. A question dripping with threats. Rocca looks down at Bartok, who glares back at him with an intensity that could melt glaciers. Rocca slips back to his post like a scolded dog into its kennel.

Doyle says, ‘It’s over, Kurt. Give me my gun now, or I’m walking out of here anyway and coming back with an army.’

‘Yes, because the NYPD is bending over backwards to help you right now, isn’t it?’

‘The gun, Bartok. Now.’

‘You need help. I’m offering it to you. Take it.’

‘I don’t need your help. Not at that price.’

Doyle turns, and starts to walk away. He doesn’t want to go without his gun, but what choice does he have?

‘Then why did you come here tonight?’

The question stops him. Yes, why did I agree to come here? I know how Bartok works. If I’m honest with myself, I could have reasoned that the meeting would lead to this. So why didn’t I just say thanks but no thanks?

‘Twenty-four hours, Detective.’