David Jackson - Pariah

Doyle faces Bartok again. ‘What?’

‘I can give you a name in twenty-four hours, max. Maybe even a lot sooner than that. You think the NYPD can match that?’

Doyle cannot help but stand there and listen. He knows he should follow his impulse to get the hell out of here, but he can’t move. Bartok has hypnotized him.

Bartok continues: ‘You think the NYPD is even trying to solve your case? While you’re out of the way, nobody is getting killed. Maybe that’s good enough for them. Maybe some of them like having you out of their hair. I mean, they’re not exactly rallying around you at the moment, are they? Think about it. How often are they phoning you with updates? How often do they ask you to provide them with more leads? And even if there was a team of hotshot detectives on the case twenty-four-seven, how much hope do you have that they’ll crack it? The killer’s clever, from what I hear. How long do you think it’ll be before they catch him? Days? Weeks? Months? Can you wait that long? Are you prepared to sit alone in your pit of a hotel, unable to see your family or anyone else for months on end? I know I couldn’t do it. I don’t think there are many human beings who could. We’re sociable animals. The drive to interact is in our genes. Denial of such a basic need would cause many of us to self-destruct.’

Bartok pauses, allowing his message to sink in. ‘I’m offering you your life back, Detective Doyle. By tomorrow night, you could be free from your personal hell, able to return to your home, your family. I think the price I’m asking is tiny in comparison to that freedom.’

‘Don’t dress it up in ribbons and bows, Kurt. You’re trying to buy me. Another pocket cop to add to your collection. That’s what it comes down to.’

‘As I said, you have a tendency to be blunt about things. I prefer to think of it as the start of a long and mutually beneficial business arrangement.’ He puts the tip of his finger on the desk, exactly as Doyle did earlier. ‘So there you have it. It’s on the table, just as you asked. What’s your answer?’

Doyle stares into Bartok’s questioning eyes and thinks, My answer should be go fuck yourself. Stick your offer up your ass and then wait here while I bring in a shit-load of cops to raid your club and haul your ass off to jail.

But he doesn’t say any of this. For one thing, he knows he can’t touch Bartok. Nobody else in this room is about to confirm that this little powwow ever took place. And for another thing, he’s not sure yet that he wants to reject the offer.

Shit! Am I really thinking that? Am I really even considering the possibility of entering into a partnership with this crazy bastard? Fuck that! It’s ridiculous. Absurd. I’d sell my own mother before cozying up with Bartok.

And yet. .

‘I’ll think about it.’

Bartok blinks. ‘You’ll think about it?’

‘I need time to weigh it up. You’re asking a lot.’

‘I’m offering a lot. It should be a no-brainer.’ He sighs softly, then looks down at his finger still poised on the desk surface. ‘The deal stays here until the end of the day. Midnight. After that. .’ He takes his finger away to show Doyle that, after midnight, all bets are off. ‘In the meantime, I’ll start to make some inquiries. By the time you call, I should have the information you need.’

‘If I call. ’

Bartok’s smile is smug. He gestures to Rocca, who escorts Doyle to the door. Doyle turns one final time to Bartok and says, ‘By the way, you’ve got some hair out of place there.’

As he is engulfed by the throbbing music once more, Doyle smiles inwardly at the thought of Bartok scrabbling for the mirror in his desk drawer.

In the passenger seat of the Lexus, Doyle tries to get his fogged brain to think rationally about Bartok’s offer. Behind the wheel, Rocca seems to read his thoughts.

‘You gonna make the deal? You should. Mr Bartok’s a fair man. He’ll treat you square.’

Doyle looks at Rocca. ‘Kurt Bartok is a conniving sack of shit. His brother should have been put down at birth. Tell me something, Sonny, why do you work for those savages? I saw the way they treated you back there.’

For a while, Rocca doesn’t say anything. He keeps his eyes on the road ahead.

‘Sometimes,’ he says finally, ‘you don’t have a lot of choice, you know? When you’re drowning, and there’s only one guy putting his hand out to save you, you take it, right? You don’t question his motives, you don’t try to work out whether he’s a good guy or a bad guy. You just take the hand. And from that moment on, he owns you. Even if he treats you bad sometimes, he still owns you. You get what I’m saying?’

Doyle doesn’t answer. He understands exactly what his philosopher companion has just said.

Pretty much the same thought has already gone through his own head.

He wakes up with his clothes on. He thinks he can still hear the music from Bartok’s club, but it’s just his brain pounding against his skull.

He looks at the bedside clock, and is surprised to see that it’s nearly ten o’clock in the morning. He remembers getting into his hotel room, lying on the bed, then trying to think through his options. At some point — he doesn’t know what time — he must have dozed off.

He rolls off the bed, glances at himself in the mirror, sees that he looks like shit. He has that failed-businessman appearance — the guy who loses all his money and his job and his wife, then ends up drinking from a brown paper bag and sleeping on a park bench.

He strips off and tosses his clothes into a corner. Treats himself to a fifteen-minute shower. As he selects a permutation of the few clean clothes he brought with him, he tries to work out how long it’ll be before he needs to start paying for laundry service.

Leaving the room, he drapes the ‘Do not disturb’ sign over the door handle. He takes the elevator down to the restaurant, has a bowl of Cheerios, some toast and coffee, then returns to his room and pulls a chair over to the window.

And then he thinks again.

He spends over two hours sitting, thinking, pacing, worrying. And at the end of it all, he knows that there’s really nothing to analyze. The choices are stark and simple. You sign your life over to the devil, with all that that entails, or you suffer in silence, waiting for the relief that may never come. You’re damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.

He stands up, opens the window and sticks his head out to get a look at the street below. He wants to be out there, feeling that he’s doing something — anything — to accelerate this to a conclusion. But he knows how far the word has spread. Nobody will talk to him. Nobody will go near him. And even if they would, how could he bring himself to take the chance of endangering yet another life?

Shit!

He closes the window and picks up the phone receiver. He presses for an outside line and then dials a number at the Eighth Precinct.

‘Lieutenant Franklin.’

‘Mo, it’s me. Cal.’

‘Cal! How you doing?’

‘So-so. Getting itchy feet — that’s for sure. It’s kinda hard being on the outside like this.’

‘Yeah, I understand that. Bear with it, Cal. It won’t be long now.’

‘Yeah? You got some hot leads?’

Franklin hesitates, which says to Doyle, No, we got nothing .

‘We’re working all the angles, Cal. Don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten about you. The whole team is still on this.’

‘Uh-huh. You track down Rodriguez?’

‘Yeah. He’s dead. Died of a drug overdose last month.’

‘What about Lewis Stanton? He made a lot of noise about me when they carted him off to Rikers.’