David Jackson - Pariah

‘If you’re giving me the runaround. .’

Bartok flops back in his chair. He looks irritated now. ‘Detective Doyle, this is starting to become tiresome. I made you an offer in good faith. My assumption was that you came here tonight because you decided to accept that offer. If you’ve changed your mind, then feel free to leave and go back to your scant existence in your miserable flea-pit of a hotel. It’s time, as the saying goes, to piss or get off the pot.’

So there it is, thinks Doyle. What’s it gonna be? Haven’t you already made up your mind? Are you really gonna get up and walk out of here without that name?

‘You want to know about Ramon Vitez.’

Bartok says nothing. He purses his lips slightly and waits.

Doyle says, ‘I’m not involved in that operation.’

He sees the fury igniting in Bartok’s eyes, a twitch appearing on the corner of his mouth.

‘But,’ Doyle adds, ‘I know one or two things.’

Bartok continues to wait. The room is silent, save for a steady pounding. Doyle isn’t sure whether it’s from the dance floor or his own heart. He opens his mouth, finds himself choking on his own words. This goes against everything in which he believes, everything he is.

‘New Year’s Day. Seven a.m. When all the revelers are still sleeping it off. East River Park. The handover will take place at a bench under the Williamsburg Bridge. That’s all I know.’

More silence. Bartok finishes his drink and passes a reptilian tongue over his thin lips, then smoothes his hair again.

‘Good enough?’ Doyle asks.

‘It’s a start,’ Bartok answers, and Doyle can see the devilish glee on the man’s face.

Stay calm. He’s fucking with your head. Stay calm.

‘The name, Kurt. Give me the name.’

‘In a moment. I need a little more. . persuading.’

Doyle leans forward suddenly, almost coming off his chair. Again he notices how Rocca and Bruno brace themselves.

‘Persuading is the last thing you want me to do, Kurt. You haven’t seen how I can persuade people. I’ve given you what you asked for, so you-’

‘You’ve given me nothing,’ Bartok says. He reaches for a drawer, slides it open. He pulls out a notepad and pushes it across the desk. On the top sheet of paper it says, ‘Ramon Vitez. East River Park. Jan 1.’

Doyle stares at the sheet for some time, then raises his gaze to Bartok. ‘What the fuck is this?’

‘Call it a test. A validation of your sincerity. You’ll be glad to hear that you’ve passed with flying colors. Now, tell me something I don’t know.’

Doyle leaps to his feet so fast, the heavies are almost caught off guard. He sees them reach beneath their jackets and start toward him.

‘Fuck you, Bartok!’ Doyle says. ‘You want to play games, do it with someone who’s prepared to lie down and roll over. I’m outta here, and when I come back, all the data in the world ain’t gonna save you from what I got in mind.’

He starts toward the door, wondering how far he’s going to get. Wondering whether they’re prepared to let him leave. Once again, he’s regretting giving up his gun. He gets to the door, reaches for the handle. .

‘He’s close, Detective Doyle.’

Doyle halts. Despite himself, he wants to hear what Bartok has to say.

‘He’s close,’ Bartok repeats. ‘You know him, in fact. And he knows oh so much about you. Don’t you want to know who it is?’

Doyle lowers his hand. I have to know, he thinks. I’ve come this far.

He turns to face Bartok. Rocca and Bruno are toward the front of the desk now, their hands still inside their jackets. A sneer on his ugly face, Bruno is straining against his leash, anxious to release some pent-up violence. Rocca’s face is impassive. He has no axe to grind, but there is no doubting his loyalty or conviction.

‘Come on, Detective. You’re already committed. Whether I knew about Vitez or not, the fact that you told me about him is enough to lose you your job and get you put in jail. You’ve proved yourself. All I’m asking for now is for you to demonstrate your usefulness. Please, sit down. Finish what you came here for.’

It’s true, Doyle thinks. He has me. I’m in. You can’t get back in the plane once you’ve jumped.

Slowly, he walks back to the chair. Bartok flicks his wrist and his guards back away, Bruno looking like he’s just had a prime steak snatched away from him.

Doyle sits down. Tries counting to ten before saying, ‘What do you want to know?’

Bartok waves his hand. ‘I’ll leave it to you. Surprise me.’ He says this as though he’s a food critic inviting a restaurant owner to impress him before he writes his review.

Doyle consults his mental menu and tries to avoid the expensive items.

‘Tito Sloane, one of Blue Tucker’s soldiers. Took a hit last month in a Chinatown parking lot. Tucker blames your crew for the hit, saying you claim he ripped off one of your mules.’

‘Ah, yes, Mr Tucker. Such a fantasist, and yet he’s determined to cause me a lot of problems at the moment.’

‘It’s gonna get worse. Tucker plans to even the score by acing one of your own operatives.’

He sees the sudden concern on Bartok’s face.

‘Who? When?’

‘I don’t know. Soon. Story is he’s psyched up for a war.’

Bartok blinks several times in a way that suggests he’s trying to bat away his anger. ‘The future killing of an unnamed associate at an unknown time and place, coming from a man who is widely known to despise me, is hardly one of the most valuable or even interesting pieces of information, Detective. You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘I’m not done. Suppose I told you I know a way to take the heat off?’

‘Go on.’

‘Have a word with Lionel Dafoe. He was the one who offed Sloane. Something about a beef over his girlfriend. It was also him spread the rumor it was down to you. You want proof, the nine he used for the hit is still in his apartment. The girlfriend will also confirm the story.’

Bartok thinks about this for a minute. Doyle wonders whether it’s enough. Because what he hasn’t told Bartok is that Dafoe has already fled to Mexico. Giving Bartok some proof that will take Tucker’s heat off him is one thing, but he’s not going to be responsible for setting up Dafoe to be killed.

Bartok says, ‘And you know this how?’

‘From a CI of mine, whose information was always reliable.’

‘ Was? That wouldn’t be poor old Spinner, would it? Such a shame about him. I hear that his wasn’t the quickest or most painless of endings.’

Doyle doesn’t want to talk about Spinner. Not with this monster.

‘Your move, Kurt. You’ve been paid. I want my goods.’

Bartok smiles. He makes Doyle wait that little bit longer.

‘Yes, I think you’ve earned your stripes. Perhaps now you’ll join me in a little drink to celebrate our new relationship?’

‘The name,’ Doyle says, and will keep on saying until he gets it.

‘All right,’ Bartok agrees. ‘The name. As I said, it’s a man you know already. You can stop digging into your past because-’

He doesn’t get any further.

Primarily because his throat has just exploded.

A hole has opened up in his neck, sending a fountain of blood spurting across his desk and onto Doyle’s leather jacket.

Bartok looks surprised that he can’t speak any longer. He sits there, his mouth moving soundlessly, seemingly unaware that the source of all that gushing blood is himself.

Doyle’s reaction isn’t exactly immediate either. He doesn’t know what has just happened here. The shock of what he has just witnessed has confused and paralyzed him. And then he zooms out, takes in the wider picture, sees the movement behind the man choking to death on his own blood.