David Jackson - Pariah

Doyle thinks about his meeting with Bartok, his handing over of confidential intelligence. He looks into Paulson’s eyes and somehow knows that he will detect a lie.

‘Probably.’

Paulson stares back, and for once Doyle sees something there that is more cop than cop hunter.

‘Ask me,’ says Paulson.

Doyle gathers himself. ‘The other day, outside the boxing gym, you said the reason you turned up was because you already had a vested interest in the precinct. I think those were your exact words.’

‘Vested interest. Yeah, that sounds like something I might say. That your question?’

‘An interest in the precinct. Not in me. In the precinct. When you said you thought there was nothing to find on me, I thought you were just yanking my chain, but you were serious, weren’t you? I also thought that Schneider called you in because of me, but he didn’t, did he? You were already looking at the Eighth Precinct for other reasons.’

Paulson raises his thick eyebrows. ‘Maybe.’

‘Come on, Paulson. Are you gonna talk to me, or what?’

‘You know better than that. You know I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation.’

Doyle pushes himself back in his seat. ‘What the fuck? This is you being straight with me? I’m wasting my fucking time here.’

He starts to slide out of the booth.

‘’Course,’ Paulson says, ‘what I would do is deny anything I know to be totally inaccurate.’

Doyle halts, sits down again. So that’s how he wants to play it. Cloak-and-dagger stuff. Plausible deniability. The old Deep Throat routine.

‘All right,’ Doyle says. ‘So you’re looking at a cop. There’s a dirty cop in the Eighth.’

Paulson shrugs. ‘You wanna pay the bill now? I’m dying for a smoke.’

No denial. So it’s true.

Doyle digs out his wallet, finds some bills to throw on the table.

‘And I’m not in your sights this time?’

‘Not this time. Not unless you wanna confess something.’

‘So who? Who’s the cop?’

‘Come on, Doyle.’

‘Someone on patrol? Anti-Crime? The detective squad?’

‘I dunno.’ He sees the look on Doyle’s face. ‘Seriously. I don’t know. And I couldn’t tell you even if I did. Come on, let’s get out of here. You want that donut?’

Shit, thinks Doyle. It’s something, but he could do with more. A lot more.

They stand and head out of the coffee shop. Outside, the cold air hits Doyle hard, and he rubs his hands together. His mind is racing ahead.

‘You get what you wanted?’ Paulson asks, starting on Doyle’s donut.

‘Some of it.’

‘Maybe you haven’t asked all the right questions.’

Doyle looks at Paulson. There’s a twinkle in the man’s dark eyes. A hint of something hidden there that he is daring Doyle to pursue.

‘They’re all the questions I got.’

‘Maybe next time,’ Paulson says. He puts out his hand.

Doyle stares at the hand and wonders whether he has forgiven the man for what he did to him.

‘Maybe next time,’ he says.

He turns, starts to walk back to his car.

When he hears his name being thrown after him, it’s not just a casual call.

It’s a yell.

A scream, in fact.

When Doyle whirls, he sees Paulson running straight at him, his arms coming up, the donut dropping from his hand, his teeth bared as though he’s about to bite Doyle’s face off.

It happens too fast for Doyle to reach for his gun. Too unexpected for him even to step out of the way. As Paulson slams into him at gut level, bringing him up and off the sidewalk like he’s stopping a winning touchdown, Doyle hears a long burst of noise and thinks his eardrums are exploding with the air being punched out of him. He turns his head as he crashes to the ground with Paulson on top of him. Sees the black sedan cruising by, flame leaping from the stubby muzzle of a sub-machine gun poking through the vehicle’s rear window. He hears glass shattering above him, then feels needles of it raining on his face and puncturing it.

He rolls Paulson off him and scrambles to his feet. He snatches out his Glock, but the car is already screeching around a corner. He can’t see who’s inside, but he knows who’s pulling their strings.

He turns back to Paulson, who is still on the ground, a twisted smile on his face.

‘You okay, Paulson?’

In reply, Paulson displays his open palm. It’s red and slick.

Doyle crouches down next to him and pulls the man’s coat aside. The shirt over Paulson’s abdomen is soaked in his blood.

‘Shit, Paulson. What the fuck do you think you were doing?’ He looks both ways along the block, sees that someone has dared to show his face through one of the doorways. ‘Call 911 now! Ask for an ambulance and police. Tell them there’s been shots fired and there’s a cop down. A cop down, understand? Do it!’

He examines the wound again. ‘Bullet’s gone right through. There’s an ambulance bus on its way. You’re gonna be okay, Paulson. You hear me? You’re gonna be okay.’

Paulson’s face is so white it reflects the neon signs from the storefronts. He says, ‘Life’s never dull when you’re around, is it, Doyle? Maybe I should have answered your questions on the phone like you wanted.’

‘Would have been a whole lot safer.’

‘Yeah, but then I would have missed out on our cozy little chat. Worth it, don’t you think?’

‘Sure, Paulson. Hang in there, okay? Hang in there.’

‘You get a look at your man in the car?’

‘Uh-uh.’

‘Pity.’

‘Put your hand here. Try to stop the bleeding.’

Doyle hears sirens in the distance. They’re growing closer, their urgency fueled by the 10–13 call. Doyle knows he’s going to have a lot of explaining to do. It’s time he doesn’t feel he can spare right now.

Paulson sees the expression on his face. He says, ‘Why do I get the feeling you don’t want to be here when the cops arrive?’

‘I got this aversion to authority figures. Now shut the fuck up and save your energy.’

‘You worked out the question yet, Doyle?’

‘What?’

‘The question you should have asked me.’

‘No, I. . no.’

‘For fuck’s sake, do I have to do all your thinking for you? Ask me how I know there’s a dirty cop in your precinct.’

‘Okay, how do you know about the dirty cop?’

Paulson’s body jerks, and he groans with the pain in his abdomen.

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Jesus Christ, Paulson. This is no fucking time for games.’

‘It’s an ongoing investigation, Doyle. Give me something I can deny or not. A yes-no question.’

The sirens are louder now, just blocks away, probably trying to fight through the traffic.

‘Okay, uhm. . let me think. . uhm, an operation. It went south. An intelligence leak.’

‘I couldn’t comment.’

No denial.

‘And the outfit involved, the crew that got away because of the leak. You know who they were.’

‘You do too, don’t you, Doyle?’

Doyle almost can’t bring himself to utter the name.

‘Kurt Bartok.’

Paulson coughs. ‘No comment. Now get the fuck out of here.’

Doyle looks down the street. He can see flashing lights bouncing off the buildings.

‘I’m staying with you.’

‘I can tell you got other things to do, and I don’t need you, so go!’

‘You saved my life.’

‘And now I’m saving your ass. Don’t worry, I’m not jamming you up. Last time I checked, I was a sergeant and you were a DT Second Grade, so take this as an order to leave. Go, will ya!’

Doyle stands and looks around, sees the approaching RMPs and an ambulance. Before he leaves, he performs one last act.