David Jackson - Pariah

‘Rough day?’ she asks.

‘Kind of.’

He pauses, and the two women, both police wives, know not to interrupt his silence.

Finally he says, ‘Joe was killed last night.’

There is an audible intake of breath from Nadine, like a cry in reverse. In Rachel, Doyle detects a slight slump, as though something within her has just fallen away. They live with this worry every day, Doyle realizes, that their loved ones may not come home. And the fear is driven into them even more when a member of service is killed, and they are reminded that the protection offered by a badge and a gun can be as fragile as life itself.

‘Joe Parlatti ?’ Rachel asks, the shock evident in her voice.

Doyle nods. ‘It’ll be all over the news by now.’

Rachel glances at the television, but makes no attempt to switch it on.

‘What happened?’

‘He was found dead on a vacant lot. We think he went in to help out a hooker who’d been beaten and dumped there. The killer got both of them.’

There is another whimper from Nadine, who has her hand clamped to her mouth as if she is about to cry or vomit.

Rachel’s eyes flutter closed, and it looks as though she is thinking a prayer. ‘God, Cal. You know who did it?’

Doyle shakes his head. He doesn’t want to be any more negative than that, doesn’t want to give voice to the feeling that the killer has been so careful and devious that they may never catch him.

‘So that was my day,’ he says. ‘Sorry to bring the mood down.’

Rachel reaches across and consoles Nadine by rubbing her thigh. Doyle has now lost the urge to read any eroticism into the action.

Nadine gets up. ‘I should go home,’ she says. ‘Wait for Mo to get in.’

‘He’s on his way,’ Doyle says. ‘Left before me.’

‘He is? Okay.’

Rachel leaves the sofa too, and goes to fetch Nadine’s coat.

‘I’m sorry, Cal,’ Nadine says. ‘To hear that about Joe. I know you worked well together.’

Doyle nods. He is almost sorry he brought the subject up. This perfunctory conversation contrasts jarringly with the levity, the easy chatter of a few minutes earlier. He feels like he has just told a dirty joke at a party, unaware that all the attendees are nuns.

Rachel brings back the coat, then sees Nadine out.

‘You want a beer?’ she asks when she comes back.

‘Nah. I just want to sit a while.’ He leans his head back against the chair. ‘What’d Nadine want?’

‘Just company. I think she’s still finding it hard to adjust to being a cop’s wife. The long hours, not knowing if your husband is safe.’ She retakes her place on the sofa. ‘You know, we do have a phone here.’

Doyle realizes that it’s no longer Nadine she is talking about, but herself.

‘What do you mean?’

She goes to say something, then changes it to a simple ‘Nothing.’

‘No. Tell me what’s on your mind.’

She looks down at her hands as she scratches at something in her palm, saying nothing. When she finally looks up, a tear escapes and runs down the side of her nose.

‘It could have been you, Cal. Joe was a good cop and a nice guy. He shouldn’t be dead, and it must be cutting you up inside. But if it can happen to him then it can happen to you. I need to know you’re safe, Cal. When you’re out there doing what you do, I need to know you’re okay. Can you imagine what would have gone through my head if I had turned on the TV and heard that a detective from the Eighth Precinct had been found dead with a hooker?’

As she says this, her other eye sends down a tear to join the first. Doyle gets up and crosses over to her. He sits next to her and pulls her into his embrace, absorbing the warmth of her body and enjoying the comfort it brings, but also sensing the slight heaving of her shoulders as she cries more freely.

When they finally part, Rachel reaches her hand up to wipe the wetness away from Doyle’s own cheeks.

‘Just call me, okay? Not every hour. Not even every day — I know how hectic it can get for you. But once in a while. Especially when something like this happens.’ She smiles at him. ‘Deal?’

‘Deal.’ He hugs her again, seals the contract with a kiss.

She ruffles his hair as she stands up. ‘I think you need that beer now.’

She walks away, still talking as she tries to lighten the mood. ‘You know, Amy’s got her Christmas dance show on Saturday. She’ll be getting a medal, and she really, really wants you to be there.’

‘I’ll be there. Promise.’

She pauses at the door and smiles teasingly at him. ‘I got a ticket for Nadine too. She’ll be there, in case it makes any difference.’

‘Who? That dumpy broad? Why should that matter to me?’

‘Right answer,’ she says, laughing.

She disappears into the kitchen, then comes back a minute later clutching a cold bottle of Heineken. He takes it from her, stares for too long at the vapor tumbling down its sides.

‘What?’ she says. ‘Tell me.’

‘Joe wasn’t just any member of the squad. He was my partner .’

As he stresses the word, he notices a shift in Rachel’s posture, like she expects what’s coming.

‘Yes, I know. And?’

‘One or two of the guys, they’re making noises about that, giving me a hard time. Because of what happened, back in my old precinct.’

Rachel’s lips tighten. This subject has not been discussed for many months. There is an unwritten, unspoken rule that it never will be again. Which is understandable, Doyle thinks, given that it nearly destroyed their marriage.

‘That’s bullshit,’ she declares. ‘And you can tell them I said that. Joe had to be somebody’s partner, and he just happened to be yours. What occurred with that woman a year ago has no connection with what happened to Joe last night. I’ll fix you a sandwich.’

She turns on her heel and marches back to the kitchen, a stiffness in her figure that was not there previously.

Tony Alvarez begins to think he must be getting old or sick or something. Not so long ago he would have been hitting the bars and clubs about now, working his charm, making his moves. Or else he would be in bed, bouncing it against the wall to the tune of some female vocal accompaniment beneath him. Instead, here he is, sitting in front of an empty pizza box, two empty beer cans, and an empty TV program. He feels a little like Homer Simpson. Okay, he didn’t get much sleep last night, but that was never an excuse he would have made before now.

He worries about getting old. His father, God rest his bones, passed only a month after his fiftieth birthday. Tony doesn’t want to go when he’s fifty. Or even ninety, for that matter. The only plan he has for his police pension is to stock up on the huge supply of condoms he’s going to need.

Since he has to blame his apathy on something, he decides to blame it on the fact of Joe Parlatti’s death. Man, he thinks, that is some serious shit. Joe was a nice guy — everybody liked him. Stands to reason that a good guy getting whacked like that — someone he worked with, no less — is bound to affect a man’s libido. Keeping the old johnson at half mast tonight is just paying the proper respect.

He is still in his work clothes, and he notices that there is now a tomato stain on his striped shirt. Anything less than sartorial perfection is also unlike him, and this only serves to confirm to himself how badly his state of mind has been altered by today’s events.

Enough of this shit, he thinks. Bring back the old Tony.

He gets up and heads toward the bathroom, stripping as he goes. He takes a long, hot shower, trying to wash away the grime from his body and his mind. Images flash in his brain. Of Joe, lying amidst the garbage, three small holes drilled into his skull. Alvarez tells himself that he shouldn’t have to think about such things. He is young. He should be able to think about women and beer and having fun. And today, somebody robbed him of that youth.