Pariah cd-1

by David Jackson

  Lucas Bartok is cross-eyed.

  So cross-eyed it makes you want to laugh. But if you do laugh, if you even give a hint of a smile, the merest quiver of your lip, then you’d better be prepared to meet your maker, because Lucas Bartok, sensitive soul that he is, will gut you like a fish.

  Still, Doyle thinks, I’m here at his invitation. He’s got to be a little welcoming, no?

  No.

  It’s only when Bartok looks up from his paperwork (at least he seems to be looking up) that Doyle senses he’s made a mistake coming here. Bartok’s expression turns from quizzical to surprised; and then, when recognition sets in, he is clearly enraged. He alternates his gaze between Doyle and Rocca, sometimes appearing to look at both of them simultaneously.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he says. ‘WHAT THE FUCK?’

  He gets up from his chair, comes around the desk, walks right up to Doyle.

  ‘I remember you. You fucking piece of shit. What the fuck do you think you’re doing walking into my office like you own the fucking place?’

  Doyle waits for the spittle to stop landing on his face, then looks over to Rocca.

  ‘I think he’s talking to you.’

  Rocca bows his head to stifle a smile that’s threatening to break out and call for his execution.

  Bartok’s eyes light up like two misaligned lasers. ‘I never forget a face, especially a stupid fucking mick face like yours. I remember what you did to me, hauling me into jail like that. Like I’m some kind of street scum. You got real nerve coming here. I oughtta-’

  ‘Boss,’ Rocca says.

  Bartok whirls on him. ‘You shut the fuck up, you stupid fucking wop. Did I ask you to speak?’ He walks over to Rocca, needing to vent his anger on somebody. ‘You know, I don’t even trust wops. I don’t know why the fuck we let you stay. Your kind are worse than the fucking spics, what with your. .’

  As the tirade continues, Doyle decides he wants out. He feels as though his appearance here has tripped a wire that’s sent a missile hurtling toward him. Waiting for it to land is not a good idea. At the same time, experience has taught him that, with men like Bartok, you don’t ask, ‘Please may I go now?’ That would be weakness, and these men prey on weakness. The thing that Doyle has learned always to bear in mind in any confrontation is that he is the representative of right against wrong. He is the authority figure. No matter how scared he is or how chaotic the situation, he has at least to present the appearance of being the man at the wheel.

  ‘Hey, Lucas,’ he interrupts. ‘When you’ve finished auditioning for a job as a race relations officer, I’d like to go back to my hotel. I’ve got some serious sleep to catch up on. So goodnight and thanks for the hospitality.’ He turns to leave, but the bodyguard steps in front of the door. Doyle remembers that Rocca still has his gun.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Bartok says, wagging his finger from side to side. ‘This is my territory now. We play by my rules. Try acting the big tough cop here, see how far it gets you. I only got to snap my fingers and you’re dog food. You decide to waltz in here, you better have a reason. And you better hope it’s good enough to convince me not to call in my Dobermann, ’cause he’s pretty hungry right now.’

  Doyle knows that the sensible thing to do would be to attempt to clear up this little misunderstanding. Somehow, wires have become as crossed as Bartok’s pupils. They need to be untangled. Doyle needs to inject a little calm, a little reasoning into a situation that’s on the edge of detonation.

  But at the same time he’s feeling really pissed. Pissed that he’s been dragged out of his bed in the middle of the night. Pissed that he was led here on a false promise. Pissed that he’s been subject to so much abuse and disrespect.

  And so it’s infuriation rather than diplomacy that drives out his words as he looks at Sonny Rocca again.

  ‘Are you gonna explain things to this dimwit before his bulb blows?’

  Rocca opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. He’s clearly afraid of saying the wrong thing, perhaps even of making his presence felt in the company of his lunatic employer. Bartok doesn’t wait for an explanation, and comes storming toward Doyle.

  Doyle thinks, This is it. I’ve gone too far. Bartok’s lost it.

  Bartok stops inches short of colliding with Doyle. ‘You’re lucky you can still walk, Doyle. Most men, they’d already be dead by now. Only reason I haven’t skinned you alive yet is I’m curious. Curious as to how a piece of shit like you has the balls to come here, to my club. Now, you wanna say something to me, or do you wanna try throwing more insults at me? Go ahead, Doyle, make a joke. Say something about my. . appearance. See what happens.’

  In his head, Doyle is trying to come up with a plan. A plan that involves overcoming three experienced and violent opponents without the aid of his gun, and then fighting his way out of a packed nightclub containing a further assortment of armed and dangerous goons who are undoubtedly prepared to kill first and ask questions later.

  On this occasion, Doyle’s brain lets him down. He blames the alcohol still swirling around up there.

  Behind him, Doyle hears the door open. His ears are assaulted by the music again.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ says a voice. ‘Detective Doyle. Glad you could make it.’

  The door closes, and the new arrival strolls across the room. As he walks over to the desk, he takes a comb from his inside pocket and slides it through his greased-back dark hair. He lowers himself with great precision onto the leather chair, then opens a drawer, pulls out a vanity mirror and checks the result of his combing. He’s nattily dressed in a navy pinstripe suit, the arrowhead of a white handkerchief poking from the breast pocket. His facial features are aquiline, but set with tiny piss-hole eyes that would be of no use to any bird of prey.

  Watching all this in silence, Lucas Bartok’s jaw drops.

  ‘You invited this pond-life into our club?’

  Kurt Bartok takes his time replacing the mirror before looking up at his elder brother. ‘Yes, I sent for him. Is there a problem?’

  Lucas rounds on his sibling. ‘Yes, there’s a fucking problem. You know who this is, don’t you? You do remember what he did to us?’

  Kurt waves his hand dismissively. ‘He’s a cop. That’s what cops do. Sometimes they make mistakes, like Doyle did in taking us on. We won, he lost. You should be proud of that.’

  ‘What I will be proud of is when I take this asshole and force him down my garbage disposer.’

  ‘Really, Lucas, you need to stop taking things so personally. No wonder your blood pressure’s so high.’

  ‘My blood pressure’s fine. Leastways it will be when this Irish cocksucker is out of my sight. What’s he doing here, anyhow?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not inviting him to a surprise birthday party for you. It’s business, that’s all. Detective Doyle and I have a few things to discuss.’

  ‘And you were planning on telling me this when?’

  Kurt makes a foppish hand gesture toward Rocca. ‘Didn’t Sonny explain everything in my absence?’

  ‘No, he fucking didn’t. That stupid guinea doesn’t know shit. You ask him the time, he tells you where the big hand is.’

  A half-smile plays across Kurt’s thin lips. ‘Yes, I know what you mean. I’ll speak to him about it.’ He turns to Rocca. ‘Sonny, see me afterwards.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Bartok.’

  Jesus, Doyle thinks. I wasn’t so far off when I told that girl I was going to see the school principal.

  He looks across at Rocca, standing there with his head lowered and his hands clasped, obviously seething with anger and embarrassment. Gee, it must be nice to feel such a part of the family.

  Lucas Bartok starts to button up his jacket. ‘You want to lower yourself to the level of dealing with that, then that’s your fucking problem. Just don’t expect me to hang around.’

  ‘I wasn’t, Lucas.’

  ‘Good. ’Cause I’m gonna find me some cleaner air.’

 
He starts toward the door. As he draws level with Doyle, he pauses and jabs a finger at his face. ‘You do anything to hurt my little brother, and I mean anything, then don’t even bother to keep breathing, Doyle, because you’re a dead man. Hell, you might be a dead man anyhow. I ain’t decided yet.’

  TWENTY

  When Lucas has left the room, Kurt Bartok gestures toward a chair on the other side of his desk. As Doyle wanders over and takes a seat, Rocca and the other henchman take up positions behind and to either side of their boss. They stand quiet and still, like two stone lions.

  ‘I hope my brother didn’t upset you too much, Detective. He has very forthright opinions about some things.’

  ‘Nah. He’s just a big cuddly bear. He should do kids’ parties; they’d love him to bits.’

  Bartok’s expression becomes dark. He leans forward slightly. ‘Let’s get one thing straight before we start. You never mock a member of my family. Never. Do you understand?’

  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.’

  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.’