"Yeah, but what about your people at Pacific Rim? That's their business. They must know someone in New York. You could get professional rates or something, right?"
"Yes, but I'd rather not have them involved unless I have to. At the moment things are a little strained between us."
"What things?"
"I think I've been trying to avoid doing the work, David. I don't feel right about some parts of it."
"The killing part."
"Yes. The killing part."
"But if something happened to your brother I'll bet you'd almost enjoy killing that person."
Devlin stared at Freedman. He had a tough, uncompromising look. Freedman had long ago decided some people deserved to be killed and he made no apologies, but he was smart enough to know that he was implying George might be dead and he apologized for that.
"Hey, I'm sorry. That was stupid. The main thing is to find your brother. Especially now. My father died two years ago. It wasn't a good feeling. I got a brother and a sister. Believe me, we're closer now. This ain't the time to lose your brother.
"I know a guy who can help you. A good, honest detective, if there is such a thing. His name is Sam Zitter. He's getting to be a crotchety old fart, but he knows what he's doing, and he gets around. He'll give you a full day's effort. He has a lot of contacts which more than make up for his age slowing him down a little bit. He's right near here, too. Go see him. He's over on Eighth Avenue, just below Fourteenth Street. The name of the place is Intrepid Investigations. Give his receptionist my name, otherwise he probably won't see you."
"Okay. Thanks."
Freedman stood up. "Let me know if you need anything else."
"Take care, David."
"You, too. Let me know how it turns out."
"I will."
"Sorry for your troubles, Jack."
Devlin watched him walk away and knew that David Freedman was genuinely sorry for his troubles. They both knew the troubles weren't over.
By 2:30 a.m. Devlin was standing in the shadowy entrance to a hardware store across the street from O'Callahan's bar.
It was a quiet night. Warm but not hot. The city seemed to be finally cooling down from the day's heat. Devlin stood without moving, feeling the air, sensing the quiet. Maybe the humid spell was breaking, he thought.
He watched the last two patrons leave the bar. Brian the bartender started closing up. Fifteen minutes later the cook and two young boys left the bar. All three spoke Spanish to each other.
Another fifteen minutes went by and the bartender was finally at the bar's doorway. He turned and switched off the neon sign in the window, closed the front door and locked it. It looked as if he were about to hail a cab, but then he started walking uptown on Second Avenue.
Devlin quickly crossed the street and trailed behind him about ten feet back.
Devlin wondered how he should do this. He felt too visible on Second Avenue. At the moment there was no one else in sight, but there was plenty of traffic moving down the avenue.
As they approached 84th Street, he quickened his pace. Just before they reached the corner, he closed the distance and quietly called out, "Brian."
The bartender hesitated then turned to look behind him. Devlin backhanded him across the face with a sharp, brutal slap. It was enough to knock the Irishman back a few steps, but Devlin quickly grabbed the man's shirt, pulled the bartender toward him, and smashed his left elbow into his temple.
Devlin watched the man's eyes glaze as he teetered on the edge of consciousness. The bartender had no control of his legs and looked like a man too drunk to walk.
Devlin was surprised at how much anger he felt. He observed it as one would analyze the symptoms of the flu. It had curled over him and enveloped him like a wave. He suddenly wanted to beat his fists into this man who had lied to him.
What had pulled such rage out of him?
Was it fear about what might have happened to his brother? Was it anger because he was so powerless to change what happened after he had left his brother?
Devlin knew he had to get off the street before he lost control. At that moment the anger filled him with such strength, he could have scooped the bartender up with one arm. He grabbed him around the waist and looped the man's left arm over his shoulder.
He turned and walked out into the street looking for a cab. There were two empty cabs coming his way and he hailed one of them.
As they struggled into the backseat the driver looked as if he were about to tell Devlin to get the drunk out of his cab. In a clear, sober voice Devlin assured him, "Don't worry, I'm taking him home."
As Devlin slammed the cab door with his left hand he shoved his right elbow into the bartender's sternum with such force that he nearly cracked it. The sound of the slamming door covered the sound of the Irishman's body absorbing the blow. He was paralyzed into unconsciousness.
Devlin gave the cab driver the address of the loft downtown.
Back at the loft Devlin sat in the living room, waiting until he felt the moment was right. The bartender was in a small room in the back of the loft. Devlin had shoved him, still half-conscious, into a straight-backed chair. Devlin taped the man's wrists together behind him and his ankles to the legs of the chair.
The only other piece of furniture in the room was a table placed a few feet in front of the chair. The bartender's wallet, keys, money, and address book were laid out on the table. On the wall behind the table were photocopies of all the bartender's identification: New York State driver's license, green card, union card. It was as if his life were laid out for anyone to see and do with as they pleased. Also on the table was a closed attache case.
Devlin felt deathly tired. The hour of sleep at Daryl's wasn't enough. He looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to four in the morning. A hell of a time to start work.
Devlin knew the bartender had lied to him. He knew the bartender would continue to lie if given a chance. It was a given for Devlin that people would lie to him. And in this case, he had no information to catch the bartender's lies. He knew virtually nothing, yet he had to find out the truth. He had to find his brother.
Devlin stood up. There was only one way to do this, and he didn't relish doing it. He walked back to the small room, opened the door and walked in.
The bartender looked up and said, "You!"
Devlin stepped forward and immediately slapped his face hard. The bartender started to yell, and Devlin slapped the other side, this time harder.
The Irishman shook his head and spit blood on the floor. "What the fuck do you think you're doing, you bastard?"
Devlin squatted in front of him and looked him right in the eye. He pointed his finger at the man and spoke very quietly. "Don't talk. Don't dare ask me a question. Keep your mouth shut and listen. Listen very carefully or you will be hurt very badly.
"It's just you and me. No cops, no friends, no lawyer. No chance anyone will find you and help you. The only way you're going to get out of here alive and in one piece is if you tell me the absolute truth. You've already lied to me once. Don't do it again. You only get one warning."
Devlin looked into the bartender's eyes. He wanted to see fear. He saw anger, confusion. But fear? He wasn't sure yet.
Devlin stood up and turned his back on the bartender and looked at the driver's license on the table. The man's full name was Brian McGinty. He lived at 340 East 98th Street.
He turned back to the bartender. Brian yelled at him, "Who the fuck are you? Are you crazy?"
Devlin muttered something too softly for the bartender to hear. Reluctantly, Devlin turned to the table and opened the attache case. It was filled with a jumble of items-none of which belonged in an attache case. Devlin pulled out a small round sponge and a roll of adhesive tape.
He moved behind the bartender with surprising quickness. McGinty had no time to look behind him before Devlin wrenched back his head so suddenly it forced his mouth open.
Devlin shoved the sponge into his mouth, held his head back, and slammed the inch-wide strip of adhesive tape across his mouth.
Devlin walked to the table again, tossed the tape in the attache case and picked up an iron pipe about a foot long and a half-inch in diameter.
He walked over to the chair and without a second's hesitation Devlin smashed the pipe into the shin of the bartender's right leg.
The sponge and tape muffled most of the scream.
Devlin then turned the pipe deftly and punched it down hard on top of McGinty's left knee cap. McGinty's entire body jerked with searing pain. Devlin moved swiftly and gave a smart rap with the pipe on McGinty's right wrist and then the left.
None of the blows were hard enough to break anything. But the pain was terrible. The bartender screamed into the sponge and tape across his mouth.
Again, Devlin crouched down in front of McGinty. He switched the pipe to his left hand and held his right forefinger to his lips to motion for silence. Tears of agony seeped out of McGinty's eyes. It took him a few moments, but he managed to stop yelling.
When he was quiet, Devlin reached out and pulled the tape off. It ripped a layer of skin off the bartender's lips, causing more pain, but McGinty didn't scream.
Devlin left the sponge in his mouth. He leaned closer and spoke to him again, pointing the pipe at the man's face for emphasis.
"Once more. Tell me the truth, and I won't hurt you. If you don't do that, I will start again. And I won't stop for a long time. I will start breaking bones, my friend. And if you think you hurt now, wait until I break the small bone above your wrist and start pounding on it."
Devlin paused to let the threat sink in and let his rage wash over him. Then he snarled his first question, "Now do you fucking understand me?"
McGinty nodded. This time Devlin saw the fear deep in his eyes. A small wet stain spread from the bartender's crotch. He somehow managed to stop just before he soaked himself.
Devlin stood up and pulled the sponge from the man's mouth. He turned back to the table and dropped the pipe into the case. He picked up a pad of paper and a pen and turned back. He rested against the edge of the table and paused.
"Are you ready?" Devlin asked quietly. .