Rocca knocks and waits. The door opens a crack, and another muscleman peers out at them. If it’s one thing the Bartoks aren’t short of, Doyle thinks, it’s somebody to take the
lids off their peanut butter jars. Another Masonic exchange of nods, and they’re in. As he passes the bodyguard, Doyle tips his own head to the man, who looks at him like he’s just
fallen off his shoe. Doyle figures that he hasn’t quite got the hang of the gesture.
As Doyle walks across the polished wood floor, the bodyguard closes the door behind him, dampening almost all of the sound from the nightclub. Doyle takes a quick look around the plush office
before his eyes settle on the man seated behind the huge oak desk in front of the window. Lucas Bartok.
Bartok the elder is not a pleasant man. Anyone who knows of his reputation for violence and sheer cruelty could tell you that. But with Bartok it goes further. It’s somehow ingrained on
his face. You only have to glance at that mug to see how deeply it’s etched with his sourness and malevolence, like notches on the butt of a gun. And don’t, whatever you do, look into
those eyes. You will flinch at what you see. And if you can bear to maintain your gaze, those eyes will drive you insane, make you unable to stop yourself from trying to imagine the warped picture
of the world that this man must have.
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.’
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.’