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.’
Bartok pauses, allowing his message to sink in. ‘I’m offering you your life back, Detective Doyle. By tomorrow night, you could be free from your personal hell, able to return to
your home, your family. I think the price I’m asking is tiny in comparison to that freedom.’
‘Don’t dress it up in ribbons and bows, Kurt. You’re trying to buy me. Another pocket cop to add to your collection. That’s what it comes down to.’
‘As I said, you have a tendency to be blunt about things. I prefer to think of it as the start of a long and mutually beneficial business arrangement.’ He puts the tip of his finger
on the desk, exactly as Doyle did earlier. ‘So there you have it. It’s on the table, just as you asked. What’s your answer?’
Doyle stares into Bartok’s questioning eyes and thinks, My answer should be go fuck yourself. Stick your offer up your ass and then wait here while I bring in a shit-load of cops to raid
your club and haul your ass off to jail.
But he doesn’t say any of this. For one thing, he knows he can’t touch Bartok. Nobody else in this room is about to confirm that this little powwow ever took place. And for another
thing, he’s not sure yet that he wants to reject the offer.
Shit! Am I really thinking that? Am I really even considering the possibility of entering into a partnership with this crazy bastard? Fuck that! It’s ridiculous. Absurd. I’d sell my
own mother before cozying up with Bartok.
And yet . . .
‘I’ll think about it.’
Bartok blinks. ‘You’ll think about it?’
‘I need time to weigh it up. You’re asking a lot.’
‘I’m offering a lot. It should be a no-brainer.’ He sighs softly, then looks down at his finger still poised on the desk surface. ‘The deal stays here until the end of
the day. Midnight. After that . . .’ He takes his finger away to show Doyle that, after midnight, all bets are off. ‘In the meantime, I’ll start to make some inquiries. By the
time you call, I should have the information you need.’
‘If
I call.
’
Bartok’s smile is smug. He gestures to Rocca, who escorts Doyle to the door. Doyle turns one final time to Bartok and says, ‘By the way, you’ve got some hair out of place
there.’
As he is engulfed by the throbbing music once more, Doyle smiles inwardly at the thought of Bartok scrabbling for the mirror in his desk drawer.
In the passenger seat of the Lexus, Doyle tries to get his fogged brain to think rationally about Bartok’s offer. Behind the wheel, Rocca seems to read his thoughts.
‘You gonna make the deal? You should. Mr Bartok’s a fair man. He’ll treat you square.’
Doyle looks at Rocca. ‘Kurt Bartok is a conniving sack of shit. His brother should have been put down at birth. Tell me something, Sonny, why do you work for those savages? I saw the way
they treated you back there.’
For a while, Rocca doesn’t say anything. He keeps his eyes on the road ahead.
‘Sometimes,’ he says finally, ‘you don’t have a lot of choice, you know? When you’re drowning, and there’s only one guy putting his hand out to save you, you
take it, right? You don’t question his motives, you don’t try to work out whether he’s a good guy or a bad guy. You just take the hand. And from that moment on, he owns you. Even
if he treats you bad sometimes, he still owns you. You get what I’m saying?’
Doyle doesn’t answer. He understands exactly what his philosopher companion has just said.
Pretty much the same thought has already gone through his own head.
He wakes up with his clothes on. He thinks he can still hear the music from Bartok’s club, but it’s just his brain pounding against his skull.
He looks at the bedside clock, and is surprised to see that it’s nearly ten o’clock in the morning. He remembers getting into his hotel room, lying on the bed, then trying to think
through his options. At some point – he doesn’t know what time – he must have dozed off.
He rolls off the bed, glances at himself in the mirror, sees that he looks like shit. He has that failed-businessman appearance – the guy who loses all his money and his job and his wife,
then ends up drinking from a brown paper bag and sleeping on a park bench.
He strips off and tosses his clothes into a corner. Treats himself to a fifteen-minute shower. As he selects a permutation of the few clean clothes he brought with him, he tries to work out how
long it’ll be before he needs to start paying for laundry service.
Leaving the room, he drapes the ‘Do not disturb’ sign over the door handle. He takes the elevator down to the restaurant, has a bowl of Cheerios, some toast and coffee, then returns
to his room and pulls a chair over to the window.
And then he thinks again.
He spends over two hours sitting, thinking, pacing, worrying. And at the end of it all, he knows that there’s really nothing to analyze. The choices are stark and simple. You sign your
life over to the devil, with all that that entails, or you suffer in silence, waiting for the relief that may never come. You’re damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.
He stands up, opens the window and sticks his head out to get a look at the street below. He wants to be out there, feeling that he’s doing something – anything – to accelerate
this to a conclusion. But he knows how far the word has spread. Nobody will talk to him. Nobody will go near him. And even if they would, how could he bring himself to take the chance of
endangering yet another life?
Shit!
He closes the window and picks up the phone receiver. He presses for an outside line and then dials a number at the Eighth Precinct.
‘Lieutenant Franklin.’
‘Mo, it’s me. Cal.’
‘Cal! How you doing?’
‘So-so. Getting itchy feet – that’s for sure. It’s kinda hard being on the outside like this.’
‘Yeah, I understand that. Bear with it, Cal. It won’t be long now.’
‘Yeah? You got some hot leads?’
Franklin hesitates, which says to Doyle,
No, we got nothing
.
‘We’re working all the angles, Cal. Don’t worry, we haven’t forgotten about you. The whole team is still on this.’
‘Uh-huh. You track down Rodriguez?’
‘Yeah. He’s dead. Died of a drug overdose last month.’
‘What about Lewis Stanton? He made a lot of noise about me when they carted him off to Rikers.’
‘He was out, now he’s back in again. Has been for a while now.’
‘Maybe he reached out from his cell.’
‘Nah, we don’t think so. Apparently he’s found God this time. He’s looking to wash away all his sins.’
‘Okay. So then there’s Wilson Jones. He’s definitely on the outside.’
‘Yes, he is. But all his alibis check out, including a meeting with his parole officer at the time your CI was being butchered. When we spoke to him, he couldn’t even remember your
name.’
‘Fuck, Mo!’
‘I know, Cal, I know. When you start to go through names like that, it sounds as if—’
‘So who’s left, Mo? You got any suspects at all? Anyone who had the slightest motive? I mean, Jesus, even the neighbor whose window I broke when I was eleven will do. How big is the
fucking list, Mo?’
Again, seconds pass. Translation: It’s a list that’s shorter than Lucas Bartok’s temper.
‘We’re doing all we can, Cal. Talking to everyone even mentioned in your fives. We’re even looking at relatives of those people. The perp could be someone you never met –
maybe you collared his son or his father or his second cousin’s girlfriend. People snap for the weirdest reasons, Cal. Maybe this is one of those, in which case it makes it all the harder to
pin him down.’
‘I don’t think so, Mo. You read the notes he sent. He’s not talking about me like I’m someone who accidentally brushed against him on the sidewalk. This guy is painting
me like someone who wiped out his whole family. He hates my guts. Something major must have gone down for him to be talking that way.’
‘In which case it must be something you know about. And every possibility you put our way, we’re chasing up as hard as we can. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, sure. I know it.’
‘Look, there isn’t . . . ? I mean, you don’t . . . ?’
‘What, Mo? Spit it out.’
‘There isn’t something you don’t want to talk about? Something that happened, maybe a long time ago, and you don’t want the job to know about it?’
Doyle gets a sick feeling in his stomach. He gets the impression this isn’t something that Franklin has just invented. He can imagine some of the talk at the station house. About him and
Laura Marino. About him possibly keeping the truth hidden. About the odds that there may be other skeletons hidden in his closet. Without Doyle being there to deny those rumors, maybe
Franklin’s mind has become as poisoned as the rest of them.
‘Like what?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know. Anything. I’m clutching at straws here. But if there is anything . . .’
‘There’s nothing, Mo. Nothing. I told you before, I got nothing to hide.’
‘Then . . . it’s all good. The perp’s name must be in our files somewhere. We’ll get him. It’s just a matter of time.’
Doyle sighs. Just a matter of time. Like the duration is of no consequence as long as the outcome is good. Never mind there’s an innocent cop who’s in solitary confinement all the
while this remains unsolved.