What’s it worth? How do I measure something like that? What’s it worth to get your life back, to be able to see your family again?
‘Depends. If it’s the name of someone who’s already dead or out of reach, then not very much.’
‘And if it’s someone who’s very much alive? Someone not so far away? Someone who is still determined to keep you in this state of extreme isolation? What’s it worth to
hear that name, to know that you can leave here and go straight to that man and arrest him or kill him or torture him or do whatever else you need to get your revenge?’
It’s the first time Doyle has been presented with any realistic prospect of confronting his persecutor. Would I, he wonders, just collar him? Would that be enough to give me closure?
He doesn’t think so. He thinks too much hatred has built up inside for him simply to follow the rules like this was any run-of-the-mill criminal.
But he’ll worry about that when he gets the name.
‘How do I know you’ve got the right guy? The NYPD have been on this twenty-four-seven. I got snitches out there who could tell me who shot JFK quicker than they can get me a name for
this perp. So what’s so special about you?’
Bartok takes another dainty sip of his drink, then puts the glass down and twirls the stem between his fingers.
‘As I told you last night, Detective, my commodity is information. I have a lot of data on a lot of things and a lot of people. Sometimes it comes in useful, sometimes it doesn’t.
But just in case, I never throw any of it away. It all gets filed, most of it up here.’ He taps his temple, then smoothes down his hair on the off chance he’s just disturbed it.
‘On this occasion we have . . .
serendipity
. You want something; I heard that you want it; I now have it. It’s nice when things fall into place like that, don’t you think?
Makes you want to believe in fate.’
‘If you’re giving me the runaround . . .’
Bartok flops back in his chair. He looks irritated now. ‘Detective Doyle, this is starting to become tiresome. I made you an offer in good faith. My assumption was that you came here
tonight because you decided to accept that offer. If you’ve changed your mind, then feel free to leave and go back to your scant existence in your miserable flea-pit of a hotel. It’s
time, as the saying goes, to piss or get off the pot.’
So there it is, thinks Doyle. What’s it gonna be? Haven’t you already made up your mind? Are you really gonna get up and walk out of here without that name?
‘You want to know about Ramon Vitez.’
Bartok says nothing. He purses his lips slightly and waits.
Doyle says, ‘I’m not involved in that operation.’
He sees the fury igniting in Bartok’s eyes, a twitch appearing on the corner of his mouth.
‘But,’ Doyle adds, ‘I know one or two things.’
Bartok continues to wait. The room is silent, save for a steady pounding. Doyle isn’t sure whether it’s from the dance floor or his own heart. He opens his mouth, finds himself
choking on his own words. This goes against everything in which he believes, everything he is.
‘New Year’s Day. Seven a.m. When all the revelers are still sleeping it off. East River Park. The handover will take place at a bench under the Williamsburg Bridge. That’s all
I know.’
More silence. Bartok finishes his drink and passes a reptilian tongue over his thin lips, then smoothes his hair again.
‘Good enough?’ Doyle asks.
‘It’s a start,’ Bartok answers, and Doyle can see the devilish glee on the man’s face.
Stay calm. He’s fucking with your head. Stay calm.
‘The name, Kurt. Give me the name.’
‘In a moment. I need a little more . . . persuading.’
Doyle leans forward suddenly, almost coming off his chair. Again he notices how Rocca and Bruno brace themselves.
‘Persuading is the last thing you want me to do, Kurt. You haven’t seen how I can persuade people. I’ve given you what you asked for, so you—’
‘You’ve given me nothing,’ Bartok says. He reaches for a drawer, slides it open. He pulls out a notepad and pushes it across the desk. On the top sheet of paper it says,
‘Ramon Vitez. East River Park. Jan 1.’
Doyle stares at the sheet for some time, then raises his gaze to Bartok. ‘What the fuck is this?’
‘Call it a test. A validation of your sincerity. You’ll be glad to hear that you’ve passed with flying colors. Now, tell me something I don’t know.’
Doyle leaps to his feet so fast, the heavies are almost caught off guard. He sees them reach beneath their jackets and start toward him.
‘Fuck you, Bartok!’ Doyle says. ‘You want to play games, do it with someone who’s prepared to lie down and roll over. I’m outta here, and when I come back, all the
data in the world ain’t gonna save you from what I got in mind.’
He starts toward the door, wondering how far he’s going to get. Wondering whether they’re prepared to let him leave. Once again, he’s regretting giving up his gun. He gets to
the door, reaches for the handle . . .
‘He’s close, Detective Doyle.’
Doyle halts. Despite himself, he wants to hear what Bartok has to say.
‘He’s close,’ Bartok repeats. ‘You know him, in fact. And he knows oh so much about you. Don’t you want to know who it is?’
Doyle lowers his hand. I have to know, he thinks. I’ve come this far.
He turns to face Bartok. Rocca and Bruno are toward the front of the desk now, their hands still inside their jackets. A sneer on his ugly face, Bruno is straining against his leash, anxious to
release some pent-up violence. Rocca’s face is impassive. He has no axe to grind, but there is no doubting his loyalty or conviction.
‘Come on, Detective. You’re already committed. Whether I knew about Vitez or not, the fact that you told me about him is enough to lose you your job and get you put in jail.
You’ve proved yourself. All I’m asking for now is for you to demonstrate your usefulness. Please, sit down. Finish what you came here for.’
It’s true, Doyle thinks. He has me. I’m in. You can’t get back in the plane once you’ve jumped.
Slowly, he walks back to the chair. Bartok flicks his wrist and his guards back away, Bruno looking like he’s just had a prime steak snatched away from him.
Doyle sits down. Tries counting to ten before saying, ‘What do you want to know?’
Bartok waves his hand. ‘I’ll leave it to you. Surprise me.’ He says this as though he’s a food critic inviting a restaurant owner to impress him before he writes his
review.
Doyle consults his mental menu and tries to avoid the expensive items.
‘Tito Sloane, one of Blue Tucker’s soldiers. Took a hit last month in a Chinatown parking lot. Tucker blames your crew for the hit, saying you claim he ripped off one of your
mules.’
‘Ah, yes, Mr Tucker. Such a fantasist, and yet he’s determined to cause me a lot of problems at the moment.’
‘It’s gonna get worse. Tucker plans to even the score by acing one of your own operatives.’
He sees the sudden concern on Bartok’s face.
‘Who? When?’
‘I don’t know. Soon. Story is he’s psyched up for a war.’
Bartok blinks several times in a way that suggests he’s trying to bat away his anger. ‘The future killing of an unnamed associate at an unknown time and place, coming from a man who
is widely known to despise me, is hardly one of the most valuable or even interesting pieces of information, Detective. You’ll have to do better than that.’
‘I’m not done. Suppose I told you I know a way to take the heat off ?’
‘Go on.’
‘Have a word with Lionel Dafoe. He was the one who offed Sloane. Something about a beef over his girlfriend. It was also him spread the rumor it was down to you. You want proof, the nine
he used for the hit is still in his apartment. The girlfriend will also confirm the story.’
Bartok thinks about this for a minute. Doyle wonders whether it’s enough. Because what he hasn’t told Bartok is that Dafoe has already fled to Mexico. Giving Bartok some proof that
will take Tucker’s heat off him is one thing, but he’s not going to be responsible for setting up Dafoe to be killed.
Bartok says, ‘And you know this how?’
‘From a CI of mine, whose information was always reliable.’
‘
Was?
That wouldn’t be poor old Spinner, would it? Such a shame about him. I hear that his wasn’t the quickest or most painless of endings.’
Doyle doesn’t want to talk about Spinner. Not with this monster.
‘Your move, Kurt. You’ve been paid. I want my goods.’
Bartok smiles. He makes Doyle wait that little bit longer.
‘Yes, I think you’ve earned your stripes. Perhaps now you’ll join me in a little drink to celebrate our new relationship?’
‘The name,’ Doyle says, and will keep on saying until he gets it.
‘All right,’ Bartok agrees. ‘The name. As I said, it’s a man you know already. You can stop digging into your past because—’
He doesn’t get any further.
Primarily because his throat has just exploded.
A hole has opened up in his neck, sending a fountain of blood spurting across his desk and onto Doyle’s leather jacket.
Bartok looks surprised that he can’t speak any longer. He sits there, his mouth moving soundlessly, seemingly unaware that the source of all that gushing blood is himself.
Doyle’s reaction isn’t exactly immediate either. He doesn’t know what has just happened here. The shock of what he has just witnessed has confused and paralyzed him. And then
he zooms out, takes in the wider picture, sees the movement behind the man choking to death on his own blood.
Bruno is also clearly puzzled. His arms come up and his fingers grapple comically with thin air as though he’s operating some complex invisible machinery. By the time he works out that he
should be reaching for his gun, it’s too late. Sonny Rocca is already on him, his gun arm outstretched, his silenced weapon making phut-phut sounds as it spits. Bruno stares uncomprehendingly
while his chest is drilled. When anger finally appears on his face, it is there for the fleetest of moments before being obliterated by a salvo of bullets that take out his teeth, then his nose,
and then his right eye. Bruno stiffens, leans back like a toppling domino, and crashes to the floor with the force of a felled elephant.
Doyle is already on his feet. His hand dives automatically under his coat, finds itself clawing at the empty leather of his holster. He starts moving toward Rocca, no thought yet as to what he
might do when he gets there. Rocca whirls on him, aims his gun at Doyle’s face.
‘Back!’
Doyle brings his hands up, takes a step in reverse. He watches as Rocca moves calmly back to Bartok, now clutching at his neck, trying in vain to plug the hole there as he coughs and
splutters.
No, thinks Doyle. Don’t.
Rocca observes his boss for a second or two, not a hint of compassion on his face. It’s like he’s studying the behavior of an amoeba under a microscope.
Please don’t.
With casual ease, Rocca raises the dark semi-automatic again, and Doyle can only look on helplessly as bullet after bullet smashes into Bartok’s head and face. Even when Bartok’s
body slides lifeless from his chair and lies crumpled on the wooden floor, Rocca stands over him and continues with the steady eradication of his ex-employer’s features.
I have one chance, Doyle thinks. And it will come only if Sonny Rocca hates his former boss badly enough.
So he watches and waits, listening to the muffled explosions, the clatter of empty cartridges hitting the floor, thinking that the destruction seems to be going on forever.
And then it happens. The slide on Rocca’s gun jerks back and stays there, announcing that its work is done: there are no more bullets to be fired.
Doyle makes his move. He believes it’s the fastest he’s ever shifted. His high-school sprinting instructor would have been proud of him.
He manages to cover all of one yard.
Rocca is ready for him. His other hand, which Doyle hadn’t even noticed dipping into his pocket, now comes up and points at Doyle. And it’s not empty.
The soles of Doyle’s shoes squeal as he applies his brakes. For the umpteenth time, he mentally slaps himself for agreeing to surrender his Glock. He thinks, finally, that he’s
learned his lesson. Certainly he’ll never do it again.
Because now, for the first time in his life, he’s staring into the business end of his own gun.
‘Back!’ Rocca says again. He twitches the gun muzzle to one side. ‘Back in the chair.’
Doyle takes a few steps backwards, his eyes never leaving Rocca’s.
‘Why, Sonny?’ he asks. ‘What the fuck’s this about?’
Rocca doesn’t answer. He swaps his guns over, putting the loaded Glock into his right hand. Then he steps over Bartok’s
corpse, edges around the desk, the Glock aimed squarely at
Doyle’s forehead. He comes to a halt. Continues to point the gun.
He stands like that for several seconds, as if allowing Doyle the
opportunity to say a final prayer.
‘I was beginning to like you, Mr Doyle,’ Rocca says. ‘So long.’ Doyle senses the change in Rocca. He realizes that Rocca has
just made his decision. He sees the whiteness of Rocca’s knuckle
as he tightens his trigger finger.
Doyle closes his eyes and thinks of Rachel and Amy.
When Doyle opens his eyes again, Rocca has disappeared from in front of him.
He twists in his chair and sees that Rocca is now standing at the door.
‘Sonny . . .’ Doyle says.
‘I got no instructions to kill you, Mr Doyle,’ Rocca says. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact.’
There is a trash basket next to the door. Rocca holds the empty, silenced gun over the basket and allows it to drop in. His left hand now free, he reaches into his inside breast pocket and pulls
out an envelope. A white one. There is typing on the front, and even though Doyle can’t read it from here he knows that it will be addressed to him.
‘A message for you,’ Rocca says, and lets the envelope float down to join the gun.
‘You’re not thinking this through, Sonny. They’ll hunt you down. You know that, don’t you?’