‘We’ll see. Goodbye, Mr Doyle.’ He reaches for the door handle behind him.
‘Sonny! The name. You know who it is, don’t you? Please, this was my last chance. Give me the name.’
Doyle hears the desperation in his own voice, but he doesn’t care. Right now he thinks he’d get down on his knees and beg if it’d get him the name.
Rocca hesitates. ‘I’d like to help you, Mr Doyle. Really I would.’
But he’s not going to, Doyle realizes.
In one smooth motion, Rocca drops the Glock into the trash basket, swings open the door, and leaves. Doyle jumps from his chair, but even before he’s anywhere near the door he hears a key
turning in the lock.
He grabs the handle and tries turning it. Realizes that he’s well and truly imprisoned.
‘Shit!’
He reaches into the basket, removes his Glock and the envelope. He stuffs the unopened envelope into his pocket, points his gun at the door-locking mechanism . . .
What the fuck? he thinks. What am I going to do? Blast the door open, and then what? With all those human tanks out there, I won’t even get down the first flight of steps before someone
blasts me out of my shoes.
Shit!
He lowers his gun and begins to pace the office. He glances at the mutilated figures of Bruno and Kurt, leaking their bodily fluids all over the polished floor. He can still smell the acrid odor
of gunpowder in the air.
Why the fuck couldn’t you speak a little faster, Kurt?
It makes sense now. Sonny in his big heavy overcoat to hide his armory. His gloves to avoid putting fingerprints on the gun he used for the hit. And let’s not forget his demeanor. His
cheerfulness tonight. His little speech about red-letter days, the start of a new life. He wasn’t talking about me, Doyle realizes now; he was talking about himself.
Doyle moves back to the door. How the hell am I going to do this?
He knows he can’t stay here for much longer. Any second now, someone could come through that door. Maybe even Lucas Bartok, and my, won’t he be in a good mood when he sees what
happened here? How am I going to explain that one? Me locked in a room with his dead brother and his dead bodyguard, and oh yes, that murder weapon in the trashcan – that’s nothing to
do with me. How long is Lucas or one of his heavies going to stand there and listen while I try to wriggle my way out of that one?
Fuck!
He paces again. Takes another look at Bartok. He had the name, goddamnit! He was on the verge of giving it to me. The only man walking this earth who . . .
Well, that’s not quite true. Sonny Rocca knows the name, doesn’t he? Sonny Rocca, who is probably right now heading for a flight to Rio if he has any brains, knows who the
sonofabitch is.
Doyle leaps over Bartok and stands at the window behind his desk. Straight ahead is the uniform blackness of a featureless wall. Below, he can just make out the dimly lit alley in which they
parked.
Doyle holsters his gun and flips off the catch on the window, which looks old and covered in a million layers of paint. Please let this open, he thinks.
He manages to force the window up an inch, then slips his hands through the gap. The ice-cold air from outside almost freezes his hands to the frame as he strains to pull the window upwards.
Eventually, he raises it by about a foot or so – just enough, he hopes, to squeeze through.
He pushes his head outside, feels the sting of an icy blast of wind. It looks one hell of a long way down. He has never thought of himself as a sufferer of vertigo, but his head swims at the
thought of putting his center of gravity any closer to that sheer drop. He turns his head and sees that the nearest fire escape runs under the adjoining office. The only thing that will take him
anywhere near it is a drainpipe that runs from above his window and gently angles down toward the front corner of the building. It’s hard to tell in the darkness, but there’s a slight
gleam on the pipe that makes it look as though it’s been recently painted. What lurks beneath the paint is another matter. As escape routes go, dangling from a length of decades-old rusty
pipe two floors above the ground would not be high on his list of preferred options.
Not that you got all that many options here, Doyle.
He swings his right leg up and slides it onto the narrow outer ledge. Slowly, cautiously, he edges his torso sideways through the window. Keeping his left arm hooked under the window, he starts
to pull his outer leg under his body. Inch by jittery inch, he transfers his weight onto that single leg, as he brings his other leg out and twists himself to face the building. He eventually gets
into a standing position, his face pressed hard against the freezing glass as he tries to stop his knees wobbling. Remind me not to become a window cleaner when they throw me off the job, he
thinks.
He slides his hands upwards along the window and brings them above his head. He feels them hit the brickwork, and continues to push them over the rough surface. He flexes his fingers, searching
for the drainpipe.
Nothing.
Reluctantly, he unpeels his face from the glass and leans his head back as much as he dares, then rolls his eyes upwards. He sees that the pipe is inches above his fingertips. He straightens up
again. Begins to raise his heels from the ledge. When he is on his tiptoes he stretches his arms until it seems they’re about to leave their sockets.
He feels like an Olympic diver about to do a backward jump into the pool. He has never been in such a precarious position. One gust of wind is all it’ll take to knock him from his perch.
Despite the cold, he starts to perspire.
He extends himself another couple of millimeters. Feels his fingernails just scrape the lower surface of the pipe. But it’s not enough. He comes down onto his heels again, relaxes his
muscles, allows his joints to click back into place. There’s nothing for it, he thinks. I’m gonna have to jump.
He looks up again, fixes his gaze on the drainpipe, flexes all his fingers. Another couple inches – that’s all I need. If I don’t make it, or I do make it and the pipe
doesn’t hold . . .
He casts such thoughts out of his mind. There is no time to debate this. It has to be done now, and it has to be done with utter conviction.
He brings his arms up again, then starts to bend at the knees. There’s no room to take his knees forward, and so he has to bow them out to the sides, like he’s a ballet dancer.
He gives himself a three-count:
Three . . .
It’s a lot lower than the basketball hoop in high school, he tells himself, and you could reach that.
Two . . .
Except I was a lot younger then. And fitter. And I weighed less.
One . . .
And it was always a running jump, never from a fucking bandylegged nutcracker position like this.
Go!
He hears a starting pistol go off in his head, and suddenly he’s shooting up like a rocket, willing himself up and up. He imagines himself back at school, stretching for that basket,
seconds left to win the trophy for his team. At the apex of his jump he gives a loud grunt of exertion . . .
His hands snap into position around the pipe. He hears the metal groan at the sudden burden, but it doesn’t give way.
The pipe is so cold it burns Doyle’s hands. He knows he can’t stay in this position for very long. Not that that was ever his desire.
He slides his left hand along the metal, feeling as though he’s leaving a layer of frozen flesh behind, then follows it with his right hand. His legs dangle and swing freely below him,
cold air fluttering up the inside of his pants. He continues his motion sideways and slowly downwards, trying to ignore the pain in his hands, his arms, his shoulders. You’re okay, he tells
himself. Focus and keep going. We’re gonna do this.
He moves again, and hears more squeals of complaint from the drainpipe. ‘Don’t you dare,’ he hisses at it. ‘Don’t you fucking dare!’
He keeps going. Another couple of feet, then another. How come that damned fire escape doesn’t seem to be getting any closer?
There is a sudden outpouring of noise from below. He stops moving and looks past his armpit to the alley that still appears a thousand miles down. Light spills out from an open doorway, and the
night is filled with voices and throbbing music. Some kind of side entrance to the club, Doyle realizes.
A lone figure exits the club and closes the door behind him. He is tall, with dark hair and a
Saturday Night Fever
swagger. He wears a heavy gray overcoat and gloves.
Sonny Rocca.
Rocca heads toward his Lexus, almost directly below Doyle. Don’t look up, Doyle thinks. He hangs there in space, praying that his arms don’t pop out of their sockets. His hands burn
like they’re on fire, like they’re becoming fused with the drainpipe.
Rocca opens his car door, climbs behind the wheel, closes the door.
Shit, he’s gonna get away! The only man who can help me now is about to take off, probably never to be seen again.
He starts moving again with renewed vigor. I have to get down there, he thinks. I have to stop him.
The drainpipe creaks more loudly now. Doyle is certain he feels it give slightly, but he can’t slow down now.
Below, Rocca starts up his engine.
Doyle puts everything into one last desperate push. The fire escape is just feet away.
Rocca backs the Lexus up, just enough to give him clearance to pull out.
Come on, Doyle tells himself. Get the fuck down there!
And then, as if granting his wish, the drainpipe gives out a loud crack and breaks away from the wall.
There is no time for thought, no time for any reasoning along the lines of Okay, I’m plummeting to my death, here’s what I should do . . . All that Doyle can do is live the
experience of his body twisting in free space, register the unusual sight of a car’s roof hurtling toward him at God knows how many miles per hour.
He lands on his side, smashing into the roof of the Lexus. He feels it crumple below him, absorbing his impact. There is an explosive sound as the metal collapses and the windows blow out,
showering fragments of glass in all directions.
Doyle lies there for a second, appreciating the fact that he’s still alive. He feels pain in his ribs and in his leg, and wonders if any bones are broken. He looks around him, realizes
that he’s landed on the driver’s side, and that the roof on that side is now almost level with the car’s hood.
Rocca! Jesus Christ, have I just killed him?
He drags himself forward and peers upside down through the shattered windshield. At first he’s not sure what he’s looking at, but then he sees motion. The face of Rocca looks
straight at him, rivulets of blood streaming down past his eyes and mouth. There is more movement. Rocca’s arm comes up, his gloved hand comes into view, and . . .
Shit!
Doyle rolls sideways off the car just milliseconds before Rocca starts shooting upwards through the roof. He lands heavily on the cobblestones, agonizing jolts of pain firing through his
bones.
He keeps rolling, putting distance between himself and the car. When the shots cease, he stops too. He gets up on one knee and fumbles for his Glock. Ahead of him, Rocca has begun squeezing
himself through the passenger-side window, forcing himself up the narrow gap between the crushed Lexus and the wall of the nightclub. He looks on the edge of consciousness, barely aware of his
surroundings.
Doyle takes up a two-handed stance and steadies his aim.
‘Sonny! Drop the gun, man!’
Rocca pauses in his struggle. Shakes his head as if to clear his blood-filled eyes and his addled brain. His gun waves lazily in Doyle’s direction.
‘Don’t do it, man!’
As if working by echo location, Rocca homes his gun in on Doyle’s voice, leaving Doyle with no option.
It’s not like it was with Lomax. It could be just a matter of physical distance, Rocca not being right on top of him like Lomax was, or the fact that Rocca doesn’t appear able to
shoot straight. Maybe it’s because he quite likes Sonny Rocca, whereas Lomax was just a worthless piece of shit. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want Rocca dead, because he is so
much more valuable alive. Or perhaps it’s because Doyle has already killed once, and now finds it easier to tell when to pull on the reins.
Whatever the reason, he stops firing after four rapid shots. He sees Rocca loll back against the brick wall, the gun dropping from his hand. Doyle gets to his feet. Fights the pain racking his
body as he limps across to the car. He climbs onto the hood, feeling fragments of glass crunching beneath his feet, then gets onto the roof. He cups a hand under Rocca’s blood-soaked chin and
turns his face toward him. The man’s alive, but only by a thread.
‘Sonny. Who got to you? Who put you up to this?’
Sonny opens his mouth and releases a dribble of scarlet. ‘I was gonna go someplace nice,’ he croaks. ‘I was thinking of Europe. Maybe even Ireland. I hear it’s nice
there, right, Mr Doyle?’
‘The name, Sonny. What was Bartok about to tell me?’
‘Bartok? Bartok was scum. Shoulda . . . shoulda whacked him a long time ago. He gave me money, you know that? A lot of money.’
‘Who? Who gave you money?’
‘I made him an offer. He . . . he made me a better one. And you know what? Now I know how it feels, I’da done it for free.’
Doyle grabs him by the lapels and shakes him. ‘He give you enough to die for? You ready to go out of this world for that garbage? Give him up, Sonny. Make it right.’
A twisted smile crosses Rocca’s lips. ‘I like you, Mr Doyle. You’re a funny guy.’
Doyle feels the life leave Rocca’s body. It floats from his form, leaving him sagging and heavy in Doyle’s grasp. Doyle takes his hands away. Looks at Rocca’s blood staining
them. He stays there longer than he should, just staring at his hands.
Red-letter day.
When he finally comes to his senses he climbs down from the car and, like a deformed criminal from an old B-movie, limps away into the night.
He doesn’t know how long he’s got, but he can’t stay here.