Pariah (18 page)

He can feel dozens of eyes burning into the back of his neck, waiting for him to rise to the bait. Many of them have already demonstrated their sympathy for Schneider’s view. A few, or so
he hopes, will want him to cut Schneider down at the knees.

Doyle still doesn’t turn. Instead, he beckons Terry the bartender over and asks for a whiskey.

‘Irish?’

‘Scotch. On the rocks.’

Terry gives him a look of faint surprise, but nods and fetches a tumbler.

‘’Course,’ Schneider is saying, still on his soapbox, ‘the ideal situation would be if our hypothetical individual with the extreme social disease decided to do something
about it himself. Him being somebody regards himself as a responsible public servant, he’d probably choose to do the right thing without pressure from anybody else. Not wanting to be a danger
to the people he calls his colleagues and his friends, he’d probably choose to stay away from the places those people are known to frequent.’

From the back room, Paddy puts in an appearance. It’s the first time that Doyle has seen him wearing an expression of annoyance. It’s a look so dark that Doyle feels he’s on
the verge of closing down the whole bar.

Paddy glances at Doyle. He’s looking for confirmation. Doyle shakes his head almost imperceptibly. Paddy’s eyes question this.

Doyle slips from his chair and takes hold of the glass of Scotch. He turns slowly, his legs not as steady as usual, his eyes not as focused. He takes in the sight of all those faces turned
toward him. The sense of expectation is almost a force, drawing him into making some kind of response. They want a word, a gesture, an act. It’s a fight-or-flight moment. What will he do
now?

Blinking, squinting, Doyle makes out the big ugly mug of Schneider through the crowd. He’s seated at a window table with some pals. He is grinning and chewing. Even when he drinks, he
chews.

Doyle starts toward him. He knows he’s drunk, but he tries to keep his path straight as he pushes onwards. The other customers move aside, letting him tunnel through. Many of them will
have seen him pull his gun earlier; some will be afraid that this time he’ll use it.

The three other men at Schneider’s table are cops too, but not from the Eighth Precinct. Doyle recognizes their faces, but doesn’t know their names. They watch him intently as he
gets closer to them, and Doyle suspects that if he were more sober he would be able to feel their tension. Right now he doesn’t give a shit. He just wants Schneider.

Schneider doesn’t move from his chair. He takes a sip of his beer, tries to appear nonchalant. When Doyle stops just a couple of paces away, Schneider stares up at him.

‘What’s up, Doyle? You got something you want to share? Maybe add your two cents to the little debate we got going on here?’ He laughs. His drinking buddies laugh along with
him.

Doyle laughs a little too. ‘Nah. I just want to show you something. A little trick I learned a long time ago.’

This throws Schneider. He doesn’t appear so confident now. He looks to his pals, who just shrug.

‘I got no time for tricks, Doyle. Especially with you. You got something to say, say it.’

‘Come on. What are you, chicken? Look . . .’ He holds the glass high, showing it to everyone around, then sets it down in front of Schneider. ‘Scotch on the rocks. Your
favorite tipple, right? It’s yours. Win or lose this little contest I got in mind, the drink’s yours.’

Schneider looks again to his comrades, who are signaling for him to go for it.

‘A contest? What kind of contest?’

‘Kind of like a strength contest. Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna hurt you. I’m sure your pals will see to that.’

Schneider barks another laugh. ‘
You
hurt
me
? Ha! Anyone gets hurt here, Doyle, it’s gonna be you.’ He gets up from his wooden chair. ‘All right, magic man.
What do we do?’

Doyle puts his hand out. ‘First of all, you gotta take my hand.’

Schneider looks with uncertainty at the proffered hand. He wipes his own palm down the side of his pants, then folds his meaty fingers around Doyle’s.

‘That’s a good grip you got there, Schneider. You been working out with it, maybe? On your own, with some skin mags?’

This gets a laugh from the crowd, and Doyle can see how it irritates Schneider.

‘Just get on with the stupid contest.’

‘All right. When I say go, you pull me toward you, and I’ll pull you in the opposite direction. Ready?’

‘I end up on my ass, I am so gonna slug you, Doyle.’

‘Stop whining. You ready or not?’

Schneider shifts his stance, plants his feet to prevent him being shoved off balance.

‘Ready.’

‘All right . . . Go!’

Schneider yanks hard on Doyle’s arm, but instead of resisting, Doyle allows himself to be hauled in. As he collides with Schneider’s chest he loops his left arm around the
man’s neck, holding him securely in position.

Taken by complete surprise, Schneider doesn’t know how to react. ‘What the fuck . . .’

‘Just hold it like that. A couple more seconds . . .’

‘Doyle, get the fuck off me . . .’

And then Doyle releases him. Without another word, he turns and starts to walk away. He can see the bemused expressions of the onlookers, and can only imagine the bewilderment on
Schneider’s face.

‘What the fuck was that?’ Schneider calls, but Doyle keeps on walking.

‘Doyle! Hey, Doyle! I’m talking to you!’

As he reaches the door, Doyle stops and turns. Schneider is looking at him, his palms out, trying to make sense of it all.

‘Think about it,’ Doyle says. ‘There’s somebody out there hurting people I know and like. People I get close to. He always seems to know where I am, who I speak to. Maybe
he’s watching me tonight, through that window behind you. What’s he just seen? Me buying you a drink, shaking your hand, giving you a big hug like you’re my best buddy. Enjoy the
rest of your night, Schneider.’

As the bar erupts, Doyle takes the last couple of steps toward the door. Just before he leaves he gets a grinning Paddy Gilligan in his sights, returns the mischievous Irish wink he received
earlier.

And then he’s gone.

In his dream, the door isn’t moving.

He’s standing there, staring at that cream door with the crack in its panel. He’s willing it to move, but it doesn’t. He looks for lines on the blue patterned carpet –
any kind of marker by which to measure the progress of the door closing. It doesn’t help. That slab of wood is in exactly the same position it was when he entered the room.

He moves to the door and pushes on it, but it won’t budge. He leans on it, drives his shoulder into it with all his might. Gradually, inch by inch, the door opens up. He gets an arm
through the gap, then a leg. Straining and squeezing, he eventually gets the rest of his body into the room beyond.

That’s when he sees what was preventing the door from opening.

Body parts. Hundreds of them. Legs, arms, torsos, all piled on top of each other in a grotesque hill of lifeless flesh and bone.

He finds himself desperate to know who they belong to, and so he steps up to the mountain and begins to pull at its sides. Cold sticky cobs of gore come away in his hand. He flicks them away,
tries again. Gradually he bores inside, but all he can see is wet redness and shiny gristle.

And then something drops into his man-made tunnel. Something round and heavy. It plops onto the bed of human meat and rolls toward him. As it gathers speed, a similar-sized sphere drops from
above and chases after the first. Then comes another, and another. Doyle feels like a lone pin at the end of a bowling alley, about to be struck down by any one of these balls heading his way.

But as they get nearer to him they slow down. He tries to make out their precise nature, but only when all of them come to rest at his feet is he able to see them for what they are.

Human heads. With faces he recognizes. There’s Joe Parlatti, staring at him with uncomprehending eyes and an open mouth. There’s Tony Alvarez, and there’s Spinner, and
there’s . . .

He decides to get out of there when the heads begin to scream at him.

They let out unpunctuated wails of torment and pain. Long drawn-out cries that can snap hearts and break minds. Doyle scrambles for the door, manages to squeeze himself through the gap as he did
before. He pulls the door shut, muting the hellish sounds beyond. Resting his head against the cracked panel, he tries to regain his breath, his composure. He counts to ten, slowly turns.

Then, like Ebenezer Scrooge, he encounters the final ghost – the one he dreads most.

She is facing him, her arms out to him, pleading. Tears are running down her cheeks. She wants to know why.

But Doyle has no answers. All he can do is stare right through the ragged hole in Laura Marino’s chest . . .

And scream.

He sits upright in bed, knowing that he has just screamed himself awake.

He’s drenched in sweat. Shaky from the nightmare he has just lived. Laura Marino’s heart-rending face is still imprinted on his brain.

‘It was moving,’ he mutters to himself in the blackness. ‘The fucking door was moving.’

He swings his legs out of bed, then pads naked to the bathroom. He fumbles for the light. Steps through onto the cool tiles. He squints at himself in the mirror over the sink. Not a pretty
sight. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he hasn’t slept nearly enough to get the alcohol out of his system.

He moves over to the toilet, takes a pee that seems even to him to last forever, then goes back to the sink and fills it with lukewarm water. He splashes handfuls of it onto his face, his hands
rasping against the roughness of his stubble. He dries himself on the fluffy hotel towel, then steps back into the main room, turning off the light as he enters.

He doesn’t know what it is – a sound, an odor, a flash of movement just before he doused the light – but he suddenly realizes that he’s not alone in this room.

He tries to act as though he hasn’t noticed a thing. He knows he’s at a disadvantage for several reasons. First of all, he’s still under the influence of
numerous pints of Guinness. Second, he has just blinded himself with the lights in the bathroom, while the intruder’s eyes, on the other hand, are presumably fully accustomed to the darkness.
Third, he cannot remember precisely where he put his gun when he got undressed. Last, but not least, he is as naked as the day he was born, which leaves him feeling kind of defenseless.

Straining to build a mental map of the room in front of him, he stumbles his way back to the bed and tries to make up his mind as to what to do now.

The gun, or the light switch?

His best guess is that his Glock is in the drawer of the bed table. But he could be wrong about that. And even if he’s right, he can’t see well enough to shoot anything.

So, he thinks, It’s the light then. But what’s the point in that? It might blind the guy for all of two seconds, but I still don’t have a weapon, and he might just decide to
start blasting away.

Final decision – the gun first. He reaches into the drawer, acting all nonchalant like looking for tissues or some such, then dives for the light switch, hoping to get the drop on the guy.
Okay, it’s not exactly the most foolproof plan in the world, but hey, I don’t have many options here.

Of course, if he’s mistaken, and there’s nobody else in the room, then he’s going to feel such a dick.

He sits on the edge of the bed, puts his head in his hands and lets out a groan.

‘God, my head,’ he mutters. ‘I so need a painkiller for this.’

He stretches for the drawer, slides it open, dips his hand inside.

Nothing. Except a Gideon Bible. Which in his experience doesn’t make the best of weapons.

‘Jesus, Mr Doyle, you are the world’s worst actor. I hope they never send you undercover on any narco busts, that’s the best you can do.’

Doyle turns toward the voice coming from the corner of the room. A lamp flares into life, and he squints to make out the figure seated next to the circular writing table.

‘I guess you’re looking for this,’ the man says, waving Doyle’s Glock in the air. ‘Boy, do you sleep heavy. I should have put the TV on while I was waiting, all the
difference it’d make to you.’

Doyle blinks a few times at the familiar face. Tries to match it up with a name in his mental record book. The guy is big. Looks like he hits the weights. He has a wide jaw and dimples in his
cheeks. His thick black hair has a pronounced widow’s peak.

‘I think you were having a bad dream there, buddy. Something about a door? What’s that about? You get stuck in a revolving door one time?’

Then it clicks. ‘Sonny Rocca.’

The man smiles. A big white grin. Perfect teeth.

‘I’m flattered. You remember me. I didn’t realize I’d left such a lasting impression. I’m touched, really.’

‘I like to take a mental snapshot of those people I’m gonna have to visit again someday.’

‘You planning to come see me again? That’s nice. Please, drop in anytime. I’ll make you some cannoli. My grandmother’s recipe.’ He touches forefinger and thumb to
his lips, kisses them away.
‘Perfetto
.
’

‘You still running errands for Tweedledum and Tweedledee?’

Doyle watches Rocca’s face cloud over, and he knows he’s stung him.

‘If you mean am I still in the employ of Mr Bartok and his brother, then the answer’s yes.’

Doyle nods thoughtfully. ‘So they still won’t have you, huh?’

Sonny Rocca grew up in Little Italy, that area of Manhattan north of Chinatown that has been home to Italian-Americans since the immigrant influx of the late nineteenth century. As a teenager
Rocca ran with gangs, got involved with petty crime and auto thefts. His one avowed ambition in life was to become a true mobster, a made man, a goodfella, a wiseguy.

The problem was that not one of the families would take him into its bosom. For one thing, his mother wasn’t Italian; she was Norwegian – as blond and fair-skinned and
non-Mediterranean-looking as they come. It’s one of the reasons that Rocca has always overplayed the Italian side of his heritage, sometimes to the extent of sounding like a stereotype in a
badly written play.