used to be? You’re right, I was good. I really think I could have been one of the best fighters in the country, maybe even the world. But do I have to take all the blame for what I am now? No, I don’t think so. Doesn’t matter how many times I run through my history, looking at all the stupid things I did, I can’t find nothing explains why I had to be punished like this. So go ahead. Criticize me all you want. You don’t want to deal with me no more, find yourself another sewer rat for your information. There’s plenty other cops want what I got to sell.’
Doyle releases his grasp, tries to smooth out the extra creases he’s just added to Spinner’s shirt. ‘Spinner, I didn’t mean-’
‘No. You know what? Fuck you. Get the fuck out of my crib. I don’t need this grief.’ He pushes Doyle hard in the chest. ‘Go on. Get your ass out of here.’
Doyle looks for a long time into Spinner’s face, and sees only fading echoes of the man he used to be. But he’s right. It’s not all his fault. He was dealt a bad hand, excuse the pun. And now he’s hurting.
Doyle turns away and drags his feet toward the door. Stops after only three paces.
‘What are you waiting for? Get the fuck out before I throw you out.’
‘I can’t,’ Doyle says.
‘What?’
Doyle faces Spinner again. ‘I said I can’t. I need you, man.’
‘Ha! You
‘No, seriously. I need your help. Things are bad for me right now.’
He detects a change in Spinner’s stance. A slight softening.
‘Bad how?’
‘The cop killer? He’s not smoking cops just for the sake of it. He’s doing it to get at me. He’s been sending me messages. Last night he killed a hooker and had me believing it was Rachel. For some reason he wants to isolate me, make me afraid to go near other people. He’s trying to turn me into some kind of kiss of death.’
Spinner throws his towel down onto the floor — a gesture that tells Doyle he’s just achieved the opposite effect of dredging up sympathy.
‘Well, ain’t that just dandy? You listen to any of what just came out of your mouth? About killing people close to you? And now you’re where? Here, in my apartment, talking to your old buddy Spinner about how much you need him.’ He stabs a finger angrily into his temple. ‘Real clever, Cal. Real fucking intelligent.’
Doyle puts his hands out in front of him. ‘Nobody knows I’m here, Spin. Not a soul. And before you ask, no, I wasn’t followed. I made sure of that.’
But Spinner hasn’t finished. ‘Or is it maybe just that I’m expendable? Is that it, Cal? You can risk coming to me because it don’t matter all that much if I get whacked. One less cripple in the world-’
‘Jesus fucking Christ, man. Will you listen to me for one fucking minute? I’m coming to you for help, as a friend. The PD’s getting nowhere on this. I need other sources. You want to know why I got so crazy a few minutes back? Because I wanted you clean. I wanted your head in shape so you could put everything you have into this. I’m that desperate. You may be all I got.’
Silence. The crunch point. Either Spinner buys this now, thinks Doyle, or I’m out on my ear.
Slowly, Spinner stoops and picks up the towel, then drapes it over the back of a chair. As if that makes any difference in a room that looks like it’s had a hurricane blasting through it.
‘I already asked around. After we talked last time. Nobody knows nothing. Or if they do, they’re not telling me.’
‘I need you to ask some more. Dig a little deeper.’
‘How long you been running CIs, Cal? You know it don’t work like that.’
Doyle nods his acceptance. On TV, in the movies, the cop meets his informant in a shady corner, inquires about the armed robbery at the First National Bank, and surreptitiously hands over a few bills. The next day, the snitch brings him a full list of the gang members, probably with their whereabouts, phone numbers and shoe sizes too.
Well, that’s not how it goes in real life. Anyone who goes around asking career criminals direct questions about specific nefarious activities is liable to end up studying aquatic life at the bottom of the East River. Informants stay alive by being reactive rather than proactive. They listen, they remember, and they sell. Sometimes what they hear can be key to breaking a big case, but it’s all down to being in the right place at the right time, and to gaining the trust of the right people.
Spinner says, ‘But I’ll do what I can, okay? Because you’re a buddy, right? Because we go back a long way. Because there was a time when you and me, we weren’t so different.’
Silence descends again. The two men face each other in the room, both lost in their thoughts, their memories. Both recalling a time when they had the same dreams for a better future. Both wondering how it was possible for their paths to diverge so greatly, and yet for them still to be thrown together in this crummy apartment.
FOURTEEN
The door. He remembers the door vividly. It’s painted in cream and has a crack running down its center panel. The handle is in aged brass, and there are finger marks all around it.
And it’s swinging shut. Slowly, to be sure, but it’s definitely swinging shut. He is certain about that, oh yes. He can still see it now. Moving.
Doyle snaps himself out of it, focuses on what’s happening on the sidewalk ahead of him. Two uniformed cops, outside of a bodega here on 120th Street. They have responded to a call to deal with an EDP — an Emotionally Disturbed Person — and have been trying to reason with the man for the last ten minutes.
The man, who looks to Doyle to be homeless and in his early fifties, points back to the bodega as he speaks. Despite the intense cold he has no coat, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. His tirade becomes more animated, and Doyle notices how the cops tense when the man rips open his shirt. Even from here Doyle can see the vicious pink scar that runs all the way down his chest. The man points to it, then up at the sky. From the way that the cops glance at each other, Doyle guesses that the man has started blaming aliens or satellite death rays or some such for his disfigurement.
The debate goes on for another ten minutes before the cops eventually calm the man down and convince him to pull his shirt together and go on his way. Even then, the man stops every few yards and yells something at the waiting officers.
Good job, boys, Doyle thinks. Now let’s see how you handle this one.
He gets out of his car, starts walking toward the two officers. His stride is steady, purposeful, but the cops are unaware of his approach. It’s only when he’s a few yards away that they turn to face him, still shaking their heads and laughing over their previous encounter.
The smiles evaporate when they see Doyle.
Officer Danny Marino points a warning finger. ‘Get the fuck out of here, Doyle. If you know what’s good for you. .’
‘I got a question for you, Marino.’
‘Stick it up your ass. I’m outta here.’ He starts walking around to the driver’s side of his radio car.
‘Not good enough, Marino. I need an answer.’
He starts to follow, but Marino’s partner, a testosterone-infused gym rat called Smits, blocks his path.
‘You heard him, Detective. He doesn’t want to speak to you.’
Doyle looks him hard in the eye. ‘This doesn’t concern you, Smits. Step out of the way.’ He tries to go around the man-mountain, but finds himself facing a wall of muscle again. Only this time Smits compounds his mistake by putting a restraining hand on Doyle’s chest.
Doyle slaps the hand away, then shoves Smits backwards so hard that he has to windmill his arms to maintain his balance. His back thuds into the patrol car, rocking it on its suspension, and for a second or two, Smits appears surprised that anyone would have the temerity to do such a thing. But then a pearly-white grin spreads itself across his face. Like he’s been looking forward to an opportunity like this for a long time.
