‘More than a spot. Closer to a deluge.’
Paddy smiles and nods. ‘As long as it’s through no doing of yours, you got no problem getting served in this bar. Ever.’
Doyle stares into Paddy’s eyes — as blue as his own are green — and thinks about this gesture. It’s much more than a small kindness; it’s an act of bravery from a man who has heard the stories and knows it could get him killed.
‘You’re a good man, Paddy.’
‘I’m an Irishman. Like yourself. If there’s a fight to be fought, we don’t run away.’ He gestures to the settling pint of Guinness. ‘A drop of the black stuff there will help you remember where you came from and what it all means.’
Doyle picks up the glass and raises it to Paddy.
Paddy smiles again, turns to Terry. ‘Whatever he wants, on the house.’ He looks again at Doyle, gives him a mischievous wink, and is gone.
Doyle closes his eyes, takes a long draft of the heavy liquid, feels its silky smoothness flowing down his throat, and tries once again to take himself far away from this madness.
SEVENTEEN
It was too good to be true.
He has kept his place on the bar stool all night. Kept his peace, kept his dignity, kept himself to himself. The alcohol has done its work, coursing through his blood system, slipping into his capillaries and seeping into his cells, carrying him into that other-world where personal troubles are put into their proper perspective when viewed against the greater machinations of the universe. In short, getting him totally shit-faced.
With his physical isolation now accompanied by a self-induced mental isolation, the voice doesn’t carry to him at first. He’s aware only of a sound that seems to be steadily rising in volume while all other noises are diminishing. It’s a while before his brain recognizes the voice being broadcast in all directions, and registers that the words it carries are being aimed specifically at him.
‘To me, it’s like owning a dog,’ Schneider is saying somewhere behind Doyle. ‘You got a dog that’s dangerous, you have to do something about it. Say it’s vicious, like maybe it’s biting people, or attacking other dogs, or chasing the mailman. Do you think it’s right to let a dog like that run around our streets? Or say it’s not even the dog’s fault. Say it’s not even mean. It’s just sick. It’s carrying a disease of some kind. Any other animal it gets close to is likely to get sick too, maybe even die. You think it’s okay to let that dog out? Don’t you think it should be impounded? Maybe even put down?’
Doyle hears some noises of agreement, and a few laughs, presumably from Schneider’s drinking buddies. He does his best to tune it out, and he gives Schneider no signal that he’s heard any of his tirade. He doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
‘Ain’t no different with humans,’ Schneider continues, even louder now. ‘We got a guy who’s running around killing people, we lock him up, right? As cops it’s our job, our duty. But what if he says it’s not his fault? His story is that wherever he goes, the people he mixes with drop dead. Sounds pretty flaky, right? Personally, I’d have a hard time believing a story like that. But, hey, it’s nearly Christmas, right? Let’s show the guy a little charity. Give him a little latitude. Hard-nosed cynical cops that we are, let’s suspend our disbelief just for once.
‘So the guy’s just a walking disaster area. King Midas with a twist: everything he touches turning to dead. What do we do with him? Let him walk? Give him the opportunity to drop a few more innocent citizens in their paths? Fuck no!’
The support for Schneider is more vocal now. He even gets one or two cheers. Give him his due, Doyle thinks, he knows how to play to the audience. Any minute now I’m gonna be the subject of a lynching.
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. ‘
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
