Rocca knocks and waits. The door opens a crack, and another muscleman peers out at them. If it’s one thing the Bartoks aren’t short of, Doyle thinks, it’s somebody to take the lids off their peanut butter jars. Another Masonic exchange of nods, and they’re in. As he passes the bodyguard, Doyle tips his own head to the man, who looks at him like he’s just fallen off his shoe. Doyle figures that he hasn’t quite got the hang of the gesture.
As Doyle walks across the polished wood floor, the bodyguard closes the door behind him, dampening almost all of the sound from the nightclub. Doyle takes a quick look around the plush office before his eyes settle on the man seated behind the huge oak desk in front of the window. Lucas Bartok.
Bartok the elder is not a pleasant man. Anyone who knows of his reputation for violence and sheer cruelty could tell you that. But with Bartok it goes further. It’s somehow ingrained on his face. You only have to glance at that mug to see how deeply it’s etched with his sourness and malevolence, like notches on the butt of a gun. And don’t, whatever you do, look into those eyes. You will flinch at what you see. And if you can bear to maintain your gaze, those eyes will drive you insane, make you unable to stop yourself from trying to imagine the warped picture of the world that this man must have.
Lucas Bartok is cross-eyed.
So cross-eyed it makes you want to laugh. But if you do laugh, if you even give a hint of a smile, the merest quiver of your lip, then you’d better be prepared to meet your maker, because Lucas Bartok, sensitive soul that he is, will gut you like a fish.
Still, Doyle thinks, I’m here at his invitation. He’s got to be a little welcoming, no?
No.
It’s only when Bartok looks up from his paperwork (at least he
‘What the fuck?’ he says. ‘WHAT THE FUCK?’
He gets up from his chair, comes around the desk, walks right up to Doyle.
‘I remember you. You fucking piece of shit. What the fuck do you think you’re doing walking into my office like you own the fucking place?’
Doyle waits for the spittle to stop landing on his face, then looks over to Rocca.
‘I think he’s talking to you.’
Rocca bows his head to stifle a smile that’s threatening to break out and call for his execution.
Bartok’s eyes light up like two misaligned lasers. ‘I never forget a face, especially a stupid fucking mick face like yours. I remember what you did to me, hauling me into jail like that. Like I’m some kind of street scum. You got real nerve coming here. I oughtta-’
‘Boss,’ Rocca says.
Bartok whirls on him. ‘You shut the fuck up, you stupid fucking wop. Did I ask you to speak?’ He walks over to Rocca, needing to vent his anger on somebody. ‘You know, I don’t even trust wops. I don’t know why the fuck we let you stay. Your kind are worse than the fucking spics, what with your. .’
As the tirade continues, Doyle decides he wants out. He feels as though his appearance here has tripped a wire that’s sent a missile hurtling toward him. Waiting for it to land is not a good idea. At the same time, experience has taught him that, with men like Bartok, you don’t ask, ‘Please may I go now?’ That would be weakness, and these men prey on weakness. The thing that Doyle has learned always to bear in mind in any confrontation is that he is the representative of right against wrong. He is the authority figure. No matter how scared he is or how chaotic the situation, he has at least to present the appearance of being the man at the wheel.
‘Hey, Lucas,’ he interrupts. ‘When you’ve finished auditioning for a job as a race relations officer, I’d like to go back to my hotel. I’ve got some serious sleep to catch up on. So goodnight and thanks for the hospitality.’ He turns to leave, but the bodyguard steps in front of the door. Doyle remembers that Rocca still has his gun.
‘No, you don’t,’ Bartok says, wagging his finger from side to side. ‘This is my territory now. We play by my rules. Try acting the big tough cop here, see how far it gets you. I only got to snap my fingers and you’re dog food. You decide to waltz in here, you better have a reason. And you better hope it’s good enough to convince me not to call in my Dobermann, ’cause he’s pretty hungry right now.’
Doyle knows that the sensible thing to do would be to attempt to clear up this little misunderstanding. Somehow, wires have become as crossed as Bartok’s pupils. They need to be untangled. Doyle needs to inject a little calm, a little reasoning into a situation that’s on the edge of detonation.
But at the same time he’s feeling really pissed. Pissed that he’s been dragged out of his bed in the middle of the night. Pissed that he was led here on a false promise. Pissed that he’s been subject to so much abuse and disrespect.
And so it’s infuriation rather than diplomacy that drives out his words as he looks at Sonny Rocca again.
‘Are you gonna explain things to this dimwit before his bulb blows?’
Rocca opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. He’s clearly afraid of saying the wrong thing, perhaps even of making his presence felt in the company of his lunatic employer. Bartok doesn’t wait for an explanation, and comes storming toward Doyle.
Doyle thinks, This is it. I’ve gone too far. Bartok’s lost it.
Bartok stops inches short of colliding with Doyle. ‘You’re lucky you can still walk, Doyle. Most men, they’d already be dead by now. Only reason I haven’t skinned you alive yet is I’m curious. Curious as to how a piece of shit like you has the balls to come here, to my club. Now, you wanna say something to me, or do you wanna try throwing more insults at me? Go ahead, Doyle, make a joke. Say something about my. . appearance. See what happens.’
In his head, Doyle is trying to come up with a plan. A plan that involves overcoming three experienced and violent opponents without the aid of his gun, and then fighting his way out of a packed nightclub containing a further assortment of armed and dangerous goons who are undoubtedly prepared to kill first and ask questions later.
On this occasion, Doyle’s brain lets him down. He blames the alcohol still swirling around up there.
Behind him, Doyle hears the door open. His ears are assaulted by the music again.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ says a voice. ‘Detective Doyle. Glad you could make it.’
The door closes, and the new arrival strolls across the room. As he walks over to the desk, he takes a comb from his inside pocket and slides it through his greased-back dark hair. He lowers himself with great precision onto the leather chair, then opens a drawer, pulls out a vanity mirror and checks the result of his combing. He’s nattily dressed in a navy pinstripe suit, the arrowhead of a white handkerchief poking from the breast pocket. His facial features are aquiline, but set with tiny piss-hole eyes that would be of no use to any bird of prey.
Watching all this in silence, Lucas Bartok’s jaw drops.
‘You invited this pond-life into our club?’
Kurt Bartok takes his time replacing the mirror before looking up at his elder brother. ‘Yes, I sent for him. Is there a problem?’
Lucas rounds on his sibling. ‘Yes, there’s a fucking problem. You know who this is, don’t you? You do remember what he did to us?’
Kurt waves his hand dismissively. ‘He’s a cop. That’s what cops do. Sometimes they make mistakes, like Doyle did in taking us on. We won, he lost. You should be proud of that.’
‘What I will be proud of is when I take this asshole and force him down my garbage disposer.’
‘Really, Lucas, you need to stop taking things so personally. No wonder your blood pressure’s so high.’
‘My blood pressure’s fine. Leastways it will be when this Irish cocksucker is out of my sight. What’s he doing here, anyhow?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not inviting him to a surprise birthday party for you. It’s business, that’s all. Detective Doyle and I have a few things to discuss.’
‘And you were planning on telling me this when?’
Kurt makes a foppish hand gesture toward Rocca. ‘Didn’t Sonny explain everything in my absence?’
‘No, he fucking didn’t. That stupid guinea doesn’t know shit. You ask him the time, he tells you where the big hand is.’
