Pariah

gave him.

‘You’re cutting it fine, Mr Doyle,’ Rocca says.

‘I’m a last-minute kinda guy. I like to keep people guessing. It adds to my mystique.’

‘You sure you want to do this?’

‘What, you trying to talk me out of it now?’

Rocca chuckles. ‘I’ll be right over.’

‘Some days are special,’ Rocca says as he drives. ‘Red-letter days. Days that change your life forever. You know what I mean, Mr Doyle?’

In the rear of the Lexus, Doyle stares at the back of Rocca’s head.

‘You think this is one of those days?’

‘I know it is. Soon as I heard your voice on the phone, I thought, this is it. This is where it all starts to change.’

‘Remind me to make a note in my diary,’ Doyle says. ‘I’ll send a thank-you card to the Bartoks every year.’

Rocca laughs. ‘You’re a funny guy, Mr Doyle. A real comedian.’

Doyle wonders, What’s Rocca got to be so happy about? He hoping we’ll be some kind of blood brothers now? Another addition to the family of oddballs?

And I could do without all the fuss he’s making. Like it’s some kind of historic victory or major coup for the Bartok clan.

But then who am I kidding thinking this is just a five-minute pact? What am I expecting — that I’ll just pass some info to Bartok and he’ll give me a name, and then I’ll never see him again? Do I really believe that it’ll stop there?

Doyle knows it won’t. He knows that once he’s in Bartok’s pocket he’s there to stay, like a handkerchief, waiting for Bartok to pull him out and blow his nose on him whenever he feels like it.

Rocca pulls the Lexus into the narrow alley next to Bartok’s club, parks it tight against the wall like he did the previous night. He gets out first, and like a chauffeur, opens the rear door to let Doyle out. Doyle steps out onto the cobblestones, already feeling slippery beneath his feet. He guesses that, by the morning, the city will be covered in a film of frost.

He waits for Rocca to lead the way toward the club, but Rocca just stands there, a dumb smile on his face as he stares at Doyle.

‘What? Having second thoughts? And after all the drinks I bought you? You men are all the same.’

Rocca’s laugh forms a cloud in front of his face. ‘Two things, Mr Doyle. First, your piece.’ He holds out his left hand, sheathed in a tan leather glove.

Doyle looks around as he hesitates. Giving up his gun is anathema to him. It’s one of the few things that’s become ingrained in him since his days in the Academy: never give up your sidearm. Last night was different: Rocca took the gun while he was asleep. But now he’s being asked to surrender it voluntarily. He would rather hand over very item of clothing he’s wearing if it meant he could keep his Glock.

‘Bartok still doesn’t trust me?’

Rocca shrugs. ‘Maybe after tonight he will.’

Because he’ll have something on me, Doyle thinks. He sighs another cloud of vapor and, with reluctance, plucks his Glock from its leather holster and slaps it onto Rocca’s gloved palm. It seems to Doyle an immensely symbolic act; he almost feels like he should offer his gold shield too.

Rocca drops the gun into a pocket of his overcoat. It’s a stylish gray coat; Italian, no doubt.

‘The other thing: I have to search you.’

‘I ain’t wired, if that’s what’s worrying your boss.’

Rocca just shrugs again, as if to say that he has his orders and so there’s no point debating it.

Doyle puts his arms out, in invitation for Rocca to go ahead. While he’s being patted down, he says, ‘Tell me something. Your boss not worried about the risk he’s taking by talking to me? Could be he’s putting himself right at the top of some sicko’s hit list.’

Rocca laughs like this is the best joke ever. ‘You’ve seen how Mr Bartok operates, how careful he is. You think me frisking you like this is just for kicks? Wherever he goes, he practically has a whole army with him, me included. You don’t get near to Mr Bartok unless he wants you to.’

‘Just asking. So far, this whacko’s been pretty resourceful.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t you worry about it. Besides, aren’t you forgetting something?’

‘What?’

Rocca completes his search, and pulls Doyle’s lapels neatly back into place. ‘Mr Bartok knows who this guy is. It gives him a certain. . leverage. Anytime he wants, all he has to do is click his fingers and the guy is history.’

As they start walking round to the club entrance, Doyle says, ‘Do you know who the guy is?’

Rocca halts and turns, that disarming grin on his face. ‘You know, I do like that coat of yours, Mr Doyle. I think I might get me one just like it.’

For a Sunday night, it seems to Doyle as though there’s a heck of a lot of people who don’t seem worried about having to get up for work the next morning, the dance floor being as overcrowded and as noisy as it was the previous night. And then he realizes what an old fart he sounds like.

Bartok’s goons don’t appear any more relaxed either. They stand glued to their stations throughout the club, monitoring the patrons and waiting for their opportunity to knock a few heads together. The closer Doyle gets to Bartok’s office up all those stairs, the more menacing the heavies seem to get, as though Bartok has positioned himself at the apex of some kind of hierarchy of malevolence. It crosses Doyle’s mind to tell them to chill, that he’s one of them now, but it’s a thought that seems bitter rather than funny.

Rocca knocks and enters, Doyle trailing behind. Facing them on the other side of his expansive and expensive desk, Kurt Bartok sits observing their entrance as he sips from a cocktail glass. The thick drink looks like partly congealed blood.

‘Detective Doyle! How nice of you to drop in again. Bruno, make yourself useful and fetch the man a seat.’

Looking as though he hasn’t shifted an inch from his spot behind Bartok since the previous night, the big bodyguard hefts his muscles over to a solid oak chair against the wall, picks it up as though it’s a matchstick, and puts it into place at Bartok’s desk. All the while, his eyes are fixed on Doyle as though he’s debating whether there’s enough meat there for his next meal. Bruno’s a good name for him, Doyle thinks. A bear’s name. A name for someone who could crush you with a hug, or cave in your skull with one swipe of his paw.

Doyle sits himself down. As if he’s just provided a cue, Rocca and Bruno take up their customary flanking positions behind Bartok.

‘Don’t you people ever sleep?’ Doyle asks.

‘Sleep is for losers. There’s far too much to be done.’

‘Why? You one of Santa’s helpers?’

Bartok smiles and smacks his lips. He tips a manicured hand toward his drink. ‘Can I get you something? A little refreshment? I hear you’re a Bushmills man.’

‘Not for me, thanks. It’s past my bedtime.’

Bartok leans back, touches a hand to his beloved hair. ‘Speaking of Santa, I assume you’ve come here to exchange presents.’

‘Or you could just give me mine. The joy is in the giving, you know.’

‘Is that so? I’ve always found receiving much more pleasurable. Especially when it comes to receiving knowledge. A snippet of information I never knew before. You’d be amazed at how little of that it takes to make me happy.’

‘I’ll send you an encyclopedia for Christmas. Keep you going for years. Me, all I want’s a name. How about it, Santa? You want me to sit on your knee while you whisper it in my ear?’

Doyle detects a slight tensing in Rocca and the other guard-dog standing behind Bartok. They’re not used to hearing people being so impudent with their master. Any minute now they’ll start barking.

Bartok picks out a cocktail stick from his drink. He slides the pierced olive into his mouth and spends a