minute rolling it around before chewing and swallowing.
‘My brother hates olives,’ he says. ‘He calls them phlegm-balls. I don’t think he’ll ever make it in marketing. So often the money is in choosing the right name, don’t you agree? Take the name you’re interested in, for example. What would you say that’s worth?’
What’s it worth? How do I measure something like that? What’s it worth to get your life back, to be able to see your family again?
‘Depends. If it’s the name of someone who’s already dead or out of reach, then not very much.’
‘And if it’s someone who’s very much alive? Someone not so far away? Someone who is still determined to keep you in this state of extreme isolation? What’s it worth to hear that name, to know that you can leave here and go straight to that man and arrest him or kill him or torture him or do whatever else you need to get your revenge?’
It’s the first time Doyle has been presented with any realistic prospect of confronting his persecutor. Would I, he wonders, just collar him? Would that be enough to give me closure?
He doesn’t think so. He thinks too much hatred has built up inside for him simply to follow the rules like this was any run-of-the-mill criminal.
But he’ll worry about that when he gets the name.
‘How do I know you’ve got the right guy? The NYPD have been on this twenty-four-seven. I got snitches out there who could tell me who shot JFK quicker than they can get me a name for this perp. So what’s so special about you?’
Bartok takes another dainty sip of his drink, then puts the glass down and twirls the stem between his fingers.
‘As I told you last night, Detective, my commodity is information. I have a lot of data on a lot of things and a lot of people. Sometimes it comes in useful, sometimes it doesn’t. But just in case, I never throw any of it away. It all gets filed, most of it up here.’ He taps his temple, then smoothes down his hair on the off chance he’s just disturbed it. ‘On this occasion we have. .
‘If you’re giving me the runaround. .’
Bartok flops back in his chair. He looks irritated now. ‘Detective Doyle, this is starting to become tiresome. I made you an offer in good faith. My assumption was that you came here tonight because you decided to accept that offer. If you’ve changed your mind, then feel free to leave and go back to your scant existence in your miserable flea-pit of a hotel. It’s time, as the saying goes, to piss or get off the pot.’
So there it is, thinks Doyle. What’s it gonna be? Haven’t you already made up your mind? Are you really gonna get up and walk out of here without that name?
‘You want to know about Ramon Vitez.’
Bartok says nothing. He purses his lips slightly and waits.
Doyle says, ‘I’m not involved in that operation.’
He sees the fury igniting in Bartok’s eyes, a twitch appearing on the corner of his mouth.
‘But,’ Doyle adds, ‘I know one or two things.’
Bartok continues to wait. The room is silent, save for a steady pounding. Doyle isn’t sure whether it’s from the dance floor or his own heart. He opens his mouth, finds himself choking on his own words. This goes against everything in which he believes, everything he is.
‘New Year’s Day. Seven a.m. When all the revelers are still sleeping it off. East River Park. The handover will take place at a bench under the Williamsburg Bridge. That’s all I know.’
More silence. Bartok finishes his drink and passes a reptilian tongue over his thin lips, then smoothes his hair again.
‘Good enough?’ Doyle asks.
‘It’s a start,’ Bartok answers, and Doyle can see the devilish glee on the man’s face.
Stay calm. He’s fucking with your head. Stay calm.
‘The name, Kurt. Give me the name.’
‘In a moment. I need a little more. . persuading.’
Doyle leans forward suddenly, almost coming off his chair. Again he notices how Rocca and Bruno brace themselves.
‘Persuading is the last thing you want me to do, Kurt. You haven’t seen how I can persuade people. I’ve given you what you asked for, so you-’
‘You’ve given me nothing,’ Bartok says. He reaches for a drawer, slides it open. He pulls out a notepad and pushes it across the desk. On the top sheet of paper it says, ‘Ramon Vitez. East River Park. Jan 1.’
Doyle stares at the sheet for some time, then raises his gaze to Bartok. ‘What the fuck is this?’
‘Call it a test. A validation of your sincerity. You’ll be glad to hear that you’ve passed with flying colors. Now, tell me something I don’t know.’
Doyle leaps to his feet so fast, the heavies are almost caught off guard. He sees them reach beneath their jackets and start toward him.
‘Fuck you, Bartok!’ Doyle says. ‘You want to play games, do it with someone who’s prepared to lie down and roll over. I’m outta here, and when I come back, all the data in the world ain’t gonna save you from what I got in mind.’
He starts toward the door, wondering how far he’s going to get. Wondering whether they’re prepared to let him leave. Once again, he’s regretting giving up his gun. He gets to the door, reaches for the handle. .
‘He’s close, Detective Doyle.’
Doyle halts. Despite himself, he wants to hear what Bartok has to say.
‘He’s close,’ Bartok repeats. ‘You know him, in fact. And he knows oh so much about you. Don’t you want to know who it is?’
Doyle lowers his hand. I have to know, he thinks. I’ve come this far.
He turns to face Bartok. Rocca and Bruno are toward the front of the desk now, their hands still inside their jackets. A sneer on his ugly face, Bruno is straining against his leash, anxious to release some pent-up violence. Rocca’s face is impassive. He has no axe to grind, but there is no doubting his loyalty or conviction.
‘Come on, Detective. You’re already committed. Whether I knew about Vitez or not, the fact that you told me about him is enough to lose you your job and get you put in jail. You’ve proved yourself. All I’m asking for now is for you to demonstrate your usefulness. Please, sit down. Finish what you came here for.’
It’s true, Doyle thinks. He has me. I’m in. You can’t get back in the plane once you’ve jumped.
Slowly, he walks back to the chair. Bartok flicks his wrist and his guards back away, Bruno looking like he’s just had a prime steak snatched away from him.
Doyle sits down. Tries counting to ten before saying, ‘What do you want to know?’
Bartok waves his hand. ‘I’ll leave it to you. Surprise me.’ He says this as though he’s a food critic inviting a restaurant owner to impress him before he writes his review.
Doyle consults his mental menu and tries to avoid the expensive items.
‘Tito Sloane, one of Blue Tucker’s soldiers. Took a hit last month in a Chinatown parking lot. Tucker blames your crew for the hit, saying you claim he ripped off one of your mules.’
‘Ah, yes, Mr Tucker. Such a fantasist, and yet he’s determined to cause me a lot of problems at the moment.’
‘It’s gonna get worse. Tucker plans to even the score by acing one of your own operatives.’
He sees the sudden concern on Bartok’s face.
‘Who? When?’
‘I don’t know. Soon. Story is he’s psyched up for a war.’
Bartok blinks several times in a way that suggests he’s trying to bat away his anger. ‘The future killing of an unnamed associate at an unknown time and place, coming from a man who is widely known to despise me, is hardly one of the most valuable or even interesting pieces of information, Detective. You’ll have to do better than that.’
‘I’m not done. Suppose I told you I know a way to take the heat off?’
‘Go on.’
