Pariah

one of his friends as I go. News reaches my super-sensitive ears that Doyle is now talking to one Kurt Bartok, so naturally Bartok is next on my list.

I don’t care if they’re good or evil. Make them your friends, and they’re dead.

Problem is, Bartok isn’t like the others. This is a man who expects attempts on his life as a hazard of his profession. This is a man who surrounds himself with an army to prevent any such efforts reaching fruition.

So what do I do? I know, I’ll approach one of Bartok’s closest bodyguards, offer him a shit-load of money, and he’ll do the job for me.

Yeah, like fuck.

How did the perp even know who Sonny Rocca was, let alone that he was disgruntled with his boss? What made him think he could trust Rocca? What made him so sure that Rocca wouldn’t cap him as soon as he even broached the idea, or that he wouldn’t immediately spill the beans to Bartok? How did he know there was the remotest chance his offer would be accepted?

His offer.

What was it Sonny said just before he died?

I made him an offer. He made me a better one.

Sonny Rocca made the killer an offer. What kind of offer?

Whatever it was, it means that the killer didn’t need to work out whom to approach to do his dirty work.

Sonny Rocca had already come to him!

Why? Was he acting on Bartok’s behalf? If so, what would Bartok possibly want from this lunatic?

Doyle crumples the letter up again and tosses it to the floor. He doesn’t see the logic in any of this. None of it makes any sense.

He starts to pace. His foot kicks the empty cardboard box. He looks down at it, and sees that bird looking right back at him. He bends down and picks up the box. It used to contain a CD player, manufactured by a Japanese company. The image of a bird is not part of the original packaging; it was stamped onto it at a later date. Doyle spins the box around, examining each of its sides. On one end is another stamp, giving details of the consignment. Amongst other things it gives the name of the company that has received this item and will be selling it in its stores.

Trogon Electronics.

And then it all comes back to him.

A conversation. Part of an investigation. Doyle talking to one of the managers at Trogon. Asking him, ‘What the fuck is a trogon, anyhow?’ And the manager replying that it’s a bird found in Central and South America. Hence the company logo.

You learn something every day.

And the reason Doyle was talking to this guy in the first place was. .

Doyle races across to his jacket, whips out his cellphone. He speed-dials a number.

‘Eighth Precinct. Detective LeBlanc.’

‘Tommy, it’s me. Cal Doyle.’

‘Cal! How you doin’, man? Making the most of the hotel hospitality?’

Doyle looks around at the peeling paint, the threadbare curtains. ‘Uh, yeah. It’s nice to be waited on like this, you know? Listen, Tommy, can you do something for me?’

‘Sure, buddy. What is it?’

‘You remember that hit on the Trogon Electronics warehouse a couple months back?’

There’s a moment’s pause, like LeBlanc doesn’t know where Doyle is coming from with this.

‘Yeah?’ he drawls.

‘Somewhere in the fives there’s a list of item numbers of the stolen goods. You think you can look those out for me and call me back?’

‘Uh, well. . Look, Cal, I want to help you and all, but aren’t you kinda off the job right now? I mean, why do you need this shit?’

How much to tell him? Can I trust him? Can I trust anyone?

‘Tell you the truth, Tommy, I’m bored stiff in this place. I’m going out of my mind waiting for you guys to rescue me. So I’m working through some old cases, just to keep me occupied. You don’t mind, do you?’

Another pause. ‘I guess not. Give me five minutes.’

Doyle ends the call, but keeps the phone in his hand. He returns to his chair and waits. It’s more like fifteen minutes before LeBlanc calls him.

‘Yeah.’

‘Cal? Where are you?’

‘What do you mean? I’m in the hotel, like I told you.’

‘Yeah? Well, I been calling you on your room phone for the last five minutes.’

Shit.

‘I, uh, I’m sorry, Tommy. I shoulda said. I’m not in my room. I’m down in the bar. I was calling you on my cell. You get the numbers?’

‘Uh, yeah, yeah. I got ’em. What do you want to know?’

‘CD players. You got a bunch beginning with the letters CDX?’

‘Yeah. About a dozen of ’em.’

‘Okay. Read them out to me.’

While LeBlanc reels them off, Doyle stares at the number on his carton. When nine or ten numbers have been called, he begins to think he’s got it wrong.

‘Wait. That last number. Read it to me again, slowly.’

LeBlanc sounds out the digits, Doyle moving his finger steadily along the box.

Bingo.

‘That’s great, Tommy. Thanks.’

‘That it? That’s all you wanted?’

‘Like I said, I’m just trying to tie up a few loose ends on old cases. No big deal.’

‘Oh. Okay. . Listen, man, I hope you can get back on the job soon. I mean it. We’re doing all we can to find this guy. It’s just, well. .’

‘Yeah, I know. Thanks. I’ll see you soon.’

He ends the call. He doesn’t want to hear any more about how the squad is putting all its efforts into his case. It’s starting to make him want to vomit.

He looks again at the box, as if doing so will help him to fit this new piece of information into the puzzle. The CD player was stolen in a raid on a warehouse owned by Trogon Electronics. Three months ago, Doyle collared a crew he believed responsible for that robbery, but their shyster lawyer got them off the hook faster than you can say habeas corpus.

The crew comprised the Bartok brothers and Sonny Rocca.

And now one of those purloined items turns up in the home of Mickey ‘Spinner’ Spinoza — a man who, like the Bartoks and Rocca, also became tangled in the web of Doyle’s persecutor and died because of it.

Coincidence? My ass!

Spinner was fencing goods for the Bartoks. That means he knew them, and they knew him — well enough to entrust him with selling on their ill-gotten gains.

Something Spinner said on the phone. .

I got a meeting fixed up. Some people I know. They want to talk about who whacked your two partners.

Could those people have been Bartok and Co.?

Until now Doyle has always assumed that the meeting was a sham, that the killer somehow pretended to be someone that Spinner knew and trusted, in order to bring him into his clutches.

But Spinner was no idiot. Good snitches like him don’t stay on this earth for very long unless they possess a substantial amount of street smarts. It would not have been easy to get him to walk blindly into a trap like that.

And there’s something else that bothers Doyle. Why bring Spinner back here? Why would the killer trick