The Helper

Nothing further on the calls to his cellphone either. They’ve stopped. Dead.

To Doyle it’s almost as though his refusal to take the helper’s calls has brought the killing spree to an end. As if the killer needs to feed off his little chats with Doyle in order to have the fuel to carry out his mission.

He knows it can’t be that simple. The killer must be up to something. More murders will take place. He can feel it deep in his bones.

It’s not a comforting sensation.

It’s like knowing there’s a massive spider hidden in the room with you, just waiting to jump out when you least expect it.

His guess is that the swarthy bastard behind the counter isn’t genuinely Italian.

Italian-American, perhaps. He’d give him that much. A Mediterranean set of genes there somewhere, no doubt. But severely diluted over several generations. Long enough for him to have lost that accent which sounds so affected it’s laughable.

The name, too, has to be fake. Peppe. Clearly he has adopted that moniker purely for the alliteration it lends to the name of this dump. Peppe’s Pizza Piazza. A nice ring to it, sure, but a tad convenient, wouldn’t you say? But then the owner’s real name is probably something like Timothy, which wouldn’t quite conjure up the same romantic imagery of a moonlit dinner overlooking canals with gondolas and bullet- riddled mafia victims floating by.

He’s willing to bet that the guy lays claim to a stupid surname too, again for the effect. Roni, perhaps. Ciao. My name is-a Peppe Roni. Come in and-a taste-a my spicy sausage.

And a piazza? Hardly. San Marco in Venice is a piazza. Navona in Rome is a piazza. This is more of a. . well, a room, basically. Even the use of the word ‘restaurant’, which also appears on the signage outside, is kind of stretching the definition to breaking point. Sure, there are a few small tables and some chairs here, but you’d hardly want to spend more than the time it takes to wolf down a few slices in these surroundings. Peppe and the other pseudo-Italian who works here are probably wondering why their only sit-in customer is spending so much time over his meal.

If only they knew.

The pizza must be damn good, though. It’s clearly what keeps this place going. Say what you like about the ambience, there’s a steady stream of people coming in for take-out orders. They might not be willing to sit here for long, but they obviously crave the product.

He’s not really in a position to judge the quality of the pizza here. He decided long ago that he couldn’t really class himself as a pizza person, despite the alliteration. He would much prefer a steak, medium rare, or perhaps some nice sea bass. Throw in a bottle of Chianti or Chardonnay and mood-enhancing music and lighting — heaven! Company or no.

And so his acquaintances — he can hardly call them friends — would puzzle over why he is now sitting in front of a fourteen-inch pie, heaped high with all kinds of meat toppings.

If only they knew.

He’s had one slice. It was bearable, but it took him ten minutes to get through it. But then he’s not very hungry. He never is when there’s work to be done.

He takes a sip from his glass of San Pellegrino and looks around. The man who calls himself Peppe (ha!) is handing change to a woman who, judging from her planetary-scale girth and acne-peppered complexion, eats nothing but junk food. He watches as she waddles out of the building, and then he catches Peppe’s eye.

Peppe points across to his table. ‘Is-a good?’

In response, he smiles and raises his hand, the index finger and thumb joined together in a circle to signify approval. As he does so, it occurs to him that perhaps the gesture signifies something different in Italy. Like maybe, Suck my dick. Not that this guy would know, impostor that he is.

He checks his watch. Seven p.m. precisely. Should be anytime. .

A phone rings.

. . now.

The phone is on the wall behind the counter, next to the cash register. Peppe plucks at the receiver and brings it to his ear with a flourish.

‘Good-a evening. Peppe’s Pizzas.’

Peppe listens for a moment, and then: ‘Ah, Miss Peyton. How are-a you this evening?. . The usual?. . Very good. And the time? Is it at eight o’clock?. . Excellente. We will-a see you then. Good-a- bye.’

Seated at his table, the man listens to all this and feels his heart rate accelerating with each word. He watches Peppe disappear behind the scenes to pass on the order, and presumes that he is doing so to avoid having to reveal his lack of mastery of the Italian language.

He finds that his mouth is suddenly dry, and he takes a gulp of his mineral water. Feels the fizz of the bubbles in his gullet.

He waits for Peppe to saunter back into the room, then waves for his attention.

‘Excuse me. Could you box this up for me, please? I have to go now, but I really want to finish this later. Would that be okay?’

‘Sure. Is-a no problem.’

He watches while Peppe clears the table and transfers the remaining slices into one of their branded cardboard boxes. He knows what’s going through his head. Peppe is wondering how anyone could take so long to eat just one slice, as if he detests the stuff, and then want to take the rest of it home, stone cold.

If only he knew.

A smile on his face, the killer pays his tab and leaves, carrying the pizza carton before him like he’s one of the wise men bearing gifts. As he goes through the door, he glances at his watch again. Ten after seven. Just as he planned.

Excellente.

For Tabitha Peyton, Friday night is usually pizza night. Usually, but not always. Hence the waiting around in Peppe’s. He had to be sure. But the visit also provided him with his credentials for the next step of his mission.

He heads to his car first, parked up a block along from the pizza house here on Allen Street. He opens the trunk and takes out the other items he needs if he’s to be convincing. A motorcycle helmet and a leather biker’s jacket. He swaps his own jacket for the leather. Doesn’t exactly make him a Hell’s Angel, but it ought to be enough.

He locks up the car, dodges through the two-way traffic, then walks around the block onto Orchard Street. He stops at a five-story tenement opposite the Blue Moon, once a similar tenement until it had another three stories grafted on top when it was converted into a boutique hotel. He climbs the steep set of steps to the front entrance, then finds the buzzer labeled ‘T. Peyton’. He smiles to himself. Nine times out of ten, if they put just an initial with no indication of gender, you just know it’s going to be a single woman. He thumbs the buzzer and waits.

‘Hello?’

‘Pizza delivery.’

A pause. Then: ‘Mikey?’

‘No. This is Pete. I’m the new guy. You ordered a pizza, right?’

‘Yeah, but you’re too early. The order was for eight o’clock.’

‘Eight o’clock? Oh crap. I am so gonna get it for this. Yours is the second one I got wrong tonight. My ass is fried. Sorry to bother you, miss. We’ll bring the order at eight, like you asked. Looks like it’s not gonna be from me, unfortunately, but you’ll get it on time. Really sorry about that.’

That’s it, he thinks. Lay it on thick.

‘Wait!’ she says, and he knows he’s got her. ‘I guess it won’t hurt to eat a little early. Bring it on up.’

He hears the buzz and the click of the lock opening. He’s in.

He takes the stairs up to the third floor, then raps on the door to her apartment. She opens it in an instant.

She’s wearing a powder-blue bathrobe, belted tightly at her waist. She has removed her make-up. From somewhere behind her he hears the sound of running water.