against the forces of evil. But he wasn’t. He came here because he’d struck a deal with Lucas’s brother, Kurt. A deal that effectively involved Doyle signing his soul over to that man, putting him forever in his service. Luckily for Doyle, but not so luckily for the Bartoks, Kurt wound up dead shortly before Rocca did. That put an end to the deal, but it didn’t make Doyle’s actions any more forgivable. He couldn’t tell anyone that he’d consorted with known violent criminals, and he certainly couldn’t reveal that he’d killed one of them.
He watches now as Bartok traces the point of the icepick down the face of Rocca. Onto his neck. Then down his torso. Doyle listens to the scraping sound it makes.
‘See here?’ says Bartok. ‘Four holes, though not the best grouping in the world, Doyle. The slugs are still in there. Your bullets. From your gun. The cops would know that, wouldn’t they? I mean, if I was to give them Rocca’s body here and they took a look inside, they’d be able to figure out who did it, wouldn’t they?’
Doyle has always dreaded this day. Last Christmas, Bartok told him he had Rocca’s body. Told him, too, that one day he would come back to Doyle for a favor. As the months came and went, Doyle started to believe it was a bluff. He almost convinced himself that Bartok had dumped the corpse.
But no. Here it is. Bartok kept it. Put it on ice, literally. And now he’s found a reason for using it as his bargaining chip. Doyle is no expert on ballistics, but he knows that discharged bullets bear rifling marks unique to the weapon that fired them. If the tech guys get to the bullets inside Rocca, it won’t be long before Doyle is fingered as the owner of the gun involved. Especially if someone like Bartok helpfully points them in that direction.
‘What do you want, Lucas?’
Bartok smiles again, and his grin seems even more malevolent below those unruly pupils of his.
‘Anton Ruger.’
‘Who’s Anton Ruger?’
‘Piece of shit used to work for me.’
‘Used to?’
‘Yeah. We didn’t see eye to eye.’
Another cue for a wisecrack. Doyle is starting to think Bartok is acting the straight man on purpose, just to test him. He lets it ride. He’s decided he wants to get out of here alive.
‘What’s your beef with him?’
‘He’s got something belongs to me.’
Bartok steps back to his desk. He flips open a folder that’s lying there, then takes out a large photograph and hands it to Doyle. The photograph shows Lucas Bartok and his brother, Kurt, posed at a desk. Kurt is smiling into the camera. It’s hard to tell what Lucas is looking at. He could be checking his watch for all Doyle knows.
‘Ruger’s got your brother?’
‘You know, Doyle, that’s some fucking mouth you got on you. Cut the clown act before I shove this icepick up your ass, you get me?’
Doyle returns his gaze to the picture. ‘All right, so what am I looking at?’
‘Our hands, dick-brain. Look at our fucking hands.’
Doyle looks. The siblings are sporting matching rings. They’re garishly huge, and shaped into a letter B. At the center of each curve of the letter is a large sparkling gem.
‘Solid platinum,’ says Bartok. ‘And those rocks? Diamonds. We bought them for each other.’
Doyle can almost swear he hears Bartok’s voice catch as he says this. Very touching, he thinks. Or at least it would be for normal brothers. With Bartok, this uncharacteristic display of sentimentality makes him seem even more deranged.
‘Very nice. I’m lucky if I get socks.’
‘That’s because you’re a nobody, Doyle.’
‘Thanks for the confidence booster. And what do you want this nobody to do?’
‘When Ruger left my employ, he didn’t go empty-handed.’
‘He took your ring?
‘You catch on fast for a dumb mick cop.’
‘You should put in an official police complaint. We take that kinda thing very seriously.’
‘This here is my police complaint. And I know you’re gonna take it deadly serious.’
‘Meaning what? What is it you’re asking me, Lucas?’
Bartok leans forward. He has the icepick out in front of him, its tip pointed directly at Doyle.
‘What I’m
Doyle stares at Bartok for several seconds.
‘Okay,’ he says.
Bartok flinches. ‘Okay?’
‘Sure. When do you want it done?’
Bartok’s eyes rove even more uncontrollably than usual. His lip twitches. ‘Are you fucking with me, Doyle?’
‘’Course I’m fucking with you, Lucas. I ain’t killing nobody. Now are we done here? Because I got places to be.’
He sees the look of sheer evil on Bartok’s face. The icepick is still aimed between Doyle’s eyes. He braces himself. Waits for the onslaught. Tries to figure out how he’s going to defend himself.
But Bartok smiles. Not the most comforting of expressions when it’s worn on a man like this, but surprising nonetheless. Bartok steps away from Doyle. His smile develops into a low chuckle, then a deep-throated laugh. He looks across to his men, and they join in with the merriment. Nervously, it seems to Doyle.
Bartok continues walking away. He steps past the rigid contorted figure of Sonny Rocca.
And then he spins back to face Doyle. And as he turns, he raises his arm, the one carrying the icepick, and he lets out a huge angry roar and he brings that arm down again. Brings that icepick down. Sinks it handle-deep into Sonny Rocca’s skull. Doyle hears the crunch of bone. He winces. The laughter stops. Somebody sucks air through their teeth. Bartok releases his grip, leaving the icepick still embedded in the top of Rocca’s head. He’s dead, Doyle tells himself. It doesn’t matter. But still it hits Doyle as a shocking, senseless act of violence.
And then Bartok is advancing on Doyle again. Coming straight at him, charging at him, fists bunched, teeth bared. And Doyle cannot read his intent. Cannot work out what those crazy eyes are looking at. .
And then Bartok stops. He stops and he points at Doyle. He laughs again. He holds a hand against his paunch as he laughs, like this is the funniest thing ever. And again the men join in, but still it is not genuine amusement: it is a release of tension. Because everybody in this office except one knows that they are in the presence of insanity.
‘You should see your face,’ says Bartok to Doyle. ‘What a picture.’
Doyle is the only one who isn’t laughing. He doesn’t find this the least bit funny. He finds the whole situation unsettling and scary in its unpredictability.
Says Bartok, ‘I know you wouldn’t kill this hump. Don’t matter what goods I got on you, you wouldn’t whack somebody for me. I know that.’
‘So what
‘My ring. I want my ring back.’
‘You want me to get your ring back for you?’
‘That’s what I want.’
Doyle considers asking one more time whether he’s heard correctly. It seems such a mundane request, unrepresentative of Bartok’s fearsome reputation.
Says Doyle, ‘What about Ruger?’
‘Ruger is nothing. He’s less than nothing. One day our paths will cross again and I’ll waste him. Until then, all I want is what belongs to me.’
‘Why don’t you waste him now? Get your ring back yourself?’
‘Because I don’t know where he is, dumbass. That’s why you’re here. You’re a detective. I want you to do some detecting. Find this cocksucker and get my property back. If it helps, think of it as returning stolen goods to their rightful owner.’
‘You really think Ruger’s still got it? I’m no expert, but I’d say a ring like that has to be worth a lot of
