Pariah (17 page)

‘Yeah. Did she miss me?’

‘She’s been asking for you all day. She’s saved a dance just for you. For when you come home.’

‘That’s nice. Tell her I can’t wait to see it. Tell her I’ll bring her a little present home.’

‘I will. That’ll be soon, won’t it? You coming home, I mean.’

‘Are you kidding? With your husband on the case? How long can it take?’

‘It’s already been forever.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I know. Just . . . keep your chin up, okay? For Amy’s sake.’

‘I . . . okay. But it’s not the same without you here. I don’t even know what day you’re coming home. It’s not right, Cal. It’ll be Christmas soon. We need to
be together, as a family.’

‘Hey, shush. You think there’s any way I’m not going to be there for Christmas? I’ll be home way before then.’

‘You promise?’

‘Swear to God. Maybe I’ll bring an early Christmas present for you, too.’

‘Just bring
you
home, Cal. Safe and sound.’

‘Don’t I always?’

‘I mean it, Cal. I don’t want to be called out to a hospital again. I don’t want the next time I see you to be in a morgue. I don’t want . . .’

Tears again. And not just in Rachel.

‘Rachel. Rachel. I’m fine, and I’m gonna stay fine. Keep an eye on that apartment door. I’ll be back before you know it.’

‘Solve the case, Cal. Just solve the case.’

How? When he’s virtually a prisoner in this fucking hotel?

‘I . . . yeah. I’ll solve the case.’

‘Cal?’

‘What?’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too, honey.’

And that’s the only thing he’s got right now.

He lies on his bed for half an hour, hands clasped behind his head. He stares at an abstract painting on the wall and wonders what it’s an abstraction of. He realizes
that his brain just isn’t wired in a way that will allow him to move beyond the colored circles and squares he can see. Decides that the only circle that will take him to a higher plane is
the rim of a beer glass.

The bar on the first floor is almost deserted. Just a middle-aged couple tucked into a corner booth, whispering sweet somethings and exchanging meaningful smiles.

They’re married, Doyle thinks. But not to each other. Call me cynical . . .

He takes a stool at the bar, and George the swarthy Greek glides over like he’s on casters.

‘Irish?’ he asks.

Doyle says, ‘Yeah. Is it the way I walk?’ But when that just gets him a puzzled frown he adds, ‘No, better just make it a beer. Gimme a . . .’ he scans the bottles in the
refrigerated cabinet behind the bartender, ‘ . . .a Heineken.’

One bottle of Heineken later he’s back on the whiskey, throwing it down like prohibition’s due to start in the next five minutes.

Doyle is a man for whom alcohol can loosen the tongue and free the spirit when he’s in the right company. But an indifferent Greek and a couple who have now resorted to furtive groping do
not the right company make.

He tries closing his eyes and transporting himself to an Irish bar – a true Irish pub in Dublin or Cork or somewhere like that – listening to a ceilidh band and joining in the craic
and eyeing up the pretty lasses. But it’s difficult when George turns up the volume to hear the latest on strife in the Middle East, and the woman in the booth – who Doyle now thinks to
be at least a hundred beneath that slab of make-up – begins making peculiar mewling noises, like a cat with laryngitis.

Surrendering to the depressing tawdriness of it all, he pays his tab and leaves.

He meanders aimlessly for an unmeasured period of time, letting his feet take him where they will. And where they take him is to more familiar territory in the East Village. Despite an
alcohol-tainted compass they steer him past the trendy bars, guide him away from the ‘happening’ nightspots, thread him through the Saturday-night revelers whose dress sense seems to
flip a finger of defiance at the bitter cold, and eventually land him at Gilligan’s on Avenue A.

Gilligan’s has nothing to do with the Island and everything to do with an ex-cop from the Eighth Precinct named Patrick Gilligan. Long dead from cirrhosis of the liver, Patrick handed the
establishment down to his son, also named Patrick but known to his regulars as Paddy. Paddy has never been a cop – never wanted to be – but he probably gets more of them through his
doors on an average day than many station houses.

Something at the back of Doyle’s mind warns him that it’s a mistake coming here. He should turn around now and move on to a watering hole where he can be just another anonymous
lonely drunk. But the alcohol-fogged bulk of his brain dismisses the notion of caution as the outpourings of a spineless wuss, and gives him a mental shove through the door.

It’s like being Black Bart in the Last Chance Saloon. The laughing and joking stop abruptly as people catch sight of the man who has just walked in. These are men and women who would
normally be slapping him on the back or shaking his hand or offering to buy him a drink or simply saying hello. Now they merely shuffle out of his way and offer each other mutterings and whispers
and ‘look-who-it-is’ glances.

Doyle’s heart sinks. He expected more from his fellow members of service. But it’s too late to back out now. He’s come in for a drink, and he’s going to have a fucking
drink. So fuck the lot of you.

He moves to the bar, takes one of the many stools that have suddenly become unoccupied. At the other end of the bar, Paddy’s employee Terry is polishing glasses with a concentration and
fervor that are disproportionate to the task.

Doyle watches him for a minute, hoping to catch his eye. But Terry’s making sure his eyes are not up for catching anywhere in Doyle’s zone.

‘Hey, Terry! Any danger of some service down this end?’

Terry doesn’t shift position or even acknowledge Doyle’s presence. He glances up at one or two of his customers, checking that he has support, then returns to removing imaginary
specks of dirt from the glass in his hand.

‘Terry! You gone deaf on me?’ Still getting no response, Doyle waves a hand in the air. ‘Hey, Terry! Get the fuck over here, man!’

Terry looks at his other customers and shrugs at them as if to say,
Look, this ostracism thing ain’t working on this nuisance
. He puts the glass down, then gravitates to the other
end of the bar as if he’s straining against the pull of an elastic rope. When he reaches Doyle, he slides his hands back and forth along the edge of the polished mahogany counter.

‘Look, Cal. No offence or nothing, but everyone knows where you’re at right now.’

‘You don’t say. And here’s me thinking I forgot to take off my Bin Laden mask tonight.’

Terry lowers his voice, which Doyle thinks comes a bit late if the aim is to keep this away from the other customers. ‘Cal, please. Do me a favor, okay? You coming in here, people are
gonna start leaving in droves. It ain’t good for business, you know? Be sensible about this, Cal. Think about what you’re doing to the place.’

Doyle stares at Terry for a good ten seconds, not believing what he’s hearing. He tears his gaze away, and aims it at the people behind him. Most of them are looking his way. Not talking,
hardly drinking. Just looking and waiting to hear his response.

Doyle turns back to Terry. He sighs.

‘All I wanted was a quiet drink. A Guinness. You know how long I been coming here, Terry? Ever since I joined the Eighth. A whole year now. I thought I made a few good friends in that time
– some of them are in here tonight, in fact. But I understand why people are worried. In their shoes, I think I would be too. They don’t want to be afraid of getting killed just because
they smiled at me, or said hello. So, really, I do understand, and I think you’re right. I should spare a thought for them and for the health of your business.’

For the first time since Doyle walked in, Terry smiles, and a load seems to drop from his shoulders.

‘Thanks, Cal. I knew you’d understand. I appreciate it.’

‘Yeah,’ Doyle says, and gets up from his stool.

Before he has even thought about the consequences, Doyle has whipped out his Glock from its holster. He presses its muzzle into Terry’s forehead. Behind him he hears gasps of astonishment.
He knows that a number of the cops here are already reaching for their own weapons, but he doesn’t turn around.

‘There you go, Terry. I’m making it easy for you.’ He raises his voice so everyone can hear. ‘See, everyone? I’m not his friend. I’m
making
him talk to
me. I’m
making
him pour me a drink. Does that work for you, Terry? You don’t have to be afraid, because you ain’t my friend. All you have to do is pour me a drink every
time my glass is empty. That goes for everybody else too. I ain’t looking for friends here tonight. You don’t have to talk to me. You don’t even have to come anywhere near me.
Just leave me be, and let me drink. That’s all I’m asking. So how about it?’

There has probably never been a bar as busy as this that is now as quiet as this. Doyle keeps his eyes locked on Terry, whose only movements are involuntary through his sheer terror. Doyle knows
at his very core that this is wrong, that he shouldn’t be doing this. But he’s beyond caring. He keeps the gun in place and waits for an answer. Or for someone to shoot him in the back,
which seems a distinct possibility right now.

‘Give him a drink.’

A figure emerges from a door behind the bar. Paddy Gilligan himself. A broad, powerful-looking man. A big goofy smile on his face.

‘Do I pay you to be standing there looking like an idiot when there’re customers to be served? The man has a thirst on him. Give him a drink. And the rest of you: don’t you
have better things to do than stand there gawking at the sight of a man ordering a Guinness? Jesus, they must be sad lives you’re living.’

He says all this without anger or reproach. He just keeps that wide disarming grin affixed to his face. Friendly but firm: an approach that he’s used to manage many a situation
that’s threatened to get out of control in his bar.

He’d have made a good cop, Doyle thinks.

He lowers the gun. Allows the suitably ashamed Terry to tend to the Guinness. While Paddy looks on, master of all he surveys, the customers return to their drinks and resume their conversations.
The entertainment’s over, folks.

Paddy strolls over to Doyle.

‘Hear you’re in a spot of trouble,’ he says.

‘More than a spot. Closer to a deluge.’

Paddy smiles and nods. ‘As long as it’s through no doing of yours, you got no problem getting served in this bar. Ever.’

Doyle stares into Paddy’s eyes – as blue as his own are green – and thinks about this gesture. It’s much more than a small kindness; it’s an act of bravery from a
man who has heard the stories and knows it could get him killed.

‘You’re a good man, Paddy.’

‘I’m an Irishman. Like yourself. If there’s a fight to be fought, we don’t run away.’ He gestures to the settling pint of Guinness. ‘A drop of the black stuff
there will help you remember where you came from and what it all means.’

Doyle picks up the glass and raises it to Paddy.

‘Sláinte,’
he says.

Paddy smiles again, turns to Terry. ‘Whatever he wants, on the house.’ He looks again at Doyle, gives him a mischievous wink, and is gone.

Doyle closes his eyes, takes a long draft of the heavy liquid, feels its silky smoothness flowing down his throat, and tries once again to take himself far away from this madness.

It was too good to be true.

He has kept his place on the bar stool all night. Kept his peace, kept his dignity, kept himself to himself. The alcohol has done its work, coursing through his blood system, slipping into his
capillaries and seeping into his cells, carrying him into that other-world where personal troubles are put into their proper perspective when viewed against the greater machinations of the
universe. In short, getting him totally shit-faced.

With his physical isolation now accompanied by a self-induced mental isolation, the voice doesn’t carry to him at first. He’s aware only of a sound that seems to be steadily rising
in volume while all other noises are diminishing. It’s a while before his brain recognizes the voice being broadcast in all directions, and registers that the words it carries are being aimed
specifically at him.

‘To me, it’s like owning a dog,’ Schneider is saying somewhere behind Doyle. ‘You got a dog that’s dangerous, you have to do something about it. Say it’s
vicious, like maybe it’s biting people, or attacking other dogs, or chasing the mailman. Do you think it’s right to let a dog like that run around our streets? Or say it’s not
even the dog’s fault. Say it’s not even mean. It’s just sick. It’s carrying a disease of some kind. Any other animal it gets close to is likely to get sick too, maybe even
die. You think it’s okay to let that dog out? Don’t you think it should be impounded? Maybe even put down?’

Doyle hears some noises of agreement, and a few laughs, presumably from Schneider’s drinking buddies. He does his best to tune it out, and he gives Schneider no signal that he’s
heard any of his tirade. He doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

‘Ain’t no different with humans,’ Schneider continues, even louder now. ‘We got a guy who’s running around killing people, we lock him up, right? As cops it’s
our job, our duty. But what if he says it’s not his fault? His story is that wherever he goes, the people he mixes with drop dead. Sounds pretty flaky, right? Personally, I’d have a
hard time believing a story like that. But, hey, it’s nearly Christmas, right? Let’s show the guy a little charity. Give him a little latitude. Hard-nosed cynical cops that we are,
let’s suspend our disbelief just for once.

‘So the guy’s just a walking disaster area. King Midas with a twist: everything he touches turning to dead. What do we do with him? Let him walk? Give him the opportunity to drop a
few more innocent citizens in their paths? Fuck no!’

The support for Schneider is more vocal now. He even gets one or two cheers. Give him his due, Doyle thinks, he knows how to play to the audience. Any minute now I’m gonna be the subject
of a lynching.