The Helper (15 page)

Doyle sighs. He realizes there’s no point blaming the kid.

‘All right, Gonzo. You did your best.’

‘I’m sorry, Detective. What should I do now?’

‘Go home. Vasey could be anywhere. It might be hours before he gets back. Go home.’

This time, there’s no protest. ‘All right. I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

‘No need, Gonzo. Take it easy.’

He ends the call. Despite his quirks, Gonzo is a good kid. Not detective material, but a good kid nonetheless.

So, he thinks, Vasey’s on the prowl. Whatever happens tonight, he’s got some explaining to do.

Doyle continues his vigil. He can feel his adrenalin level increasing with every minute that passes by. While everybody else is getting more drunk, more relaxed, Doyle is becoming increasingly
wired. His whole body feels so tight it could snap.

At eleven-forty-five a middle-aged man staggers over and takes the barstool closest to Doyle. Doyle gives him the once-over. He’s in a suit, but his tie has been dragged away from his neck
with such force that it has created a tiny knot that looks impossible to unpick, and his top shirt-button is unfastened. His movements are unsteady, his eyes unfocused. He has a tumbler of what
looks like whiskey in his hand.

‘I think women are wonderful,’ he slurs. ‘Don’t you? Women? Wonderful?’

‘Sure,’ Doyle answers.

‘Especially,’ the man says, ‘
younger
women. They have a certain . . .’ his eyes roll around in his skull as he searches for his next words, ‘. . . a
certain . . .
firmness
. Wouldn’t you agree? Firm. Not saggy. I don’t like women who flop around all over the place. They’re so . . . untidy. What do you think?’

‘I think I’d like to read my newspaper,’ Doyle says.

‘Take my wife,’ the man continues. ‘Please. Take her.’ He laughs uproariously at the old joke, then suddenly switches back into serious mode. ‘A terrific lady, my
wife. But no longer of the desired level of springiness, if you know what I mean. She has become yet another victim of gravity. Yes, my friend, gravity.’

Doyle tunes him out. While the drunk prattles on, Doyle’s antennae lock on to Paddy. As time ticks by, the bar becomes busier. Doyle recognizes a few of the newly arrived faces –
cops who have just come off their tour. Others he has never seen before, and they are probably the ones he needs to worry about. They mill around the bar, waiting for their turn to be served. Paddy
deals with them one by one. He is unconcerned by anything except his customers. Doyle watches them all. Watches where their hands go, the expressions on their faces, the way they move.

The drunk is saying something about whiskey now. For some reason, Doyle finds his attention pulled back to the man. He watches him toss back the rest of his drink.

‘One for the road,’ the man says.

He slips gracelessly from his barstool and zigzags toward Paddy.

Doyle takes a quick peek at his watch. Two minutes before midnight. Just two more minutes.

He gets down from his own stool. Prepares himself to spring into action. His eyes are fixed on Paddy and those in front of him. He begins to move closer to the throng.

From this new position he can see the clock behind the bar. Its large hand edges ever closer to the vertical. Doyle stares at the group of men at the counter. They wait patiently. They
don’t seem nervy, don’t look as if they’re about to blow somebody’s brains out. The drunk is among them now. Again Doyle’s eyes are drawn to him, and he doesn’t
know why.

He thinks about it.

And it all seems so wrong.

This man hasn’t been here for the whole night. Doyle would have noticed him. So he’s been somewhere else, happily throwing back whiskey. Then why the sudden switch to this bar? Why
sit by Doyle, not drinking except to knock back that one tumbler? Was there really alcohol in that glass? Did he have to choose a time so close to midnight to make his way over to Paddy? And why
the rush to head over there anyhow? Why not just stay where he was and wait to be served?

Doyle is certain something is about to go down. He edges closer to those at the bar. His senses seem to sharpen. He is attuned to every sound, every movement.

The clock behind the bar begins to chime twelve. Doyle never even knew this clock had a chime.

The drunk pushes closer to the counter. He is no longer swaying. He pulls open his jacket, slips his hand inside. Doyle reaches under his own jacket. Closes his fingers around the butt of his
Glock. The clock chime seems pounding now. Midnight is here. The drunk pulls out his hand. Doyle starts to draw his gun. It’s happening.

And then it isn’t happening.

The dark shape in the drunk’s hand is a wallet. The man opens it up, peers inside, begins to sway again.

Doyle slowly eases his Glock back into his holster, but keeps his hand on the weapon.

His eyes flick over the other people grouped here. No unexpected moves. No reaching for guns. No diving across the counter to get at Paddy.

The clock is silent again.

Paddy continues to take orders and pour drinks. The customers walk away happy. The drunk’s turn comes. He orders a double Jim Beam. As he turns and walks past Doyle, he burps, and Doyle
smells the stench of the alcohol on his breath. He really is intoxicated.

So what the hell?

What the fuck is going on?

‘Cal? What can I get you?’

Doyle blinks at Paddy, almost surprised that the man is still able to talk to him.

Why aren’t you dead, Paddy?

Doyle checks the clock. Four minutes into the new day, and Patrick Gilligan is standing there, as hale and hearty as ever.

‘Uhm . . . It’s okay. I’m good.’

‘Well, if that’s good, I’d hate to see you when you’re feeling unwell. You’re a strange one tonight, Cal.’

Doyle forces out a smile, then goes back to his spot at the end of the counter. He climbs onto his barstool and pulls his glass into his chest. He stares at Paddy and fails to comprehend.

He decides to give it a few more minutes. Ten past twelve, that should do it. Then there can be no mistake, no more leeway for a slow watch or whatever. But inside he knows it’s over. His
adrenalin is already leaking away. There’ll be no floor show tonight, folks.

So he waits until ten past. Waits and watches in the knowledge that it’s a waste of time. And then he picks up that glass of Guinness, tips it to his mouth and begins to chug it back,
thinking as he swallows that he’s never waited so long to down a drink in his life.

He doesn’t want to think any more about the information he was given over the phone. He is too tired for any kind of analysis. Something has gone wrong, and he doesn’t want to know
what it is. Because it will be bad. He wants to get drunk instead, so he can forget.

But he doesn’t get let off that lightly.

He thinks at first that it’s his mind teasing him cruelly. Reminding him of the phone call. Haunting him with that Irish jig.

When he realizes that it’s real – that the music is actually being played here in Gilligan’s – he almost chokes on his beer.

He slams the glass down. Guinness splashes out of it and onto his sleeve. He looks at Paddy again, sees that the man is innocently polishing a wineglass. But over to his left is the other
bartender, Terry. And Terry is standing over the CD player.

Doyle jumps from his stool and races to the other end of the bar counter.

‘Cal?’ says Paddy. ‘What’s wrong with you, man?’

Doyle ignores him. He gets to where Terry is standing.

‘Terry! TERRY!’

Terry looks round, raises his eyebrows when he recognizes

Doyle.

‘The music, Terry. Why are you playing that music?’

Terry waves the plastic CD container that’s in his hand.

‘This? A guy came in earlier. Asked me to play it right after midnight. Gave me twenty bucks for it. He said it was for sentimental reasons. I’m a little late, so I hope he’s
okay about it. Nice tune, huh? Catchy.’

‘This guy. What did he look like?’

Terry shrugs. ‘Tall. White. I don’t really remember. I was busy.’

‘What color hair?’

‘I don’t know. He was wearing a baseball cap. Why are you asking?’

‘Gimme the case, Terry.’

Terry walks over and hands the CD case to Doyle. Doyle looks at the cover, then turns it over. He reads the title of the first track.

And then he gets it.

Shit.

He drops the case on the counter and runs for the door. He knows people will be watching him, wondering what the hell’s biting his ass, but he doesn’t care.

He crashes through the door, keeps running to the next block where his car is parked. He gets in the car, fires it up. He takes it up to Fourteenth Street, then aims it west, desperately trying
to remember the address. He knows it’s in the West Village, but he can’t remember the street. He hits the gas pedal.

Cops do like a drink, though, don’t they? Even guys who aren’t cops themselves but who are the sons of cops have been known to find themselves in the company of drink.

A clue, yes. But also meant to throw him. Sean Hanrahan isn’t a cop, and he is the son of a cop. And he’s also too fond of the booze.

But here’s the thing: Hanrahan
used
to be a cop. That’s why Doyle discounted him.

Hanrahan was the desk sergeant at the Eighth when Doyle arrived. Being an Irishman himself, he took Doyle under his wing. Showed him the ropes. Introduced him to the other cops. Made him feel at
home. He also wasn’t swayed by the baggage that Doyle carried with him from his previous precinct, following the death of Doyle’s female partner.

Yet Hanrahan was weighed down with baggage of his own. When he was on patrol he was involved in a shootout in which his partner was killed. Hanrahan received a flesh wound in the leg, but his
damage went deeper than that. He moved to the desk job, but he also moved to the bottle. Three months after Doyle arrived, Hanrahan retired from the force. The other cops threw a
‘racket’ – a party – for him, and Doyle landed the job of seeing him home. Doyle gave him the usual parting invitation to call in at the station house any time, but even
then he had a feeling he would never see Hanrahan again.

Now – unless he is mistaken – that could well be the case.

Doyle takes a left onto Seventh Avenue. He looks at the street names at each intersection. When he sees Charles Street, he knows it’s the one. He hangs a right, praying that it’s all
a mistake. I’ve got it wrong, he thinks. Hanrahan’s okay.

He can’t remember the number of the building, but it doesn’t matter. The flashing roof lights of the police patrol cars give it away. And in that moment Doyle knows there’s no
error. He slows as he passes the cars, and a uniformed officer on the stoop of the apartment building glances toward him. He steps on the gas again. Being spotted here would raise too many
questions.

He continues down the narrow tree-lined street, takes the next left onto Bleecker. The sight of more white-and-blue police vehicles parked here reminds him that he’s too close for comfort
to the Sixth Precinct station house, so he keeps on driving. Seeing Seventh Avenue ahead of him again, he takes a right onto Barrow Street, then parks the car in a quiet spot opposite the Greenwich
House Music School.

And then he lets it out.

He gives out a long roar of pain and anger while he pounds his fists on the steering wheel and slams his elbow into the door and smashes his heels into the footwell. And even when he is spent,
even when all he has left are the tears streaming down his face, he can still hear that stupid Irish jig. He will probably be unable to get it out of his head for a long time to come.

The song called ‘Hanrahan’s Last’.

He has to act like the rest of them.

When he arrives at work that next morning and they say to him things like, ‘You hear what happened to Hanrahan last night?’ he has to pretend that he’s only just heard the news
himself. He has to appear convincingly shocked and appalled. He has to look them in the eyes when he enquires about what they might have heard on the grapevine about the death of their former
sergeant. When they tell him about an unknown perp entering Hanrahan’s apartment and blowing his face off with a shotgun he has to react with the expected level of disbelief and horror. And
he has to do all this without sounding like he’s a member of the local amateur dramatics society.

Because yes, this is theater. Doyle is an actor. Delivering lines already written in his mental script. And it has to be the most convincing portrayal of his life. Otherwise his audience will
see him for what he really is and their faith will be gone.

But it’s difficult. Reality keeps wanting to intrude. It wants to point a huge finger at Doyle and say, ‘See this guy here? Well, he had information relating to the death of
Hanrahan. Truth be known, he possessed it way before Hanrahan was killed. And you know what? He didn’t want to share it with any of you. He didn’t want to give any of you the chance to
prevent the murder of your big old friendly desk sergeant. What do you think of that?’

He tries doing what he did previously: telling himself that it would have made no difference if he had revealed his inside information. But this time the assurances ring hollow. This time he
knows he made a huge error of judgment. He had an Irish tune sounding loud and clear in his head, and he didn’t follow it up. He could have gone into a record store or called up a music
society or a relative in Ireland and he could have hummed or whistled it to them, and maybe they would have known what it was. And if they had said, ‘Yeah, I know that tune; it’s called
“Hanrahan’s Last”,’ then he wouldn’t have spent fruitless hours sitting in a bar on the wrong side of the city. So maybe a difference
could
have been made. If
he’d told somebody. Or even if he’d just tried a little bit fucking harder, for Christ’s sake. So what if Hanrahan used to be a cop? Wouldn’t a little more pondering about
it have made Doyle say, ‘Okay, he used to be a cop, but he’s not now, so maybe this guy fits the clues.’ Shouldn’t he have done all this? Shouldn’t he have opened up
the possibility for others to do this? Shouldn’t he have gone just that extra fucking inch?