Doyle releases his grasp, tries to smooth out the extra creases he’s just added to Spinner’s shirt. ‘Spinner, I didn’t mean-’
‘No. You know what? Fuck you. Get the fuck out of my crib. I don’t need this grief.’ He pushes Doyle hard in the chest. ‘Go on. Get your ass out of here.’
Doyle looks for a long time into Spinner’s face, and sees only fading echoes of the man he used to be. But he’s right. It’s not all his fault. He was dealt a bad hand, excuse the pun. And now he’s hurting.
Doyle turns away and drags his feet toward the door. Stops after only three paces.
‘What are you waiting for? Get the fuck out before I throw you out.’
‘I can’t,’ Doyle says.
‘What?’
Doyle faces Spinner again. ‘I said I can’t. I need you, man.’
‘Ha! You need me. Yeah, right. You got a great way of showing it too. Makes me feel all warm inside the way you keep giving me so much affection.’
‘No, seriously. I need your help. Things are bad for me right now.’
He detects a change in Spinner’s stance. A slight softening.
‘Bad how?’
‘The cop killer? He’s not smoking cops just for the sake of it. He’s doing it to get at me. He’s been sending me messages. Last night he killed a hooker and had me believing it was Rachel. For some reason he wants to isolate me, make me afraid to go near other people. He’s trying to turn me into some kind of kiss of death.’
Spinner throws his towel down onto the floor — a gesture that tells Doyle he’s just achieved the opposite effect of dredging up sympathy.
‘Well, ain’t that just dandy? You listen to any of what just came out of your mouth? About killing people close to you? And now you’re where? Here, in my apartment, talking to your old buddy Spinner about how much you need him.’ He stabs a finger angrily into his temple. ‘Real clever, Cal. Real fucking intelligent.’
Doyle puts his hands out in front of him. ‘Nobody knows I’m here, Spin. Not a soul. And before you ask, no, I wasn’t followed. I made sure of that.’
But Spinner hasn’t finished. ‘Or is it maybe just that I’m expendable? Is that it, Cal? You can risk coming to me because it don’t matter all that much if I get whacked. One less cripple in the world-’
‘Jesus fucking Christ, man. Will you listen to me for one fucking minute? I’m coming to you for help, as a friend. The PD’s getting nowhere on this. I need other sources. You want to know why I got so crazy a few minutes back? Because I wanted you clean. I wanted your head in shape so you could put everything you have into this. I’m that desperate. You may be all I got.’
Silence. The crunch point. Either Spinner buys this now, thinks Doyle, or I’m out on my ear.
Slowly, Spinner stoops and picks up the towel, then drapes it over the back of a chair. As if that makes any difference in a room that looks like it’s had a hurricane blasting through it.
‘I already asked around. After we talked last time. Nobody knows nothing. Or if they do, they’re not telling me.’
‘I need you to ask some more. Dig a little deeper.’
‘How long you been running CIs, Cal? You know it don’t work like that.’
Doyle nods his acceptance. On TV, in the movies, the cop meets his informant in a shady corner, inquires about the armed robbery at the First National Bank, and surreptitiously hands over a few bills. The next day, the snitch brings him a full list of the gang members, probably with their whereabouts, phone numbers and shoe sizes too.
Well, that’s not how it goes in real life. Anyone who goes around asking career criminals direct questions about specific nefarious activities is liable to end up studying aquatic life at the bottom of the East River. Informants stay alive by being reactive rather than proactive. They listen, they remember, and they sell. Sometimes what they hear can be key to breaking a big case, but it’s all down to being in the right place at the right time, and to gaining the trust of the right people.
Spinner says, ‘But I’ll do what I can, okay? Because you’re a buddy, right? Because we go back a long way. Because there was a time when you and me, we weren’t so different.’
Silence descends again. The two men face each other in the room, both lost in their thoughts, their memories. Both recalling a time when they had the same dreams for a better future. Both wondering how it was possible for their paths to diverge so greatly, and yet for them still to be thrown together in this crummy apartment.
FOURTEEN
The door. He remembers the door vividly. It’s painted in cream and has a crack running down its center panel. The handle is in aged brass, and there are finger marks all around it.
And it’s swinging shut. Slowly, to be sure, but it’s definitely swinging shut. He is certain about that, oh yes. He can still see it now. Moving.
Doyle snaps himself out of it, focuses on what’s happening on the sidewalk ahead of him. Two uniformed cops, outside of a bodega here on 120th Street. They have responded to a call to deal with an EDP — an Emotionally Disturbed Person — and have been trying to reason with the man for the last ten minutes.
The man, who looks to Doyle to be homeless and in his early fifties, points back to the bodega as he speaks. Despite the intense cold he has no coat, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. His tirade becomes more animated, and Doyle notices how the cops tense when the man rips open his shirt. Even from here Doyle can see the vicious pink scar that runs all the way down his chest. The man points to it, then up at the sky. From the way that the cops glance at each other, Doyle guesses that the man has started blaming aliens or satellite death rays or some such for his disfigurement.
The debate goes on for another ten minutes before the cops eventually calm the man down and convince him to pull his shirt together and go on his way. Even then, the man stops every few yards and yells something at the waiting officers.
Good job, boys, Doyle thinks. Now let’s see how you handle this one.
He gets out of his car, starts walking toward the two officers. His stride is steady, purposeful, but the cops are unaware of his approach. It’s only when he’s a few yards away that they turn to face him, still shaking their heads and laughing over their previous encounter.
The smiles evaporate when they see Doyle.
Officer Danny Marino points a warning finger. ‘Get the fuck out of here, Doyle. If you know what’s good for you. .’
‘I got a question for you, Marino.’
‘Stick it up your ass. I’m outta here.’ He starts walking around to the driver’s side of his radio car.
‘Not good enough, Marino. I need an answer.’
He starts to follow, but Marino’s partner, a testosterone-infused gym rat called Smits, blocks his path.
‘You heard him, Detective. He doesn’t want to speak to you.’
Doyle looks him hard in the eye. ‘This doesn’t concern you, Smits. Step out of the way.’ He tries to go around the man-mountain, but finds himself facing a wall of muscle again. Only this time Smits compounds his mistake by putting a restraining hand on Doyle’s chest.
Doyle slaps the hand away, then shoves Smits backwards so hard that he has to windmill his arms to maintain his balance. His back thuds into the patrol car, rocking it on its suspension, and for a second or two, Smits appears surprised that anyone would have the temerity to do such a thing. But then a pearly-white grin spreads itself across his face. Like he’s been looking forward to an opportunity like this for a long time.
He launches himself off the vehicle like he’s a charging bull, head down and eyes up, nostrils flaring.
It’s an easy one for Doyle. He uses Smits’s huge momentum against him, standing his ground then quickly sidestepping and landing a full-force punch on his opponent’s cheek as he sails past.
Smits shakes his head, puts on a smile as if to pretend that the blow was like being hit by cotton candy. But it’s obvious to Doyle that the man is already beaten. He just doesn’t know it yet.<
br />
When Smits bellows and comes back at him, it’s without confidence. Doyle can see the uncertainty, the fear in his eyes. When Smits shoots his arm out, it’s easily blocked, and Doyle counters with one, two jabs to the chin. He finishes with a swinging roundhouse to the jaw that feels to him as though it should take Smits’s head off his shoulders. When it collides, saliva flies from Smits’s mouth as he crashes against the door of the radio car and slides down it, his eyes rolling back in their sockets.
Doyle’s thoughts turn back to Marino a millisecond too late. He catches a flash of rapid motion in the corner of his eye, just as something whips into his skull with a sickening crack that makes Doyle wonder if his brains are about to spill out. He falls headlong toward the white and blue sector car, almost tripping over the feet of the befuddled Smits. His hands come up instinctively to protect his face, and he feels sharp pain as his forearm smacks into the stiff metal support strut holding the windshield.
He knows this could be the end for him, but instinct comes to his rescue again and he allows gravity to yank him down as he whirls to face his attacker. This time the millisecond is in his favor, as Marino’s baton skims the top of his head before it collides with the vehicle’s side window, shattering it and showering Doyle with a thousand glinting fragments of glass.
Doyle knows there can be no delay in his reaction. As Marino pulls his arm back for the coup de grâce, Doyle pushes himself up and off the sidewalk. He throws his whole weight behind his right fist, driving it hard into Marino’s solar plexus, so hard he swears he feels it connect with the man’s spine. It’s like uncorking a champagne bottle: there’s an explosion of gas and wet spray from Marino’s mouth, and his eyes look fit to shoot out in the same direction. Doyle doesn’t wait to find out if Marino is still combat-fit. He follows with an uppercut to Marino’s chin that practically causes the cop to levitate above the sidewalk before crashing down into a crumpled heap.
With Marino rolling on the ground, clutching his belly and wondering why he can’t suck up any oxygen, Doyle glances at Smits again and sees that he’s fumbling for his sidearm. Doyle whips out his own Glock and levels it at Smits.
‘Don’t do it, Smits. So help me God, I’ll take you out.’
Smits slowly withdraws his hand. Tries to glare at Doyle through eyes that don’t seem altogether in sync.
Doyle alternates his aim between Smits and Marino, alert for any sign that one of them wants to try his luck. He’s oblivious to anything that exists outside of their own three-cornered world, and starting to realize how absurd that world has become. He feels ashamed that he’s had to draw down on these officers like he’s a gunslinger from a spaghetti western. His shame turns to embarrassment when he hears the whoops and cheers coming from farther up the street. He risks a glance upwards, sees that an audience has gathered to watch the fun. A knot of black kids, all astride their bicycles.
‘Shoot ’em,’ one of the kids shouts.
‘Yeah, go on. Dead those motherfuckers.’
Great, Doyle thinks. Me being such a fine example to the impressionable youth of this city.
Seconds later, Marino regurgitates his last helping of coffee and donuts onto the sidewalk.
‘Gross,’ says one of the kids. ‘Yo! Watchoo waitin’ for? Put that motherfucker outta his misery.’
Doyle moves closer to Marino, kicks his shoe. ‘You gonna answer my question now, Marino?’
Marino struggles a bit more for breath. ‘Fuck you, Doyle. You fucked my wife and then you murdered her. The only help you’ll get from me is to put you in a body bag.’
‘That was a bullshit beef and you know it. I was cleared.’
‘Just ’cause it was written up unsubstantiated, doesn’t make you clean. You’re a disgrace to the service, Doyle. You want to shoot me too now? Go ahead, pull the trigger, you piece of shit. Waste me like you wasted all your partners.’ He looks up at Doyle, a pain-twisted smile on his face. ‘Yeah, word gets around, don’t it? Finally, people are starting to know you for what you are.’
‘I didn’t kill them. I didn’t kill anyone. If the word’s getting around like you say, then you must know that somebody else is doing this, somebody looking to hurt me. You have any idea who that someone might be?’
Marino tries to laugh, but ends up coughing and spitting out bile. ‘If you’re thinking it’s me, then you go right ahead. Because if it’s not me this time, it’ll be me next time. After what you did to Laura and me, you deserve everything you get.’
Doyle wants so much to pull back his foot and fire a well-aimed kick into Marino’s groin. ‘If I find out you got anything to do with this, you’re a dead man, Marino. You hear me? A dead man.’
Doyle walks away then, holstering his gun. Behind him, he hears Marino getting to his feet amid the jeers from the watching kids.
‘Anytime, Doyle. Anytime. Who’s going to help you now? You got no friends left. You’re a nothing, Doyle. A nobody. Have a nice life, while you still got one.’
Doyle doesn’t look back. He just keeps going until he reaches his car. He opens the door and gets in, then winces as he touches a hand to the swelling on his head.
Well, you handled that just fine, Detective, he thinks. Real nice job, you stupid prick.
Doyle enters the squadroom like a late pupil who’s trying to sneak into class without the teacher spying him. Only when he is convinced that the lieutenant is still out at his meetings does he breathe a sigh of relief and settle at his desk.
At two-thirty p.m., Doyle’s cellphone rings. He plucks it from his pocket and stabs at the answer button.
‘Hello.’
‘Doyle? It’s me. Spinner.’
He sounds excited. Elated almost.
‘Spinner? What’s up?’
‘I think I’m onto something.’
‘So fast? How?’
‘I got a meeting fixed up. Some people I know. They want to talk about who whacked your two partners.’
And two hookers and a pimp, Doyle thinks. But then they don’t count, do they?
‘What people, Spinner? Are you sure about this? What’s in it for them?’
‘Not on the phone. Later. Meet me at the usual place. Five o’clock.’
‘Spinner! Hold on, man. I don’t like the sound of-’
But the line goes dead.
Doyle prays that Spinner isn’t about to go the same way.
He gets to the boxing gym at four o’clock, a full hour early. He sits in his car and waits, his eyes trained on the entrance to the gym. There’s no sign of Spinner entering or leaving, and at four-forty-five Doyle decides to check the place out.
He leaves his car, walks along the block and into the gym. Inside, he takes a good look around, finds the usual assortment of pugilists, trainers and other regulars. But no Spinner.
He leaves the building, goes back to his car and sits there for another half-hour, still watching. At five-thirty he goes back in for another reconnaissance, again with no success. Near the door he hails a man who has a brick-shaped head and no discernible neck.
‘You seen Spinner lately?’
The man has to twist his whole upper torso to shake his head.
‘Spinner? No, he ain’t been in today.’
Doyle leaves and returns to his car.
This ain’t right, he thinks. The whole thing stinks. Why the hell would anyone call in a small-time crook and junkie like Spinner to reveal what they know about a killer on the loose?
And that’s when he really starts to worry.
He worries enough to fire up his engine and take the car screaming around to Spinner’s apartment building.
He worries enough to take the steps two at a time as he races up to Spinner’s floor.
He worries enough to draw his gun and kick open Spinner’s door without even bothering to knock.
And then he stops worrying. Because Spinner is there in his apartment, sitting on his wooden chair facing Doyle. Wearing a big smile.
A red smile.
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On his neck.
Worrying won’t help him now.
FIFTEEN
There’s a lot of blood. A hell of a lot of blood. But that’s not the worst of it. .
Spinner’s head is tilted back and his eyes are open, staring at a spot above the doorway like he has a crick in his neck. The gash in his throat stretches almost from ear to ear, gaping and glistening. His clothes are sopping and sticky with his own blood. The dining table has been dragged from its usual position and set directly in front of Spinner. On it there’s a tape recorder and a microphone. And a hammer.
Spinner’s hand, his good hand, rests next to the recorder. Two six-inch nails have been driven through it, holding it firmly to the table’s surface. All the fingers of the hand have been smashed with the hammer, crushing and flattening them into a single useless bloody mass. Like raw hamburger.
It must have been the ultimate torture for a man like Spinner. For a boxer of such promise to lose the use of one precious hand was devastating enough. To lose the second, there in front of his eyes, would have destroyed any spirit left in the man. Had his persecutor not finished him off, Spinner would probably have done it himself.
Doyle can almost hear the screams, see the agony and pleading in Spinner’s eyes as the hammer crashes down time and time again, destroying his fingers, destroying his hope.
Doyle wants to cry over the waste of it, to rage at the stomach-churning cruelty of it. But what rips at him most is his own culpability.
‘Jesus Christ, I’m sorry,’ Doyle whispers to his friend. ‘I’m so sorry.’
It’s some time before he can put his mind back in order. He knows what he should do now. He should back out of the room, put in a call to Central. Get the experts down here while he protects the crime scene.
What the fuck. He’s in enough trouble as it is. What’s one more transgression going to add to his load?
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