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.
SEVENTEEN
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.
He can feel dozens of eyes burning into the back of his neck, waiting for him to rise to the bait. Many of them have already demonstrated their sympathy for Schneider’s view. A few, or so he hopes, will want him to cut Schneider down at the knees.
Doyle still doesn’t turn. Instead, he beckons Terry the bartender over and asks for a whiskey.
‘Irish?’
‘Scotch. On the rocks.’
Terry gives him a look of faint surprise, but nods and fetches a tumbler.
‘’Course,’ Schneider is saying, still on his soapbox, ‘the ideal situation would be if our hypothetical individual with the extreme social disease decided to do something about it himself. Him being somebody regards himself as a responsible public servant, he’d probably choose to do the right thing without pressure from anybody else. Not wanting to be a danger to the people he calls his colleagues and his friends, he’d probably choose to stay away from the places those people are known to frequent.’
From the back room, Paddy puts in an appearance. It’s the first time that Doyle has seen him wearing an expression of annoyance. It’s a look so dark that Doyle feels he’s on the verge of closing down the whole bar.
Paddy glances at Doyle. He’s looking for confirmation. Doyle shakes his head almost imperceptibly. Paddy’s eyes question this.
Doyle slips from his chair and takes hold of the glass of Scotch. He turns slowly, his legs not as steady as usual, his eyes not as focused. He takes in the sight of all those faces turned toward him. The sense of expectation is almost a force, drawing him into making some kind of response. They want a word, a gesture, an act. It’s a fight-or-flight moment. What will he do now?
Blinking, squinting, Doyle makes out the big ugly mug of Schneider through the crowd. He’s seated at a window table with some pals. He is grinning and chewing. Even when he drinks, he chews.
Doyle starts toward him. He knows he’s drunk, but he tries to keep his path straight as he pushes onwards. The other customers move aside, letting him tunnel through. Many of them will have seen him pull his gun earlier; some will be afraid that this time he’ll use it.
The three other men at Schneider’s table are cops too, but not from the Eighth Precinct. Doyle recognizes their faces, but doesn’t know their names. They watch him intently as he gets closer to them, and Doyle suspects that if he were more sober he would be able to feel their tension. Right now he doesn’t give a shit. He just wants Schneider.
Schneider doesn’t move from his chair. He takes a sip of his beer, tries to appear nonchalant. When Doyle stops just a couple of paces away, Schneider stares up at him.
‘What’s up, Doyle? You got something you want to share? Maybe add your two cents to the little debate we got going on here?’ He laughs. His drinking buddies laugh along with him.
Doyle laughs a little too. ‘Nah. I just want to show you something. A little trick I learned a long time ago.’
This throws Schneider. He doesn’t appear so confident now. He looks to his pals, who just shrug.
‘I got no time for tricks, Doyle. Especially with you. You got something to say, say it.’
‘Come on. What are you, chicken? Look. .’ He holds the glass high, showing it to everyone around, then sets it down in front of Schneider. ‘Scotch on the rocks. Your favorite tipple, right? It’s yours. Win or lose this little contest I got in mind, the drink’s yours.’
Schneider looks again to his comrades, who are signaling for him to go for it.
‘A contest? What kind of contest?’
‘Kind of like a strength contest. Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna hurt you. I’m sure your pals will see to that.’
Schneider barks another laugh. ‘You hurt me? Ha! Anyone gets hurt here, Doyle, it’s gonna be you.’ He gets up from his wooden chair. ‘All right, magic man. What do we do?’
Doyle puts his hand out. ‘First of all, you gotta take my hand.’
Schneider looks with uncertainty at the proffered hand. He wipes his own palm down the side of his pants, then folds his meaty fingers around Doyle’s.
‘That’s a good grip you got there, Schneider. You been working out with it, maybe? On your own, with some skin mags?’
This gets a laugh from the crowd, and Doyle can see how it irritates Schneider.
‘Just get on with the stupid contest.’
‘All right. When I say go, you pull me toward you, and I’ll pull you in the opposite direction. Ready?’
‘I end up on my ass, I am so gonna slug you, Doyle.’
‘Stop whining. You ready or not?’
Schneider shifts his stance, plants his feet to prevent him being shoved off balance.
‘Ready.’
‘All right. . Go!’
Schneider yanks hard on Doyle’s arm, but instead of resisting, Doyle allows himself to be hauled in. As he collides with Schneider’s chest he loops his left arm around the man’s neck, holding him securely in position.
Taken by complete surprise, Schneider doesn’t know how to react. ‘What the fuck. .’
‘Just hold it like that. A couple more seconds. .’
‘Doyle, get the fuck off me. .’
And then Doyle releases him. Without another word, he turns and starts to walk away. He can see the bemused expressions of the onlookers, and can only imagine the bewilderment on Schneider’s face.
‘What the fuck was that?’ Schneider calls, but Doyle keeps on walking.
‘Doyle! Hey, Doyle! I’m talking to you!’
As he reaches the door, Doyle stops and turns. Schneider is looking at him, his palms out, trying to make sense of it all.
‘Think about it,’ Doyle says. ‘There’s somebody out there hurting people I know and like. People I get close to. He always seems to know where I am, who I speak to. Maybe he’s watching me tonight, through that window behind you. What’s he just seen? Me buying you a drink, shaking your hand, giving you a big hug like you’re my best buddy. Enjoy the rest of your night, Schneider.’
As the bar erupts, Doyle takes the last couple of steps toward the door. Just before he leaves he gets a grinning Paddy Gilligan in his sights, returns the mischievous Irish wink he received earlier.
And then he’s gone.
In his dream, the door isn’t moving.
He’s standing there, staring at that cream door with the crack in its panel. He’s willing it to move, but it doesn’t. He looks for lines on the blue patterned carpet — any kind of marker by which to measure the progress of the door closing. It doesn’t help. That slab of wood is in exactly the same position it was when he entered the room.
He moves to the door and pushes on it, but it won’t budge. He leans on it, drives his shoulder into it with all his might. Gradually, inch by inch, the door opens up. He gets an arm through the gap, then a leg. Straining and squeezing, he eventually gets the rest of his body into the room beyond.
That’s when he sees what was preventing the door from opening.
Body parts. Hundreds of them. Legs, arms, torsos, all piled on top of each other in a grotesque hill of lifeless flesh and bone.
He finds himself desperate to know who they belong to, and so he steps up to the mountain and begins to pull at its sides. Cold sticky cobs of gore come away in his hand. He flicks them away, tries again. Gradually he bores inside, but all he can see is wet redness and shiny gristle.
And then something drops into his man-made tunnel. Something round and heavy. It plops onto the bed of human meat and rolls toward him. As it gathers speed, a similar-sized sphere drops from above and chases after the first. Then comes another, and another. Doyle feels like a lone pin at the end of a bowling alley, about to be struck down by any one of these balls heading his way.
But as they get nearer to him they slow down. He tries to make out their precise nature, but only when all of them come to rest at his feet is he able to see them for what they are.
Human heads. With faces he recognizes. There’s Joe Parlatti, staring at him with uncomprehending eyes and an open mouth. There’s Tony Alvarez, and there’s Spinner, and there’s. .
He decides to get out of there when the heads begin to scream at him.
They let out unpunctuated wails of torment and pain. Long drawn-out cries that can snap hearts and break minds. Doyle scrambles for the door, manages to squeeze himself through the gap as he did before. He pulls the door shut, muting the hellish sounds beyond. Resting his head against the cracked panel, he tries to regain his breath, his composure. He counts to ten, slowly turns.
Then, like Ebenezer Scrooge, he encounters the final ghost — the one he dreads most.
She is facing him, her arms out to him, pleading. Tears are running down her cheeks. She wants to know why.
But Doyle has no answers. All he can do is stare right through the ragged hole in Laura Marino’s chest. .
And scream.
He sits upright in bed, knowing that he has just screamed himself awake.
He’s drenched in sweat. Shaky from the nightmare he has just lived. Laura Marino’s heart-rending face is still imprinted on his brain.
‘It was moving,’ he mutters to himself in the blackness. ‘The fucking door was moving.’
He swings his legs out of bed, then pads naked to the bathroom. He fumbles for the light. Steps through onto the cool tiles. He squints at himself in the mirror over the sink. Not a pretty sight. He doesn’t know what time it is, but he hasn’t slept nearly enough to get the alcohol out of his system.
He moves over to the toilet, takes a pee that seems even to him to last forever, then goes back to the sink and fills it with lukewarm water. He splashes handfuls of it onto his face, his hands rasping ag
ainst the roughness of his stubble. He dries himself on the fluffy hotel towel, then steps back into the main room, turning off the light as he enters.
He doesn’t know what it is — a sound, an odor, a flash of movement just before he doused the light — but he suddenly realizes that he’s not alone in this room.
EIGHTEEN
He tries to act as though he hasn’t noticed a thing. He knows he’s at a disadvantage for several reasons. First of all, he’s still under the influence of numerous pints of Guinness. Second, he has just blinded himself with the lights in the bathroom, while the intruder’s eyes, on the other hand, are presumably fully accustomed to the darkness. Third, he cannot remember precisely where he put his gun when he got undressed. Last, but not least, he is as naked as the day he was born, which leaves him feeling kind of defenseless.
Straining to build a mental map of the room in front of him, he stumbles his way back to the bed and tries to make up his mind as to what to do now.
The gun, or the light switch?
His best guess is that his Glock is in the drawer of the bed table. But he could be wrong about that. And even if he’s right, he can’t see well enough to shoot anything.
So, he thinks, It’s the light then. But what’s the point in that? It might blind the guy for all of two seconds, but I still don’t have a weapon, and he might just decide to start blasting away.
Final decision — the gun first. He reaches into the drawer, acting all nonchalant like looking for tissues or some such, then dives for the light switch, hoping to get the drop on the guy. Okay, it’s not exactly the most foolproof plan in the world, but hey, I don’t have many options here.
Of course, if he’s mistaken, and there’s nobody else in the room, then he’s going to feel such a dick.
He sits on the edge of the bed, puts his head in his hands and lets out a groan.
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