Depraved Indifference (46 page)

Rhoda heaved herself up, came to the end of her chains, and collapsed back on the bed. Memory returned in a hideous rush. “Guma!” she howled. “You bastard! Get me out of this right now!” Nothing. She knew the apartment was empty. She shrieked and cursed for a minute or two, and tears of rage poured down her greasy cheeks. Then she stopped short. Somebody was opening the door to her apartment.

“Guma, get in here, you son of a bitch! I'll murder you!”

Silence. The knob on the bedroom door turned. The door slowly opened.

“Guma?” she said, the first shivers of fear beginning to rise through her. “Guma, is that you?”

The door opened wide and he came into the room. Rhoda put back her head and screamed. She closed her eyes tight and screamed her head off, but she could not close her nostrils.

“Ahhrnk'oon'od uh ennk'y,” said the Walking Booger, coming closer.

20

A
S
C
ONRAD
W
HARTON
tied his yellow tie in front of the mirror, he wondered fleetingly, but not for the first time, whether he could wear a bow tie. A bow tie was distinctive and bespoke confidence. More important, you could wear it forever without fear of getting food stains on it, something that eventually happened with a four-in-hand tie no matter how careful one was, and then it was shot to hell. You might as well throw it away, because the cleaners never got the stains out right. Wharton spent a lot of money on his ties. This one was a Countess Mara, thirty-two fifty, but he felt it was worth it, especially when he removed his jacket and you could see the little monogram on the bottom. His shirts were monogrammed too, on the cuffs, a
W
inside a
C
. He had designed it himself, and approved the memos emanating from his office with the same mark. He called it his chop mark.

He studied his face, wishing for length and cragginess, then sighed. No, a bow tie would make him look even more like a cheap doll, one with a ribbon around its neck. He attached his tie tack, a pair of miniature silver handcuffs, and donned the jacket of his dark gray suit. He buttoned it, then let it hang open, revealing the tie tack and the Countess Mara monogram. He loved this effect, the combination of class and a touch of violence—handcuffs. It wiped the chicks out in the singles bars, where he found it an unfailing conversation starter. Women loved a crime fighter.

Unfortunately, when he stood up to give his speech this afternoon at the Waldorf, he would have to keep his jacket buttoned. As he thought of the speech, butterflies jumped from little perches in his belly and started to flutter about. It was an important speech, one that would make his reputation in the wider world represented by the International Association of Prosecuting Attorneys, at whose winter meeting he was speaking. It was an important step for him; Bloom, he well knew, had wider ambitions—the governorship for starters—and in a year or so would leave a convenient hole for somebody with the right political connections, reputation, and skills.

Wharton collected his wallet, keys, and briefcase, slipped into a camel-hair overcoat, and left his apartment. It was shaping up very well, he thought. The missing ingredient was serious money, because if Bloom decided to run for higher office, there would be a real race for the job and plenty of money would be required to make a real stab at the DA's slot. And he thought he would make a start on getting close to serious money this afternoon, because he was having lunch with V.T. Newbury.

Wharton had been sucking around Newbury ever since he found out that his father was Edwin Brace Newbury, senior partner at Vernon Cornwell Gibbs, and among the half dozen wealthiest and most influential lawyers in New York. Until now, unaccountably, and despite the offer of numerous favors, he had met with no luck. Newbury always seemed to be busy for lunch and never showed up at the evenings Wharton arranged in his apartment for selected pols and presentable attorneys from the office. Two days ago, however, Newbury had called him up and actually invited him to lunch. They had arranged to eat at what Newbury had described as the best little Northern Italian restaurant in New York. The speech was at two. He had time for a leisurely meal and then an unhurried cab ride uptown to the Waldorf. As he walked out onto the chilly street, the butterflies vanished. It was all working out. He was golden.

His good mood dissipated abruptly when he got to the office and found that Rhoda Klepp had not reported for work that morning. Wharton made it a point never to appear at any official function without at least one special assistant to carry things and dance attendance. Rhoda was scheduled to meet him at the hotel, and more important, she had written the speech itself and was supposed to have left it on his desk. Yet it was not to be found.

“What do you mean you can't find her,” Wharton shrieked at his secretary. “Just find her!”

“I called her ten times,” the secretary responded. “She doesn't answer her phone. Maybe she's real sick.”

“Oh don't be stupid, Rhoda's never sick,” he snapped. “What am I supposed to do now? I've got to give a speech this afternoon. Do you think you could find that maybe?”

He stomped into his office and slammed the door. While he sulked, all other administrative work stopped as half a dozen public employees examined every stack of exposed paper in the office and thumbed through every file drawer. Eventually a carbon of the speech was found in one of Rhoda Klepp's desk drawers. It had to be retyped, naturally, since Wharton could not be expected to give a speech from a carbon copy.

After that, peace reigned in the Bureau of Administration, and Wharton left for his luncheon appointment at eleven-fifty with a jaunty wave. Everybody in the outer office smiled and waved back, and wished him good luck on his speech. Wharton liked what he called a happy ship. In fact, he demanded it.

Karp stood up, stretched, and went to his bedroom window. He twitched the cord on the Venetian blinds and pale morning sunlight streamed in. On the bed, Marlene groaned and covered her eyes. “It can't be morning already,” she wailed. “I reject that entire concept.”

“I'm afraid it is, cutie. We danced the night away and now it's time to go to work.”

“Oh, let's bag work. I can't believe we just spent six hours listening to that moron schmoozing on the phone.” She groaned again and rolled facedown. Then she popped her head back up. “No, Christ, we can't bag work, can we? Today's the big day.”

“Yeah, lots to do. God, this fucking case! I can't believe we're going to wrap up Karavitch today. And Bloom. You think it'll really go down like we figured?”

“No question. We're the two greatest prosecutors in the galaxy and we're on a roll. Why are you worried about Bloom? Shit, he's dead meat with what we got on those tapes.” She giggled. “I still can't believe it. Arthur Bingham Roberts and Sanford Bloom, two of the great legal minds of the century, dancing around each other to see how they can get this case thrown out with tainted evidence without actually coming out and saying it—‘I'm a scumbag, Sandy, and so are you, so get the fucking typewriter admitted, and it's a wrap.' Oh, no, too indelicate. How did it go? I got it here somewhere.”

She rummaged through the sheets and pads of yellow legal paper that were scattered around the bed and the floor, found what she was looking for, put on her glasses, and read.

“OK, this is the part I love. Roberts says, ‘Yes, I quite understand. It's unfortunate that the victim should have been a policeman.' And Bloom says, ‘Yes, there's no question of simply dropping the case. The publicity, ah, and of course the evidence is heavily against them, the bomb and the note. I mean, Arthur, they did plant the thing.' Roberts says, ‘Yes, unless some technicality should intrude that would taint the evidence.' Bloom: ‘Technicality?' Duhhhh! It's like the Three Stooges. Then Roberts: ‘Yes. That young man you have on the case, Karp. He seems like a hard charger. Perhaps he could be induced to charge a bit too hard.' Bloom says, ‘Umm, naturally, the integrity of my office can't be compromised in any way.' He means, how am I going to cover my personal tushie. Roberts gives him the zinger: ‘Naturally. And of course we feel the same way. But you'll recall that there is a translator involved here, a Professor Terzich. Now our man Evans has regrettably let slip to this Terzich the consequences of the defense providing the prosecution with evidence obtained during constitutionally protected conversation between the defense counsel and the defendant. We have reason to believe that Terzich would not be adverse to a dismissal in this case, and can be counted on to cooperate. Now, if somehow the police were to contact Terzich and obtain this evidence—do you follow?' Does he follow? Does the pope have indoor plumbing? Bloom says, ‘Umm, what sort of evidence are we talking about here?' And Roberts says, ‘The typewriter that typed the note with the bomb, Sandy. Rukovina's typewriter. Tempting, wouldn't you say?' And Bloom gives this little conspiratorial chuckle, and he says, ‘Oh, yeah, tempting as hell. OK, Arthur, I think I can handle things at this end, all right. This could just about solve our little problem here.' And Roberts says, ‘I thought it might. I trust that this Karp is not indispensable to your organization?' And our leader says, ‘Oh, he's dispensable, is he ever dispensable! He's a piece of Kleenex, the son of a bitch.' Bango! Go directly to jail, Mr. Bloom. Shit, they'll burn his license to practice law in Foley Square at high noon. And Roberts's too. I love it!”

Karp nodded, his face grim. The naked confirmation of his suspicions about Bloom gave him no pleasure. “It's still hard for me to believe. Even hearing it I can hardly believe it. Throwing away the integrity of the district attorney's office, Garrahy's office. And for what? To do some national security shitheads in Washington a favor? Yeah, we got Bloom and Roberts. It's Karavitch I'm still worried about. If we just had something solid that he was really Dreb, it'd be such a shot from left field that he'd crumple. Which reminds me.”

He sat on the bed and dialed John Evans's number. The conversation was brief. When he had hung up, Marlene asked, “How did it go?”

“How could it go? I got him by the balls. I told him we're interviewing Cindy Karavitch, Macek, and the old man starting at four-thirty today. I also told him we were hip to the typewriter scam and about the statements we've got from Flanagan and Terzich.”

“And about the tapes?”

“I think I'll save that for Bloom. As it was, he was practically blubbering. Let him make some panicky phone calls, stir up the pot a little.”

“Sounds good. By the way, what are we doing about the Israelis?”

“If they're clean on the weapons charge, all I intend to do is write a note to Elmer Pillman describing what happened. Let him take it from there. Foreign agents are an FBI matter.”

“He'll probably give them a kiss. They solved his problem with the Cubanos.”

“Frankly, Scarlet, I don't give a damn. Speaking of kisses—”

“Get away from me. We both smell like bread mold. I'm taking a shower. Want to join?”

“Love to, but I got this cast. You'll have to bathe me all over with your tiny pink tongue.”

“Make an appointment. You going to go to the Prosecuting Attorney's meeting with me later?”

“If I can figure out how to get dressed with this thing on my arm, I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

The Villa Cella on Mulberry Street was not what Wharton had expected. It was small—just ten tables— and dark, with a low brown tin ceiling and white tiles on the floor, like a public restroom. The rickety tables were done with paper placemats printed with maps of Italy, folded paper napkins, thick glass tumblers, and vases of plastic flowers. The walls were yellow stucco and covered with framed oil paintings of mountains, vineyards, and ruins.

The headwaiter had greeted V.T. effusively and ushered them to a table in the rear of the room. When they were seated, Wharton looked around him dubiously. The clientele seemed to be mostly prune-faced old men with napkins tucked into their necks, slurping soup. “You say the food here is good?” he ventured.

“Good? The best. They keep rather a low profile because they're Piedmontese, and this is a southern Italian neighborhood. I've wanted to bring you here for some time, Conrad—”

“Please, Chip.”

“Yes, Chip, of course. As I say, you struck me as someone who had the capacity to appreciate the finer things. Ah, Giusseppe,
mille grazie
.” The waiter had brought their menus. Wharton was dismayed to find it handwritten entirely in Italian.

“Ah, marvelous,” V.T. exclaimed, “they have
bollito misto
. And I think cold spinach pancakes to start. What looks good to you, Con—ah, Chip?”

“Oh, I'll have the same. I haven't had any
bollito misto
in years.”

“You'll love the way they do it here. They use the whole calf's head. What about wine? The house red is Barbera D'Asti. Let's split a carafe.”

“Well, actually, I have to give this speech today, I'd like to keep my head clear.”

“Oh, nonsense. If you don't take any wine with your meal, they'll know you're a barbarian.” The waiter returned and V.T. ordered. Wharton was thinking about how he could avoid eating the disgusting food in this trashy place, and how he could avoid drinking more than a token amount of wine. Wharton would have liked a martini, but he didn't suppose they knew how to make a decent one in this place. He was also thinking about how he could bring the conversation around so as to wangle an invitation to meet Edwin Brace Newbury.

“So, V.T., how's your father?” he began.

“My father? Fine, so far as I know. How's yours?”

“Umm, I meant, he must be a fascinating man.”

“Father fascinating? Yes, I suppose so, if you're mad about the half dozen sailing anecdotes that make up the bulk of his conversation, or if you're interested in trusts, but otherwise not. Now his brother, my Uncle Preston, he's fascinating. Ran away from Choate at sixteen and hopped a freighter to New Zealand. Married a Maori princess, I understand and—oh, good, here's our wine.”