Reversible Error (13 page)

"That has nothing to do with it, Marlene. I have seniority. The junior spouse is the one who goes. Christ! Listen to me-he's got us talking like a couple of bureaucrats. OK, look, how bad could it be? You have to leave anyway, for the baby. What's a couple of months?"

Marlene stood up in a combative posture, tense, with her hands clenched at her hips. "It's not just a couple of months. It's my career! And what about the rapist? The tracking system? That's going to go out the window too. And that shithead is going to keep raping women until he checks into the geriatric ward, not to mention any other rapists who are bouncing around doing the same kind of thing."

"But, Marlene," said Karp, "you said you wanted to relax and take care of yourself. And the baby. So how come you're generating what could be a major investigation? Hey, roll with it. Wharton's doing you a favor."

This was the wrong thing to say, which Karp discovered when Marlene crumpled up the letter and threw it at him, screaming curses, and then followed it with her stack of printouts, a couch pillow, and an ashtray. She then raced out of the living area and up the stairs to the sleeping loft. He could hear her strangled sobs and honking nose-blows continuing as he glumly finished the dishes. "Roland, I don't understand," said Karp. "You gave me all this shit about doing this task force, and now that I'm getting you off, you're bitching and complaining."

This was the next morning, in Karp's office. Roland Hrcany was pacing back and forth before Karp's desk like an overdeveloped puma. "Yeah, but that was when I thought it was horseshit. I didn't realize Reedy and Fane were in on it. That's heavy muscle and heavy exposure."

"I didn't know you had political ambitions, Roland," said Karp diffidently.

Hrcany flushed. "Yeah, well, I don't intend to cop robbers to larceny fifty times a day for the rest of my life either. There's a world beyond this horseshit, boy. What's the matter, don't tell me you never thought about it!"

The words took Karp aback. In fact, he hadn't, but now, for the first time, he began to think of this lack of ambition as a defect rather than as a point of pride. Grubbing for power sucked, but watching assholes who had it fuck over you and your friends (not to mention your one true love) was getting less and less attractive.

Karp shrugged and went on. "The main thing is, I need you on Petrossi. We're going to trial this week."

"Petrossi? That's Guma's."

"Not anymore it isn't. It's our hottest case, speaking of visibility. I figured you'd lap it up."

Hrcany smiled crookedly. "Yeah, if I can learn the case. Fucking Guma keeps it all in his head or on little scraps of paper. By the way, why'd you can him off the case?"

"He was fucking the judge."

Hrcany laughed. "Yeah, right! No, really, why did you?"

"Ah, it's complicated-he wanted to dive into something else, there was a conflict- and, between you and me… I'd rather have you in there. It's a major case, and Guma…" Karp waggled his hand like a plane in an air pocket.

Hrcany nodded in agreement. "No kidding. OK, I'll see what I can do. Give my love to the big shots."

"Good-bye, Roland," said Karp.

Ten minutes later, Peter Schick was standing in Karp's office saying, "Why me?"

"Because I think you can do it. Because I haven't got anybody else," Karp replied.

Schick laughed. "Is that an insult or a compliment?"

Karp leaned back and considered the younger man for a moment. He seemed to be doing well. According to Harris, who was minding him, he was hardworking and cheerful. Karp felt a vague twinge of guilt.

"A little of both," Karp said. "Mostly it's going to meetings and listening to what the great ones say. You'll be taking notes, writing up memos-crap like that. Also, catching the legal work that's associated with these cases."

"What, the murder cases?" Schick asked nervously.

"Well, obviously, any really big cases, I'll be there personally, or one of the other senior people. But there's a lot of other stuff that a big investigation like this generates, and you'll be catching all of that. Just use your judgment; handle what you can handle, and if you can't, let me know."

What Karp did not say was that the assignment of his most junior attorney to the drug task force was a clear signal that Karp cared little about what went on there. And Karp didn't. Bloom, he knew, was incapable of running a serious investigation. Whatever was going on in the drug task force was important only as politics.

There was something deep running underneath the conventional assertions of concern about drugs in Harlem, which was why Reedy and Fane were involved. But Karp now had a direct line into that, outside the machinations of Bloom and Wharton, and he intended to pursue it, starting at lunch, that very day. The Bankers' Club occupied the penthouse floor of a seventy-story tower on Manhattan's southern tip. Through the great windows that stretched from floor to ceiling one could look out on sky and harbor as from the pilothouse of an immense and barely moving vessel. Once, New York's bankers had clubbed together in red leather chairs in paneled rooms, shielded from the un-elect by thick Florentine walls and plush draperies. Now, however, in the mid-seventies, they spent their last years as the world's undisputed financial lords, in such mortgaged aeries, flaunting it proudly to the ants below.

Karp and Reedy sat at one of the select window tables. The waiter stopped by for their drink order and Reedy ordered a Tanqueray martini. Karp ordered a Coke. Reedy raised an eyebrow and the waiter almost did too.

"Don't you drink, Butch?" asked Reedy.

"No," said Karp. "It's my Indian blood. I go crazy and take scalps."

Reedy laughed, perhaps a trifle more than the joke was worth. He had a good laugh, hearty and loud, with lots of air expelled. The laugh reminded Karp of the crusty Irish homicide D.A.'s of Garrahy's generation, the men who had taught him his trade, and of Garrahy himself. They had laughed like that. He found himself being charmed, and not minding it.

The charm continued. Reedy was a splendid raconteur and knew everybody in New York. He told a funny story about the mayor and one about the cardinal archbishop, and one about how the chairman of a major bank and the heir to a real-estate fortune were both trying to get into the pants of a prominent TV personality.

He also talked about himself, interspersing bits of personal information, between the funny stories. Karp learned he had grown up in Irish Yorkville, one of ten children of a news truck driver, and worked his way through St. John's and Harvard Law School hauling boxes at the Fulton Fish Market.

"And do you know," Reedy said, "from that day to this I've never put a piece of fish in my mouth or allowed it in my house. And on Friday, before they changed the rules, we had salad, omelets-pizza pie, for God's sake! But no fish."

Today Reedy was eating filet mignon for lunch, with a glass of the house red, which today was a '66 Chambertin. Karp was having the same, and also drinking the wine. Marlene had been working on him over the past months, and while she had not yet convinced him that the ability to drink wine was as much an appurtenance of civilized life as the ability to control the bowels, he had gotten to the point where he no longer gagged when the stuff hit his throat.

So he was relaxed, and well-fed and entertained, content to wait for Reedy to deliver whatever punch line he had in mind. It came over the coffee, which was served in little cafe filtre silver pots. Reedy's came with a slice of lemon, something Karp (the big-city provincial) had not seen before. A man of definite tastes, Reedy.

Reedy had gradually steered the conversation toward the subject of Karp himself, pumping him skillfully about his background and his work. Karp went through the whole sad story: the basketball wonder boy, all-state guard, high-school All-American, Berkeley, the accident, the knee, the lost chance at the NBA, law school, working for Garrahy.

"Now, there was a man," Reedy said reflectively.

"Yeah, I sure thought so. Did you know him at all?"

"Not as well as I would've liked. We were on committees together, Church and Irish functions and all. But being in different branches of the law… and"-a sudden sly grin-"I was always after the money, to be frank, and Phil, well, as you know, he was after something else. It's not often you meet someone of whom you have no trouble saying, 'There's a better man than I am.'" He raised his glass. "To his memory," said Reedy, and they both drank and were silent for a long moment.

Karp was aware of the other man watching him closely. Finally Reedy said, "I daresay he's missed at the office."

"You could say that."

"Especially given the present incumbent."

"Especially," Karp allowed cautiously.

"He has ambitions, you know," Reedy said.

"Bloom? Does he?"

"Yes, he wants to be governor."

"He's got my vote," said Karp sourly. "I might even vote twice."

Reedy laughed. "Yes, I expect you might. He's a plausible candidate. In fact, I will tell you, in the strictest confidence, mind, that he will be the candidate."

"Oh? No damned nonsense about the primaries?"

Reedy smiled and shook his head. "Butch, be serious. In an open race like the next one will be, the primary is a bought thing. Sandy is personable, he speaks well on civic issues, he hires the best speech writers and pollsters, and he's already got the smart money lined up. Unless he gets caught with his hand in the till or his dick where it shouldn't be, he's a shoo-in for the nomination.

"Which leaves an interesting opening. Assuming he declares in, say, February of next year, it will leave whoever is appointed to replace him nearly seven months of incumbency before the general election. He'd be hard to beat."

"Yeah, he would," agreed Karp.

"Any ideas on who it might be?"

"I haven't thought about it much. I'm sure Bloom has any number of people he could recommend. The governor's got cronies too. It's a nice plum for somebody."

Reedy's smile became broader. "You don't see it? Look, Butch, these people"-he cast his hand to encompass the room and the towers of Wall Street beyond the glass-"the people who run New York, what worry do you think is uppermost in their minds? Crime!

"There's no damn reason to strive and hustle to accumulate wealth if you can't walk in the street without being hit over the head by some bastard who just walked out of jail. The city's crying for leadership to stop this, to drive the scum back into their holes, and to punish them when they dare to come out.

"Leadership. Now, don't sit there and tell me you've never imagined yourself in that role."

"Me?"

"Yes, you, and don't act so surprised. Who else is there? You've got a solid reputation in the criminal-law community, a splendid record as bureau chief-and you've never lost a murder case. For God's sake, man, you've actually been wounded in the line of duty! You're a natural!"

Karp felt his stomach rolling. "But I've never been involved in politics…" he protested lamely.

"Nonsense! Who organized Phil Garrahy's last campaign? And besides, that's all to the good. So you're not a pol! We've had enough of political wheeler-dealing in that office. We need somebody reliable, professional, tough as nails. I'm telling you, as sure as we're sitting here, you can have it if you want it. But you've got to know you want it, Butch." Reedy's sharp blue eyes locked in on Karp as he said, "Do you want it?"

As from a long distance away, Karp heard his own voice say, "I want it."

Tecumseh Booth came easily out of the light sleep favored, of necessity, by the incarcerated, to find a familiar figure in his cell. The cell was in a precinct station in Harlem, and Booth had been there for nearly three days. This was unusual, but then there had been nothing usual about this arrest. He was also alone in his cell, which was even stranger. Precinct pens were ordinarily standing-room-only until they were cleaned out each morning by the zone wagons that circulated around Manahattan, picking up prisoners and bringing them to Centre Street for arraignment.

"About time you showed up," said Booth sulkily. "S'pose to get a goddamn trial before they lock you up for life."

The shooter said, "How about keeping your voice down? Look, I hear you been doing good. I want you to know we appreciate it."

"Yeah? You got a funny way of showing it, man. When the fuck am I getting out of this shithole?"

"Soon. I can't just come in here and sign you out. You're gonna have to go to an arraignment."

Booth stood up and said angrily, "Fuck arraignment, man! That wasn't in the damn deal. I'm s'pose to be covered, and now you tell me my black ass is hanging out of the blanket? What the hell happens if I get bound over, man? I'm looking at six months in Rikers, if they want a trial, even if I beat it. No way, motherfucker! I stood up once, and I'll stand up again, but not on this shit. It don't work that way; you hump for the Man, you don't see no jail."

"Relax, will you!" said the shooter, looking nervously over his shoulder. "The fix is in. You go up to court tomorrow, and you'll be walking by lunchtime. I guarantee. Just keep your cool."

Booth sank down again on his bunk. "I better be walking," he said. "I go up on this, and they gonna put you under the jail." Detectives Lanny Maus of the King Cole Trio and Dick Manning of the new drug lord task force sat near the back of Part 10 waiting for the arraignment of Tecumseh Booth. Maus was there because he was the arresting officer and because Dugman had told him to keep track of what happened to their only suspect. Manning was there because he was handling the cop end for the drug task force.

The two men knew one another slightly, and conversed in a desultory manner while the boredom washed over them from the front of the courtroom. After fifty minutes the door to the pens opened and a gang of a dozen prisoners straggled in, one of whom was Booth.