Hoax

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “Well, keep looking. I hate to think that our Stone Age filing system has been spread to the four corners of the courthouse because of a little bomb,” Karp said as the twins came bounding in the door followed by Fulton. He’d been tied up in meetings, so the detective had volunteered to pick up the boys after school and bring them down to the Tombs for questioning.

  “Here you go,” Fulton said. “Pretty Boy Floyd and Baby Face Nelson are remanded to your custody.”

  “Who?” the boys asked in mid-bounce.

  “Never mind,” Karp replied, “just a couple of old-time gangsters from your grandfathers’ era. Back when they robbed banks and didn’t sing about it.”

  “Oh, yeah, coppers,” Zak said, launching into his best James Cagney. The Public Enemy was a favorite old video in the Karp family collection. “You dirty rats, you’ll never get me to talk.”

  “I hope you were a bit more serious when the detectives asked you questions,” Karp said.

  The boys’ good humor screeched to a halt at the mention of their interviews. “They did fine,” Fulton assured him. “Pretty much what we heard with a couple of nuances. Seems this guy, ML Rex, apparently didn’t take kindly to being shown up on the stage by Garcia and picked a fight. Mostly words until Giancarlo here tried to make the peace and got knocked down. Sounded to me like our suspect was reacting to threats made toward the boys.”

  Karp gave Fulton a quizzical look. He wondered if the detective believed Garcia’s story. Earlier, the detective had come to him with the latest news from the streets. One of the more interesting bits was a call he’d received from an executive with a music distribution company. “He says that his company and Martin Johnson had worked out a deal in principle to distribute the next ML Rex CD. Apparently, the vic planned to walk out on his contract with Pentagram Records.”

  “So?” Karp asked. “The entertainment industry is notorious for a lack of loyalty and double crosses.”

  “Yeah, but this cat says that Pentagram has a reputation for defending its turf.”

  “So Pentagram killed him instead of taking him to court and forcing him to honor his contract, or buy his way out, like a zillion other disgruntled musicians?” Karp scoffed. He shook his head. “Wouldn’t that be shooting the golden goose? If record companies ran around rubbing out every artist who reneged, we’d all be listening to Wayne Newton.”

  “A fate worse than death,” Fulton acknowledged. “But I’m just telling you what the dude told me. The two main theories on the street are that one, Garcia did it to ‘make his bones’ as a bona fide East Coast rapper, like Flanagan says; or two, that Garcia was set up to take the fall for an unknown reason and wasn’t there.”

  “Unknown reason?” Karp said. “Why would someone go through all the trouble? Hell…” He stopped and picked up a mug shot of Vincent Paglia taken from one of his prior arrests. “That means our witness is bad at eyewitness identification or he’s lying. Pretty damn complex just to nail some Puerto Rican kid from the projects. And if someone wanted to kill Martin Johnson, why not just do it and leave it as a mystery instead of cluttering it all up with red herrings? Why take the chance that one of the pieces of the puzzle won’t fit?”

  Fulton started to shrug again but Karp held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re only telling me what the dudes told you. I appreciate the information, I really do. I was just thinking out loud.”

  The rest of the day had been taken up with the meeting, and there hadn’t been much time to ruminate anymore. But the photograph of Vincent Paglia was still on his desk when the boys arrived from their meeting with Flanagan and Leary.

  Giancarlo came around the desk to hop up on his father’s knee. Karp put his arm around the boy and squeezed. There was another thing he had to worry about. Giancarlo’s doctor had called after lunch with the news that he’d taken his son’s MRI and CAT scan to some visiting Israeli brain surgeon at Beth Israel Hospital. “Maybe the best, most innovative guy in the world,” Giancarlo’s doctor said. “A real pioneer in microsurgery, with balls the size of my head…thinks he can fix anything, including Giancarlo’s eyesight. No guarantees; like anything having to do with the brain, there are risks. But he’s the best shot right now.”

  Karp begged off making a decision, saying he had to talk to Giancarlo and Marlene. “Of course, and that’s fine,” the doctor said. “I don’t want you to rush, but I have to tell you that Dr. Zacham is an extremely busy man and is mostly doing this as a favor to me for setting up his stint at Beth Israel.”

  Karp thanked him and promised to get back as soon as he talked to his family members. He looked at his blind son now, nestled in his arms, and imagined what it would be like if something went wrong, cringing away from the blackness of the thought.

  Zak, who believed himself to be too old and sophisticated to be climbing onto his father’s lap—at least in public—fiddled about the office. After testing the springs on the couch until his father scowled, he wandered over to the desk where he nonchalantly picked up the booking photograph of Vincent Paglia. “Hey, the guy who was driving the limo,” he said. “I saw his fat ass drive by when that guy, ML Rex, flipped us off at the Hip-Hop.”

  Karp rolled his eyes. “Zak, your mouth is—”

  “Oh that reminds me,” Fulton interrupted. “Just before I picked up the Wild Bunch here, my wife called. It’s one of those small world things, but it turns out her cousin works as a chauffeur for the same company as our witness, Vinnie Paglia. In fact, he was supposed to be the driver for ML Rex et al while they were in town, but Paglia begged for the job…paid him a thousand bucks, said his little girl was a rap fan and he wanted the client’s autograph, plus he figured there’d be a big tip…apparently some of these hotshots who blow into town drop a lot of cash on a good driver who knows how to keep them happy and high…”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Karp said, circling his finger to speed it up, “and…”

  “And, well, there are two things that were strange about that, according to Helen’s cousin. Apparently it’s common knowledge in that circle that our boy Vinnie seems to have racked up substantial gambling debts with some wrong people. Normally, he doesn’t have a quarter to wave around much less a thousand bucks. Used to complain to the cousin that his wife gave him his lunch money every day like a little kid.”

  As Fulton spoke, Karp felt as if the tumblers inside his brain were clicking into alignment—not quite there yet, but close. “And the second strange thing?”

  “Vinnie’s kid is a three-year-old little white girl, whose daddy is an itinerant Eye-tie gambler with loose mob connections.”

  Karp looked puzzled by the comment. An exasperated Zak spelled it out for him. “How many three-year-old little white girls with a wiseguy for a daddy want a rap star’s autograph; duh, I mean Dad?”

  Shooting his son a look, Karp said, “Boys, excuse us for a minute.”

  “WHY?” they complained vociferously. “WE WANT TO STAY!”

  “Because I said so, is why,” Karp replied using the inarguable reasoning of fathers everywhere. At his signal, Murrow grabbed the boys and escorted them outside. “Let’s go play Guess the Crime He Committed down in Judge Farkus’s courtroom. He likes kids and is handling arraignments this afternoon.”

  As soon as the door closed, Karp looked at Fulton. “I want this guy found yesterday.”

  “A setup?”

  Karp nodded. “Smells like it to me. He pays for the job because he’s part of the hit.”

  “Makes sense,” Fulton said. “He arranges to meet Garcia, who in turn sets up his alibi with who better than a priest. Garcia knows how much time he has so has a nice drive up to East Harlem, waits for Vinnie to clear the limo, and starts blasting. In the excitement, loses the gun but can’t spend the time crawling around under the car in the dark looking for it.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Karp said but the frown deepened as he leaned back in his chair to stare at the ceiling.

  “Still, pretty complicated for an eighte
en-year-old gangbanger,” Fulton mused. “The usual MO is a drive-by; don’t aim just shoot, then run. This was an execution—calm, cool, collected, and no chance of survivors.”

  “Yeah, an execution.”

  “So why does Vinnie wait for the cops to find him? He knows they will when they check with the limo company.” Karp wasn’t talking so the detective answered his own question. “To make his story about being the terrified chauffeur work. But what’s he get out of it?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” Karp said.

  “What?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars. Isn’t that how much reward money the victim’s record company, Pentagram Records, was offering for the arrest and conviction of the killers? Maybe he got a down payment…enough to pay your wife’s cousin a thousand dollars to collect an autograph. He figures nobody ever hears about that—your cousin’s not about to report it to the IRS as income. He does the dirty deed, waits a few days to be found by the cops, then picks Garcia out of a lineup.”

  “But why wouldn’t he expect Garcia to now turn around and finger him back?”

  Karp was back to silent mode, so the detective filled in the blank. “Who’s going to believe a Puerto Rican gangster nicknamed Boom with a record for shooting people over a hardworking family man? Especially when there’s the incident at the Hip-Hop. But if this was too complicated for Alejandro, it would have been rocket science to Vinnie, who ain’t the shiniest penny in the fountain. So he’s doing a favor for someone and gets to collect the reward money, pay the mob, and live happily ever after…or until next month when he’s blown the money on the horses. But who’s pulling the strings?”

  “Pentagram.”

  Fulton looked at Karp, who’d stopped looking at the ceiling and was looking at him. “Huh?”

  “Pentagram. Remember the call you got about Pentagram defending its turf.”

  “Yeah, the one you thought was bullshit.”

  “So sue me, it’s the first time I’ve ever been wrong. And the reason I was wrong is there’s something else going on here that I don’t understand yet that goes beyond some punk walking out on his contract. Let’s proceed cautiously; nothing changes officially, but I want to talk to our Mr. Vincent Paglia as of yesterday.”

  “Already on it, boss,” Fulton replied and left as the twins and Murrow stuck their heads in the door. “Nothing PG-11 rated,” the special assistant said.

  Karp picked up his telephone and waved them into the room as he dialed. “You’re all on super double-secret probation if a word of this gets out.” He turned his attention to the receiver as the line rang.

  A cultured voice answered. “Newbury Gang. Corruption’s our game.”

  “Is that the way you answer the phone these days? Sounds a little cavalier,” Karp said.

  “Saw it was you, boss,” V.T. Newbury answered. “We trace every call that comes in, just so we can locate the anonymous tipsters if we have to and see if they have an ax to grind or any real information. We have all sorts of gadgets, real James Bond stuff. In fact, I have a little pen here that can pick up conversations within thirty feet and if you click it twice in rapid succession, it sends a little SOS signal to whoever might be listening in. Much better than wiring someone; harder to spot and best of all, you can actually write with the pen. No one ever knows the difference.”

  “That’s all very exciting, V.T., but how about you use some of your gadgetry—so long as it’s legal—and find out everything you can about Pentagram Records.”

  “Isn’t that the record company of our departed rap singer—and I use the term singer loosely,” Newbury drawled. “Sinatra or Mel Torme, now those guys could sing, but…”

  “V.T., please,” Karp replied. “I want to know who owns it, and if they have any ties to our witness in the ML Rex murder investigation, Vincent Paglia, or to our suspect, Alejandro Garcia.”

  Newbury assured him that he’d have the information ASAP. Karp hung up knowing he could count on his old friend.

  “Told ya…,” Zak began and Giancarlo finished, “the witness was lying.”

  “Okay, my two virtuous misters—‘I Was Just Studying My Hebrew.’ Remember, not a peep of this or you don’t see your next birthday.”

  Karp studied his sons; almost twelve and they’d been involved in more kidnappings, shootings, and bombings than most police officers experienced in their careers. “Why does my family keep getting caught in the middle of these things?” he asked no one in particular. Once again, the idea that he was acting out a role in a drama jumped into his head. If so, he realized that the curtain had closed on Act I, and was about to open again, but he still didn’t know his lines.

  Meanwhile, at his desk several floors up, Fulton flipped through the cards on his Rolodex, found the one he was looking for, and punched in the number.

  “Flanagan,” said the voice on the other end.

  “Yeah, hey Mike, Clay Fulton here. My boss would like to talk to the witness, Vincent Paglia, pronto.”

  The line was quiet for a moment. “What’s up?” Flanagan asked.

  “Don’t know yet, but he may be more involved than he told you.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what? Care to let the lead detective working the case in on your little investigation?”

  The implication was clear in the detective’s sarcastic tone, but Fulton ignored it. He’d worry about turf some other time. “I’ll fill you in later, in person, okay? This came to us sort of roundabout. Just see if you can find him real quick.”

  Flanagan’s attitude changed quickly. “Sure, you bet,” he said. “We know where he works at the fish market. Sean and I will scoot down and pick him up.”

  “Thanks, Mike,” Fulton said and meant it. Man, it’s nice when the team works together, he thought as he replaced the receiver.

  19

  THE LITTLE BLACK GIRL, HER HAIR DONE IN CORNROWS laced with small pink ribbons, stared into the television camera as a single tear rolled slowly down her round, brown cheek. She sniffled and looked up at the kindly white man who knelt next to her on the sidewalk in front of a building whose true color was difficult to discern beneath years of graffiti.

  “Please,” she said in a trembling voice, “I want don’t to be afraid…”

  “Cut!” the director filming the political ad for Andrew Kane’s campaign yelled. “The line is, ‘Please, I don’t want to be afraid to go to school.’ Take five.”

  “Shit,” the child exclaimed. “Sorry, Mr. Kane, I flubbed it.”

  “That’s okay, Phoebe, we’ll get it the next time,” Kane said, standing up and patting her on the head. Stupid little nigger, he thought.

  The ad was intended mostly as a local insert on BET—Black Entertainment Television—and a Harlem cable channel, though his PR firm had lined up a test audience of white guilt-ridden liberals to see how it would go over with them. If they reacted well, the firm might find a spot during a break in one of those white, guilt-ridden liberal sitcoms like Will & Grace. No wealthy conservative he knew would be caught dead watching a show about gay men, so he wouldn’t have to worry about one of his GOP friends taking exception to his “playing up to the Negroes” in the ad.

  In the opening scene, he and the Rev. Billy Jacobs of the Harlem church would walk together down a sidewalk locked in deep conversation but occasionally stopping to talk to concerned-looking business owners. And as they strolled, Kane’s voice-over talked about the escalating violence of gangs “creating a war zone where neither talented visiting musicians like ML Rex nor our own school-children are safe.” The camera would then shift to a scene of Kane escorting Phoebe through a gauntlet of rough-looking hoodlums—who, like Phoebe, were actors hired to play the part—to get to her graffiti-covered school.

  The child was then supposed to look at him with a tear on her cheek, actually a drop of glycerin, and say, “Please, I don’t want to be afraid to go to school.” Then he would stand, look resolutely at the camera, and say, “As mayor, I’d declare war on the gangs. With your
support, this is a battle I know how to win.” The last being an obvious reference to the lingering difficulties for President Bush in Iraq.

  The camera would then pan back to show the Rev. Jacobs gazing at Kane and Phoebe before turning to the lens himself to say, “I know who I’m voting for in November. A mayor who’ll represent all the people…Andrew Kane.”

  Getting the reverend to participate had taken a bit of arm-twisting. If Jacobs had his way, he wouldn’t have anything to do with Kane. But a youthful indiscretion cost him his freedom of choice.

  While Kane had a personal vendetta aimed at the Catholic Church, it wasn’t his only target of religious opportunity. Whenever possible, he made his presence felt in Protestant churches, synagogues, Buddhist monasteries, and mosques. The best way to manipulate the masses, he believed, was through the institutions they trusted the most. There was the added side benefit of corrupting the duplicitous so-called men of God.

  Often their support could be bought with gifts of money. Others required a touch of blackmail. Some had weaknesses for women, some for men, some for children—the Catholic Church wasn’t the only hunting ground for pedophiles. Some were into drugs, or they secretly (so they thought) liked to dress up as females and haunt the drag queen bars in Soho.

  In the case of Rev. Jacobs, the minister was terrified that his congregation would learn that he had been an FBI informant against the Black Panthers in the late 1960s. One word to the wrong people, one of Kane’s associates had pointed out to him, and he knew he was as good as dead.

  Unfortunately, Kane reflected, not every churchman was so easily reduced to servitude. This Father Dugan was proving to be a real nuisance and, in a sense, was responsible for the death of ML Rex.

  The trouble had started in December when a certain filing cabinet disappeared from the New York District Attorney’s Office after the terrorist bombing. There were two sets of files inside the cabinet that worried him greatly. They were the proverbial Achilles’ heel.

  One set were those arising from the sexual assault allegations made against the Catholic clergy. While the church council did not have to approve any settlement under a million dollars, there was a bylaw that the council’s auditors had to be notified of the payoffs and that a report of the allegations had to be forwarded on to the DA’s office for review. Before that happened, Kane or one of his associates would mark them No Prosecution, even though they were often provable cases.