Hrcany knew that the famous Blue Wall had its little chinks and cracks. Cops would not rat on a brother officer, but while one of them was under serious investigation they liked to keep their distance, maintain a discreet separation from the diseased member of the pack, especially off-duty. Even those under suspicion knew this, and it was considered good form for them to restrict their contacts during the active phase of an investigation.
Hrcany also knew that if Fulton was involved in the drug-lord killings, he had not worked alone. Either someone in his command had helped him or he had gone outside, which would have been a smarter move. Still, he was surprised at what he had learned. You had to admire the guy’s balls. Who had Fulton been seen with repeatedly over the past few weeks? Who were his new drinking buddies? The very cops who represented the department on the drug-killings task force: Manning and Amalfi.
So, were they setting Fulton up? Were they running their own investigation? Another call, this time to police headquarters to a deputy chief in Internal Affairs, who owed Hrcany a favor. More and more curious. Manning and Amalfi were not investigating Fulton. In fact, despite the persistent rumors about Fulton, there was no active investigation of him going on at all. The deputy chief hinted darkly that this was on orders from way upstairs. From whom? The chief declined to say.
That was OK. Karp’s close relationship with the chief of detectives was well-known. An obvious cover-up. The only remaining puzzle was the business with the tape in the park. Why would Fulton and Karp be making a tape with Tecumseh Booth? He thought for five minutes. Ah, that was it! Now it all made sense. He picked up the phone to make another call, then reconsidered and put it back again. What he had to do couldn’t be done on the phone.
Karp rubbed his eyes and looked up from the thick case file that Marlene had assembled on the panty-hose rapist who had graduated to murderer. He now had a name: Alan Meissner, a nice Jewish boy from the Bronx, no less. A college graduate, a mid-level executive with the phone company, nice to his mom, a real shock for the neighbors. Meissner’s hobby and chief outside interest was, needless to say, amateur theatrics.
Karp yawned and went back to reading. He had not slept well during the past week; he never did when Marlene and he were having a period of excruciating and loveless politeness. He wondered yet again whether this was it, a preview of the next thirty years or so. He was missing something, he knew, Marlene wanted something from him, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He just hoped that she’d tell him, lay it out so he could play by the rules henceforth.
Back to the file. It was a good case, he thought. Despite her extracurricular ditziness, Marlene was a first-class prosecutor. She had marshaled the rape victims one by one, and each had picked Meissner out of a lineup. They had searched his apartment after the arrest and found the elements of all the disguises he had used: wigs, makeup, contact lenses, and the lifts he had used to manipulate his height. They had found a little address book with the names and addresses of the victims—including the murder victim—written down in Meissner’s hand. They had played a tape recording of Meissner’s voice for Seth Allman, and he had identified it as the voice he had talked to at the time of the murder.
All good stuff and all properly warranted. It would hold up. But the core of the case, of course, was the panty hose. Five women, all standing up individually in court and describing how their rapist had wrapped panty hose around their heads, when combined with the crime-scene photos of Ellen Wagner’s punctured body and wrapped head, would be devastating to the defense. The law called it “a common scheme, plan, or design,” and Karp knew that it was particularly convincing to juries. Juries might not know much, but they understood things they could recognize in themselves. They all knew what a habit was, and a lot of them knew what an obsession was.
He started to call Marlene, to have her stop by and discuss some of the details, to tell her she had done a good job. But he put the phone down. He couldn’t face her across a desk. Instead, he signed the transmittal letter as bureau chief and tossed the package in the tray for the district attorney. With Bloom’s signature on it—a matter of form—Marlene would take the case before the grand jury, who would bring in an indictment—also a matter of form. Karp yawned again and picked up the next case file.
Sid Amalfi lived in a respectable Queens neighborhood made up of large two-story houses on maple-lined streets. It was inhabited largely by mid-level civil servants and skilled workers and was nearly crime-free. Amalfi’s house had a late-model white Caddy in the garage and a big Bayliner inboard on a trailer parked on the street outside. A little unusual for that neighborhood, but not altogether unknown; guys gambled on sports and out at Aqueduct, and people got lucky. After all, there had to be some winners, right? Amalfi, however, also had a condo at Queen Cay in the Bahamas, with a boat floating in front of it that didn’t fit on a trailer. This was not only unusual, but impossible, which was why it was recorded in his brother-in-law’s name.
It was eight and just getting dark when Amalfi pulled his battered cop Plymouth into his driveway. He was still nervous about how this thing with Fulton was going to play out. He was the nervous one; he had a family and a lot more to lose. Manning was the cool one, and although Amalfi had difficulty admitting it to himself, also the leader of their scam. Things had changed in the job, but Amalfi still had problems taking orders from a black guy. And now there was this other dinge in on the thing.
He locked the car and walked across his lawn, carefully stepping on the fieldstones placed there. A couple more jobs—another fifty large—and he would have enough to hand in his tin and get out, never have to worry about money again, the kids provided for, fish all day, drink all night …
A car door slammed on the quiet street. He heard footsteps behind him and his stomach jumped. He was starting to reach for the pistol under his arm when he recognized the first of the two men coming up the path as Roland Hrcany. The other man was a thin fellow with a heavy jaw. Amalfi didn’t recognize him, but knew that he was a cop.
Hrcany said, “Detective Amalfi, we’d like to speak with you.”
“What’s this about, Hrcany? I’m off-duty.” Amalfi looked inquiringly at the other man, who took an ID card from his jacket and flashed it. “Sergeant Waldbaum, Internal Affairs,” he said.
Amalfi held out his hands and forced a smile onto his unwilling face. “Hey, guys, what is this? You gotta come to my home, at night?”
“We thought it was advisable. The fewer people aware of this at this point, the better,” said Hrcany.
“Aware of what?” said Amalfi. “Am I under some kind of investigation?”
“The investigation is over, Amalfi,” said Hrcany. “We got the tape.”
Amalfi’s face twitched involuntarily. “What tape is that?”
“The tape, Amalfi,” snapped Hrcany. “Booth’s tape. Fulton’s tape. It’s over. The drug-pusher killings. We know the whole story. The only question is, who’s gonna take the fall?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Hrcany,” Amalfi said, fighting to keep his voice level and conversational, fighting the bubble of panic souring the back of his throat. “And I don’t have to listen to goddamn insinuations on my own front walk. You want to charge me with something, go ahead, but I want my lawyer and my PBA rep standing next to me when you do.”
Hrcany smiled unpleasantly. “Fine, Sid. You want to play it that way, it’s OK by me. But let me tell you something—the others are going to walk on this. Fulton and Manning are laughing at you right now. Figure it out, asshole! Two brothers, the game is falling apart—who the fuck you think they’re gonna pin it on? One of them? Think again! Tapes can be edited, you know. Coupla days maybe, they’ll find you with one in the ear, and a tape from old Tecumseh saying you and him did all those jobs.”
Amalfi shouted, “I don’t have to listen to this horseshit,” then spun around and stalked up his walk to his front door. He slammed it behind him, and then ran, knees trembling,
to the downstairs bathroom, where he knelt, retching for a good ten minutes.
Amalfi knew what Hrcany was doing, had done it himself a thousand times. Break up the group; sow distrust; the first step in cracking a gang. The problem was, it didn’t matter that Amalfi knew what was going on; the thing still worked.
Hrcany and Waldbaum walked back to their car, got in, and sat in silence. Hrcany lit a small cigar and contemplated the glowing tip as deep twilight fell on Queens.
“What the fuck was that all about?” Waldbaum asked.
“It’s funny. When I walked up that path I didn’t know shit. Now I know just about all I need to. He’s dirty. God, is he dirty! He’s in it with Fulton. And Manning too, of course.”
“What, they’ve been shooting these pushers?”
“Yeah,” said Hrcany, “so it seems. But I don’t know that, since I haven’t heard the tape.”
Waldbaum’s jaw dropped. “You were bluffing?”
“Yeah, but he bought it,” answered Hrcany.
“I didn’t see much there, Roland. He looked pretty good.”
“I saw his eyes, Joe. He looked bad. He’s heard about the tape and it scares the shit out of him. All the schmuck had to do was look puzzled and act friendly and say he was working Fulton because the rumor mill said he was involved. Then we would’ve been dead in the water. I mean, it would’ve been a hell of a lot more plausible than believing he was in with Fulton.”
Waldbaum nodded. It made a kind of crazy sense. “So what now?”
“Nothing, tonight. Let him cook for a while. The next time we roust him out, he’ll be done.”
“Shit, Roland, if you’re right, this is the biggest thing going and I’m hanging out by my shorts here,” said Waldbaum. “I can’t fucking accuse a cop of murder without clearance from the unit captain.”
“As I recall,” said Hrcany, “you didn’t accuse him of anything. Neither did I. I just said we had a tape and that he was gonna get set up.”
“But we don’t have a tape. We don’t even know what’s on the fucking tape.”
“Yeah, we do. Look, what else could it be? Karp knows Fulton is dirty, so he figures a way to protect him. He gets Fulton to tape Booth telling his story.”
“What good’s that gonna do Fulton?”
“I don’t know exactly, but trust me: if Karp’s involved, you can bet it’s clever. Maybe they’ll doctor the tape some way. Even better, they give Booth a script exculpating Fulton. Maybe other people are involved. Karp’s game has to be stopping the killings, getting the heat off his friend. I mean, once they stop, that’s it—nobody gives a rat’s ass a bunch of pushers got killed, as long as they don’t keep rubbing our faces in it. So the tape could be a threat—Fulton telling his boys, they got Us, time to close up the store.”
“But you don’t know any of this for sure,” Waldbaum observed.
“No, I don’t,” Hrcany said grimly. “That’s why we need a fucking tape of our own.”
“How was the grand jury?” asked Karp.
“It was grand, as advertised,” Marlene replied. “No problem with the indictment. We arraign this coming Tuesday.” They were in the loft, sitting side by side on the couch, eating pizza off the coffee-table door, and watching the news on TV with the volume turned almost all the way down. They were not interested in the news from anyplace else but each other, but this had been delayed for technical reasons. The air had not cleared between them; rather it lay like a chill and sticky mist, permitting the passage only of polite conversation.
“Who’s on D.?”
“Mr. Motion,” said Marlene.
“Polaner? That should be fun; the man gives a whole new meaning to ‘justice delayed is justice denied.’ Your mutt has good judgment, anyway. The longer he can stretch this out, the less convincing the witnesses are going to be, and Mr. M. is the boy for that. What’s he like, the mutt?”
“He’s charming. It’s all a terrible mistake, but he doesn’t hold it against me personally. He’s going to look damn good in court.”
“Well, Polaner will never call him. Why should he? His game is to impeach your witnesses, not give you a shot at his boy. Are there any more slices without anchovies?”
“No, because you eat twice as fast as I do and you don’t like anchovies, so you always scarf up the pepperoni slices,” said Marlene.
“But you’re eating a pepperoni.”
“Yes, ’cause if I don’t start with a pepperoni, I never get any pepperoni, on account of the aforesaid difference in eating speed.”
Karp sniffed, and began delicately to pick anchovies off a slice of pizza. “That may be true,” he said, “but it doesn’t seem fair. We should be able to order pizza that’s precisely adjusted to our individual topping preferences and eating rates.”
“It’s not the pizza guy’s problem, Butch,” said Marlene. “Have you considered that the answer might lie in personal growth and change? Perhaps slowing yourself down. Perhaps learning to savor the healthful anchovy.”
“I have considered it,” said Karp. “I’ve also considered that whenever personal growth and change enter the conversation, it’s always me that’s targeted for personal growth and change.”
“Perhaps it’s because Marlene, by dint of exhausting struggle and introspection, has moved closer to the goal of earthly perfection than you yourself have. And by the way, for the record books, I believe this is the most inane conversation we’ve had this year.”
“I’d have to agree on that, although the year is still young,” said Karp, finishing his slice and wiping his hands and face on a paper towel. “Also, I like ‘by dint.’ It’s a phrase we don’t get enough of nowadays. Speaking of which.”
“What are you doing, Butch?”
“Checking to see if you have any panties under your kimono. I make it a point never to wax philosophical with people who have neglected their panties.”
“And?”
“Nothing so far,” said Karp, “but I’ll be able to look better if I get your legs arranged sort of across my lap. Like this.”
“You know,” said Marlene, letting herself be shifted, and sinking back into the velvet cushions, “I have to confess, I occasionally go to the office in the summer without anything on under my dress. Do you think that’s too slutty?”
“I wouldn’t presume to comment. It hasn’t affected your professional performance that I can see.”
“Thank you,” said Marlene. A long silence, humming with the Lebanese situation, and then a series of soft groans and cries. “Oh, my!” she said. “That took her by surprise. Could you feel that?”
“Yes,” said Karp. “It felt like an escaping anchovy. What are you doing with your foot?”
“You mean the foot I have inveigled inside your sweats? This is called the Sicilian Rolling-Pin Maneuver.”
“Sicilian, eh?”
“Yeah, and we’re not really supposed to perform it until after marriage. Along with the Palermo Pout, it’s the main reason our little island has been invaded so many times in history.”
“I can see why,” said Karp huskily. “Anyway, I guess we’re back together now. I’m sorry I got mad at you and moped.”
“That’s OK,” said Marlene. “I realize I’m hard to live with. Someday I’ll settle down. And don’t worry about the baby. She’s half an inch long and hard as nails. So, are you going to jump on me, or what?”
“You seem ready for it.”
“Ready? I’m frothy. It’s blowing tiny bubbles.” She squirmed deliciously on the seat cushions, sliding flat and hoisting one leg on the back of the settee.
“Wait a second,” said Karp, after wriggling out of his sweatpants, “you got pizza crusts under your ass.”
Marlene grabbed him by the front of his sweatshirt and yanked him onto her. In an instant he was firmly socketed, sinking into her like a pipe wrench dropped into a crock of warm chili. She heaved and bit his ear and whispered, gasping into it, “We can … eat them … later. Or cut them … into
little cubes and … serve them to … special guests.”
“Stop talking, Marlene,” said Karp. Which she did.
FOURTEEN
Detectives Lanny Maus and Mack Jeffers were sitting in the back of an old Ford van on 143rd Street in Harlem, waiting for a murderer to arrive so they could arrest him. The van was hand-painted a dull black and it was hot inside. By an arrangement of the van’s rearview and side mirrors they had the entrance to the apartment house under indirect observation. The two men reclined on scraps of old carpeting and munched on doughnuts, washed down with quantities of iced Coke from a cooler. This was one of the penalties the King Cole Trio paid for being famous in Harlem, that in order to observe unnoticed, they had to hide in uncomfortable places.
“We should call in,” said Maus.
“Fuck that,” said Jeffers. “He show up, we call in.”
“But Art said—”
“Fuck him too,” said Jeffers, shifting his bulk and rocking the van on its worn springs. “Man got the rag on all week, and he takin’ it out on us.”
Maus nodded. “You think he’s still pissed about how the Tecumseh thing went down?”
Jeffers glared at him. “No, I’m pissed about that. Fuckin’ little mutt get a free trip to L.A., gets to lie around in the sunshine, while we sweatin’ our ass off in some damn van. The fuckin’ Loo what give Dugman a hair up his ass.”
“What, he thinks the Loo is dirty too?” asked Maus.
“I don’t know if he think it, or he know it, but that’s it, man.”
“So, hey, so he’s dirty,” said Maus. “I never figured it for him, but it could happen. There’s a stink, the snakes’ll be in and hang his ass. Why is that skin off Dugman’s butt?”
“You don’t know much, son, if you got to ask that,” said Jeffers.
“Yeah? So I’m a dumb maggot. Tell me why. Is it because Art’s in on the dirt?”
Jeffers scowled at the other detective and rolled his eyes in disbelief. “Not that kind of dirt. Look, Dugman a cop for what? Goin’ on thirty years. You got any idea what being a black cop in Harlem was like thirty years ago? We talking just after the war. They was still lynching folks down South. Cops up here’d think no more about wasting a bad nigger than giving a goddamn parking ticket. Shit, less.
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