Material Witness

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  As she had expected, traffic was light and she barreled along at a good speed. She passed a beer truck, pulled back into lane, and then cursed softly. Beckett said, “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, this jerk was tailgating me behind the truck. Now I passed and he’s up on my butt again. Pass, asshole!” she snarled, as if the other driver could hear. On their right was the vast darkness of Calvary Cemetery, and Marlene was just getting ready to make her exit to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway when the trailing car made its move.

  Marlene saw the headlights pull out and the car draw up beside the Firebird, on the left. It was too close. Marlene cursed and edged away from it. But instead of pulling ahead, the car stayed even with the Firebird and edged even closer. Marlene glanced at it in annoyance. The overhead lights of the highway gave only fitful illumination, but it was enough to see that the man in the passenger’s side was one of two who had been following her.

  Marlene hit the brakes at the instant before the Chevy swerved right and slammed into the side of the Firebird. The beer truck following hit his own brakes and leaned on his horn. Marlene heard the screech of metal as the right flank of the yellow car tore itself to pieces against the guard rail with a broad shower of sparks.

  The wheel twisted in Marlene’s hand. She felt the rear of the car slide out into the road and heard the shriek of the beer truck’s brakes. She saw its headlights veer wildly left. Then there was a thump and a crash, and her head was slammed against the backrest as the truck sliced off the rear left quarter of the Firebird.

  The next instant, the pressure of the Chevy was gone as its driver burned rubber to get out of the way of the onrushing beer truck. Marlene fought the Firebird to a rattling stop on the narrow shoulder.

  “Jesus! What happened! Are you OK?” Beckett’s voice was cracked with strain.

  “Yeah, I think so,” answered Marlene.

  “Somebody just tried to run us off the road, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah. Those guys following me around just upped the ante. Sorry about the car—”

  “Fuck the damn car! How’re you feeling, the baby and all?”

  “Nothing’s changed that I can tell. Shit, if this didn’t induce labor, nothing will,” said Marlene, and fainted dead away.

  “You’re sure it was the same guys?” asked Karp.

  “I’m positive,” answered Marlene. “In fact, if I hadn’t spotted weasel-face in the passenger seat and tromped on the brake a second before he slammed us, there’s no question we would’ve been wrecked. That and the beer truck happening to come up behind, with a smart driver …” She shuddered and sipped tea.

  After three hours of energetic hustling involving ambulances, tow trucks, the police, insurance companies, hospital emergency rooms, all linked by frantic phone calls and desperate cab rides, Marlene and Karp were together again in the loft, exhausted and telling each other over and over that it could have been worse, in the midst of Marlene communicating what she had learned at Mrs. Simmons’s.

  “Well, it could have been worse,” said Karp. “The question is, what to do now.”

  “Bed. Sleep for a week. I feel like a giant bruise.”

  “Yeah, you say that now, but wait till next time. Don’t look at me like that! I know you won’t listen, but—”

  “I’m listening! I’m listening! OK, here it is.” Marlene raised her right hand and intoned, “I do solemnly swear that notwithstanding any undertakings heretofore entered into, I will not leave this loft until I drop this kid, without a police escort, so help me, God. You’re on your own, boss.”

  “What happened to not being afraid to die? Doone’s gonna be all disappointed you turned into such a pussy.”

  Marlene looked at him sourly. “That’s right, gloat! Now that I’m a helpless lump, you finally got what you really wanted all the time, a totally passive woman. I hope you’re satisfied.”

  “Not really,” said Karp. “My appetite for passivity has barely been tapped.”

  “Help me into bed,” sniffed Marlene, “and watch where you put your hands!”

  The next morning, it was Karp who rose early and dressed silently in his lawyer’s outfit, while Marlene slumbered on. He paused only to slip the Polaroid Marlene had taken of her two tails into a pocket, and then rode the subway to Queens, there to beard the disingenuous Thelmann in his den.

  “He’s in a meeting,” said Thelmann’s secretary when Karp arrived at the office in the Queens Criminal Courts.

  Karp replied breezily, “That’s OK, I’m in the meeting too,” and brushed past her, flashing his Manhattan D.A.’s ID card.

  Thelmann was at his desk, polished Oxfords propped up on its cluttered surface, apparently expounding the law to a couple of junior attorneys. He looked up, startled, as Karp barged in.

  “I beg your pardon—” Thelmann began.

  “And well you should,” snapped Karp. “I’m here to prevent you from making an embarrassing and expensive mistake.”

  Thelmann opened his mouth to say something and then thought better of it. He smiled falsely to his two acolytes and begged them to excuse him for five minutes. They scurried out and he turned his most intimidating stare at Karp. “Well?”

  Karp, however, had been intimidated by real experts and was not impressed. His anger at what had happened to Marlene, having at the moment no other outlet, directed itself like a scarlet laser beam at Thelmann.

  “Well,” said Karp mockingly. “Well, Jerry, just tell me one thing: when you arrested and charged John Doone with the murder of Marion Simmons, were you aware that he spent the night of the murder in a precinct lockup?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Never mind who told me. Is it true?”

  “Of course not! Yeah, he claims that he was, but there’s not a shred of documentary evidence of any arrest.” This last was delivered with such confidence that Karp’s suspicions were confirmed.

  “Well, maybe you didn’t look in all the right places,” Karp suggested quietly.

  “What the fuck is this, Karp?” Thelmann exploded. “You accusing me of suppressing evidence?”

  “Not me. But that’s just one of the many peculiarities of this investigation. Another is, why haven’t you questioned Julia Mackey?”

  Thelmann’s gaze dropped nervously for an instant, and his mouth became tight. “Who’s Julia Mackey?”

  “Who’s Julia Mackey? Come on, Jerry! The victim’s girlfriend. With whom he spent his last hour on earth, maybe. What’s the matter? Somebody tell you to lay off?”

  “Nobody told me anything,” snapped Thelmann. “I’m in complete charge of this investigation. We have physical evidence linking Doone to the crime. We have motive, means, and opportunity, and there is absolutely no need to bring Mrs. Mackey into this case at this time.”

  “Mrs. Mackey? So you do know who she is.”

  Thelmann swung his legs down from his desk and sprang to his feet, his face reddening. “Get out! Get the fuck out of my office! I’m going to report you to the New York D.A. for interfering with an investigation.”

  “You do that, Jerry. And I’m sure it’ll break his little boy’s heart to hear bad about me. But one more point to keep in mind—this started as a private thing, a favor. I was just interested in gathering some information and passing it onto you. But yesterday some shitheads tried to kill my wife, shitheads who have got to be involved in this mess you’ve created. Now it’s personal. No more amateur hour, Jerry.” Karp turned on his heel and left.

  He went down to the lobby, where he made several phone calls. At a local instant photo lab he had several enlarged color copies made of Marlene’s Polaroid photo. Then he hopped the IND subway back to the city.

  His destination was a small luncheonette located on one of the twist of streets leading to Foley Square, where the courts are. The place was called Sam’s, its owner was called Gus, and it had been serving breakfast and lunch to the denizens of the criminal courts since before the invention of the electric coffee
maker.

  When Karp entered, a little past noon, Sam’s was just changing the flavor of its air from coffee and toast and grease (a.m.) to bacon and mayo and grease (p.m.). It was a long, narrow place, with a counter running half its length on one side and the other side lined with steel tube chairs and tables done in salmon Formica. There were four booths upholstered in red vinyl occupying the rear.

  Two of the three men Karp had phoned were already waiting for him in one of these rear booths. “Uh-oh, here comes the star,” said Ray Guma. “Could you autograph my menu? Right under where it says bologna.”

  “Could you autograph my jock strap?” said Roland Hrcany.

  Karp slid into the booth next to Guma and said sourly, “What is this, I’m not entitled to any respect? I’m not a sports hero? You guys commies or what? Is V.T. coming?”

  “He’ll be along. He’s probably flossing his teeth,” said Guma. “Oh, yeah, big sports hero,” he resumed in the same tone. “Does he remember his friends, though? Do we get front-row tickets at the Garden? Do we even get calls returned? No. Of course, when the big shot needs our help, that’s a different story.”

  “Are you finished?” asked Karp. “What do I have to do, crawl on my belly?”

  “For starters,” said Hrcany.

  “Stipulate it,” said Karp. “Tickets, no problem. We go to Philly day after tomorrow and then play the Knicks Friday night. Probably be my last game, as a matter of fact.”

  “Yeah?” said Guma. “They finally figured out you don’t have a jumper?”

  Karp hesitated before answering. He mentally discarded several light or sarcastic remarks and then with a sigh responded, “No, as a matter of fact, it’s because I really can’t play anymore. I hurt all the time. The trainer is pushing pain pills at me and they’re starting to look good.”

  “Take ’em!” said Hrcany. “Drugs are the answer. Why should you be different from everybody else in New York?”

  “Pussy!” said Guma, sneering. “I always thought you were a real man.”

  “Thanks for the support, guys,” said Karp. “Yeah, I guess I should risk permanent physical damage to sell beer and snow tires. Chaney’ll probably spring for a cane. Hi, V.T.”

  The man who had approached the booth while Karp spoke nodded and slid into the vacant space next to Hrcany. V.T. Newbury was small, blond, classically handsome, and very rich. A sprig of an old and distinguished New York family, he stood out from his present company like a Reine des Violettes rose among dandelions.

  “Are you considering carrying a cane, Butch?” asked Newbury. “Good idea. You could cultivate a little waxed mustache as well, sort of an acromegalic Adolph Menjou effect.”

  “How’s the Fraud Bureau these days, V.T?” asked Karp.

  “Booming. I still haven’t figured out why someone with an income of fifty million dollars would risk going to jail to make another million, but I’m working on it.” He gave Karp a long, considering look. “You appear well, Butch. Fame and fortune agreeing with you?”

  “He’s quitting,” said Guma.

  “Yeah, the rat,” said Hrcany. “Just when I was starting to make serious money off the Hustlers.”

  “I hope you were betting on, Roland,” said Karp. “I’d be deeply hurt if I thought you were on the other side.”

  Hrcany offered a superior smile. “No, no, that’s not the way it works, Butch. Only suckers bet the team. You wanna make money, you got to beat the line.”

  “Come on, Roland,” said Guma, “you think you can screw Vegas?”

  “Yeah, why not? They’re just guys, put their shorts on one leg at a time, just like everybody else. But it’s not really screwing Vegas in the first place. Look, the thing to remember is that bookies don’t bet; they’re not gamblers. What they live on is their vig—you got to bet eleven to make ten, and so on. So the line is not a reflection of who they think is gonna win—they could care less who wins—it’s just a way of balancing the action.

  “I mean, you got a team that’s hot—like the Hustlers have been hot—nobody wants to bet against them. So they suck out the money by giving the other team points.”

  “We know this, Roland,” said Guma impatiently. “What’s your point?”

  “The point is that it’s not just that the Hustlers are hot. Basketball don’t work that way because there’s too many games and there’s too much action, especially with the N.B.A. expansion. Nobody can stay hot for eighty-two games. Who the hell can figure out what a team is gonna do on a night?

  “OK, but there’s two other things working here. First of all, the Hustlers are a New York team. That means more fans and more money bet on the team to win. Everything else equal, Vegas’ll give them more points than they deserve on talent, on home-court advantage, whatever, just to draw money against. The other thing, the Hustlers are a popular team; people like to see an underdog make good, like the Mets were a couple years ago. And they’re colorful, like the Dallas Cowboys. That pulls more money. The books don’t want to get sided, so the point spread gets more favorable for a bet against the Hustlers.”

  Hrcany leaned back and smiled knowingly. “So the real point is that in their last five games, the Hustlers haven’t made their spread, and I cashed in.”

  “I knew it! You bet against,” said Karp.

  “See, you’re talking like a fan,” Hrcany protested. “You’re just putting money in my pocket.”

  “I don’t bet on games, Roland,” said Karp. “And besides, I don’t believe the line wouldn’t catch on eventually.”

  “Yeah, but until—” Hrcany began, when the waitress, a cast-iron New York type with dense wrinkles and a hair net, arrived to take their order. Guma said, “This is on you, right, Butch?”

  Karp nodded and waved his hand in a gesture of liberality. The waitress wrote and departed. Newbury said, “I assume that this betting talk, fascinating as it is, was not the reason we are gathered.”

  “No,” said Karp. “I need some help.” Succinctly he laid out Bernie Nadleman’s original request, together with his and Marlene’s discoveries of the several weeks. The food came. He continued to talk while the others munched.

  When he had finished, he studied each face for a reaction and found blankness, and some confusion. Guma spoke first. “Ah, let me see if I understand this, Butch. Your big guy got wasted in Queens. Looks like drugs, but it ain’t drugs, or maybe he wasn’t dealing, but his sister was. The old lady thinks, thinks, he went to the girlfriend’s and thinks he knew something important. Queens homicide likes a dealer for it, who we know was in with the sister, but you don’t like him. Meanwhile, we got a friend from parochial school says she saw something, a murder, but she doesn’t say anything else and skips.

  “But you think, maybe, what she saw might have something to do with some torches from Philly who’re burning up Long Island City. For some reason Marlene thinks the guys following her are these guys. She gets run off the road and she thinks, thinks, these guys did it.” He shrugged apologetically. “It’s—I don’t know—fruit salad, you know? Bits and pieces. I don’t see the angle for us.”

  Karp looked around the table. “Anybody else?”

  Hrcany said, “I’m with Goom, Butch. I mean—ah—besides, it’s Queens, right?”

  Newbury said, “I notice you didn’t say anything about why you think he was killed. Maybe that’s where to start.”

  “Thank you, V.T.,” said Karp emphatically. “Yeah, you’re right. OK, the question is why should you give a rat’s ass. I’m surprised nobody picked it up. It’s fruit salad, Guma says. He’s right, but let’s see if we can pick out the cherries. One, somebody is seriously fucking the system over on this one. It pisses me off. Queens D.A. is laying down on this and I want to know why, because somebody on our side of the river has to be involved.

  “Why? Two reasons. One, Doone was arrested in Manhattan, he says. Why should he lie? Thelmann sounded pretty confident that there was no documentary evidence of the arrest, which means somebody in the
New York D.A. is covering up to frame Doone for a Queens murder. This piques my interest, to say the least.

  “Two, Simmons was shot someplace else before he was taken to that parking lot in Queens. His mother says he was on his way to visit Julia Mackey the night he died. Unconfirmed, right, but Thelmann almost choked when I suggested he talk to Julia Mackey—”

  Hrcany broke in incredulously, “You think Queens is covering up a murder to protect the husband?”

  “I don’t know what they’re covering up, Roland, I just know they are. That’s what I need you guys’ help for.”

  They thought about that for a while, and then Guma said casually, “Well, I don’t know, Butch. I mean public spirit and all that shit, but I don’t see the percentage in it for us, you know? I mean, what do we get out of it, busting our hump on the off-hours?”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” said Karp. “A possible serious miscarriage of justice, corruption in high places, and nobody’s interested?”

  “Miscarriage of justice is our business,” said Hrcany. “And besides, like I said, this cockamamie mess is in Queens. That’s why they draw those dotted lines on the map. They don’t fuck with us, we don’t fuck with them.”

  “And what about the real possibility that Simmons was shot in New York County?” said Karp, his voice rising. “That’s on the right side of the goddamn dotted line, Roland.”

  Guma raised his hands, palms out. “Calm down, guys. Butch, you made your point. But, you know, you gotta give a little to get. Now, I think the guys here would be more than willing to help out if we got something solid out of this.”

  “Such as?” snapped Karp.

  “Such as getting Sheldon Ehrengard’s lard ass out of the bureau chief slot and off our backs. Jesus, the guy is a lunatic! Everybody worth a damn has got their nose in the want ads.”

  Hrcany nodded vigorously and said, “I’ll take a piece of that.”

  “How am I supposed to get rid of him?” asked Karp. “You think Bloom is about to do me any favors?”

  “He doesn’t have to do you any favors,” said Guma vehemently. “You resigned as bureau chief, but you forgot one thing. That was an acting position because fucking Bloom never confirmed you. But you’re still assistant bureau chief. You got that on a permanent basis from Garrahy. Just come back. Shelly’ll crumple. He’s scared of you. So’s Bloom, for that matter. You get back in there, things’ll start to happen. I mean it, Butch, it’ll work.”