“Only as an indication that Wallace was lying to you about Leona, and may have been lying about other things. Maybe there was bad blood between him and Marion over it. I remember you once said Simmons was into basketball and his family and nothing else. I just wondered … what is it?”
Karp’s mouth was hanging open in amazement and his eyes had widened. “Marlene! Let’s stop for a second. This story you got from the woman is total bullshit. You’re right. Marion cared about ball and he cared about his family. He wasn’t into drugs, or running around, or high living. The idea of him blackmailing Frank Mackey about some real estate deal so he could marry a woman his mother couldn’t stand—it doesn’t make any sense.”
“So he was in love,” said Marlene. “He went a little crazy. It happens. I married you, didn’t I?”
Karp’s only response to this comment was a vague smile. He was deep in thought. Unconnected perceptions were flying toward one another like the gametes of some marine creature in the dark heart of the sea. But the shape that might emerge from their junction remained obstinately obscure, even to him.
Marlene poked him again. “What!”
He shook his head. “Nothing. No, something, but I don’t know what. What I do know is, we still don’t have the why.”
The next morning, the why not having appeared in dreams, Karp was shaving in front of the loft’s tiny sink, where once workmen had rinsed their grubby hands. Its porcelain was worn so thin that the black metal showed through in places. The phone rang. Karp continued shaving, thinking about murder, basketball and sex. He heard the machine click on and, after a moment, V.T. Newbury’s voice, with a message that he needed to see Karp right away.
An hour later, Karp was in V.T.’s office, drinking coffee and eating a toasted bagel and listening to the strange tale of Howard Chaney’s involvement in international trade. V.T. had explained that Chaney had inherited a modest beauty-products firm from his father and had built it into a substantial empire: shampoos, creams, makeup, and the various bits and pieces associated with hair grooming.
“Say that about the combs again,” said Karp.
V.T. sighed impatiently. It was all crystal to him. “OK, last year Chaney buys this bankrupt hair-products company in L.A.: Baron Industries. They made combs, plastic brushes, barrettes, and other cheap crap. According to my sources, Chaney did the deal himself, which is somewhat odd, and it’s an odd purchase. It’d be like the president of G.E. personally buying Joe’s Appliance Repair.
“Well, it turns out that Baron is a neat little money maker. Last July it shipped an order of 2,000 gross of plastic comb cards to an importer in La Paz, for which it received the sum of $18,202,137.”
“What’s that per comb?”
“Um, let’s see, at twelve per card, that’s …” he calculated swiftly, “a little over $52 per comb.”
“A pricey item,” said Karp. “Must be really high quality.”
“Yeah, well, Bolivians have problem hair, it’s well known. Of course, it could also be a scam to repatriate drug dollars. I don’t know …”
“So … Howard’s into black money,” said Karp. “Why doesn’t this surprise me? Anything else?”
“Yeah. Chaney International, Inc., is privately held, so there’s less information about it than for a public company, but my contacts say there was a little flurry on the Street last winter, when it appeared that he might take the company public. It came to naught, however, and the word was that his books wouldn’t stand SEC scrutiny. The word also is that Howard’s in serious trouble as regards his cash flow.”
“Why is that?”
V.T. leaned back in his chair and made a bridge of his hands. “The beauty business is a marketing business. The stuff they sell is just goop—anybody can make it. Sales depend on image and outlets. On the image side, it’s hard for Chaney to compete with the real giants like Revlon, with multimillion-dollar ad budgets. On the outlet side, Chaney was big in the little department stores all over the South and Midwest, and they’re all going belly up. They can’t compete with the new malls. And Chaney hasn’t gotten into the big anchor stores to the extent he should have.
“More than that, I get the feeling that Chaney wasn’t all that interested in the beauty business. A little pansy-ish for a red-blooded he-man like him. He’s spent a lot of money diversifying. So to speak.”
V.T. slipped his half glasses on and consulted a list. “A chain of hotels on the West Coast that turned out to be a money pit. He sponsored a film festival. A racing stable, also a loser. And the Hustlers, of course, which has yet to turn a profit.
“As far as private spending: Howard does not stint himself. His monthly nut must be humongous. A house in Fairfield, one in Malibu, a triplex on East 65th, a hundred-ten-foot yacht. He’s spending more than he’s taking in. The banks think he’s poison, according to my cousin Evan at the Speculators and Peculators National Trust. The Bolivian deal saved his ass from default on some heavy notes. If this stadium thing doesn’t jell, I’d say he’d be looking at Chapter Eleven in six months. Or worse.”
“Meaning?”
V.T. picked up another piece of paper. “Odd little bits of cash are showing up in various places, just in time to keep him solvent. And it’s not coming from sales of assets or commercial loans.”
“You think he’s into the shys?”
“It wouldn’t knock me off my chair,” said V.T., “but there’s one aspect that’s still obscure. Say Howard’s become a wholly owned subsidiary of the Mob. They’re using him as a money laundry, fine. They have a piece of this stadium deal, fine. But they’re hanging out a mile on him. I’m looking at nearly twenty million in anomalous income over the past three months. What are they going to do to recoup? Break his legs? Even if they took over Chaney entirely and looted it, it doesn’t make sense. Howard’s looted it pretty good already; it’s a shell. Are they just waiting for the stadium deal to close?” He shrugged and rubbed his face. “In any case, Roger my lad, either the wise guys have gotten more sophisticated or I’m losing my touch. I can’t figure it. Any ideas?”
Karp mused. Another piece of a puzzle clicked into place.
He said, “I got a couple. But it’s not soup yet.” He thanked V.T. enthusiastically and left. His next stop was Roland Hrcany’s office. Hrcany was on the phone when Karp stuck his head in and said, “Did you get it?”
Hrcany said, “Just a second, Bill,” and placed his hand over the mouthpiece. “Yeah, we got it. I didn’t believe Shelly would be that stupid, but it goes to show you. We got the whole docket, including the original DD-5 arrest form. Connie was glad to help with the keys to his desk. We found some interesting skin magazines too, but we left them there. What’re we going to do now?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Karp and motioned Hrcany to finish his conversation.
When Hrcany put the phone down, Karp asked, “Roland, what’s the line on tonight’s Hustlers-Sixers game?”
“Hustlers and six. Dr. J is hurt and the Sixers have lost their last two. You all are five straight. Vegas loves you. Why, did you want to put something down?”
“Betting on sports is illegal in the state of New York, Roland.”
“Oh, the shame of it!” said Roland, deadpan. “Guess I’ll have to change my ways. Why are you interested, then?”
“Mmmm, just wondering. What’s the betting been like?”
“Heavy. There’s a shitload of New York money that sticks to the Hustlers whatever, but especially when they’re favored. Of course, that’s nothing to when you play the Knicks.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, like I said, New York money, plus it’s a grudge match in the Garden. The old favorites against the upstarts. On a smaller scale, it’d be like a Yankees-Mets world series, or a Giants-Jets Super Bowl. The Hustlers’ll go in with twenty or twenty-two, and a million fans’ll be praying for an upset. Meanwhile, for this Philly game the local books are laying off like crazy to the Coast.”
“The Coa
st?”
“Yeah, that’s what I hear. Serious L.A. money. Some folks out there are going to be real unhappy if the Sixers lose by five.” He looked at Karp narrowly. “Is there something I should know, Butch? Assuming I was to place a hypothetical bet?”
Karp made his face neutral. “No. Just curious,” he said.
But in the event, the Hustlers just squeaked by Philadelphia, winning 121-118. Karp played the game through again in his head as he stood under the pounding hot shower in the Hustlers’ locker room. He directed the steaming water especially at the spreading bruise below his neck, in the tender spot just above the sternum. A Sixers guard had thrown an elbow hard into it as Karp moved toward a loose ball. Karp’s vision had gone red with pain and he had fallen to his knees. The ref didn’t bother to call it, and the game had swirled on around him.
Nadleman had pulled him out, and he had spent the rest of the game on the bench with an ice pack held to the spot and wincing every time he had to swallow. A hulking dark shape moved next to him in the steam: Fred James. Fred had been high scorer for the Hustlers, thirty-two points, and he was feeling good.
“Hey, D.A.! Caught you a good one, hey? Hey, don’t worry, man, you get him next time. Part of the game.”
“It’s not, that’s the fucking point,” mumbled Karp and turned off his water. He looked around for Doobie Wallace. Doobie had had a good game too, but not as good as Fred’s. While the Hustlers were a far more impressive team than they had been when they last faced the Sixers, the time that Karp had first seen them play, they had made a lot of dumb mistakes tonight, nearly all of which involved Doobie Wallace.
He dressed and went looking for Bernie Nadleman. He found him finishing an interview with a blow-dried man in a green blazer. Karp waited until the thank-yous and closing chat was over, and then he put his hand on the coach’s arm.
“Bernie, we have to talk.”
“Hey, Butch, how ya feeling, kid? What a shot!”
“I’m fine, Bernie. Look, can we go somewhere?”
“Hey, I’d love to, Butch, but Chaney’s here. He’s having a post-gamer in the owner’s clubroom.”
“I found out who killed Marion, Bernie. I thought you wanted to know.”
“Jesus! You did? Who was it?”
Karp glanced around at the TV crew packing their gear and lowered his voice. “Not here, Bernie.”
Nadleman nodded and led Karp to a small, empty office down the hallway from the locker room.
“So, who was it?” asked Nadleman.
“We don’t have the names yet, but we’re pretty sure of who they were working for. Frank Mackey. And indirectly, Howard Chaney.”
“You gotta be kidding.”
“It doesn’t look that way, Bernie. It sort of fits, though, with what you were telling me about Howard not being all that interested in pursuing the case.”
Nadleman said, “God, this is terrible. I got to sit down.” He collapsed into an office chair. “Are you positive about this? I mean, it’s crazy—Marion was a franchise player.”
“This is bigger than the team, Bernie. The way the story goes, Mackey and Howard have a scam going to build you your new stadium. They’re buying property and burning down buildings. Marion found out about it and he was going to pressure Mackey on the deal, so Mackey would cut loose the beautiful Mrs. M. All the pols in Queens seem to have a piece of it, which is why nobody was that interested in finding out who killed Marion. What do you think of that?”
“I can’t believe it. Christ, Mackey’s here right now.”
“He is?”
“Yeah, he’s from Philly. Comes to all our games here. Jesus, Butch, what the fuck are you gonna do?”
“Everybody asks me that,” said Karp. “My problem is, what I told you is a great story and it fits most of the facts, but I don’t entirely believe it.”
“What, you mean about the stadium and the cover-up?”
“No, that’s true enough. Marion was involved with Mackey’s wife, and the people involved in the scheme knew that any serious investigation of the murder would center on Julia Mackey, who is not that tightly wrapped to begin with. The story she put out may or may not be entirely true, but if it came out, the stadium deal would go down the tubes. Hence the fuck-upery on the investigation. But that’s not why Marion was killed.”
“So why was he, then?”
Karp looked at Nadleman for a long moment, trying to read his face. He saw worry, confusion, a certain vagueness of will that was also apparent in his coaching style, but no duplicity, no corruption. Then, instead of answering Nadleman’s question directly, he asked one of his own. “Bernie, tell me, did you notice anything unusual in the game tonight?”
“Unusual? Yeah. We beat the Sixers at home. Nothing more unusual than that.” He laughed without humor.
Karp said, “Then let me tell you what I noticed. We won by three points. The line was Hustlers and six. Fred had a great night, everybody else did about what they usually do. Except for Doobie. Look at the game stats. Fifty-eight percent on free throws; he hasn’t been below eighty and some for months. From the field he shot thirty-seven percent. It should be fifty. He tried five three-pointers and hit one. He passed to the wrong people. He was responsible for six turnovers—”
“I don’t get this,” said Nadleman in annoyance. “Wallace had a bad night. What does that have to do with Marion?”
Karp sighed. This was harder than he had expected. “OK, let’s take it from the Marion end. The key question has always been, Why was he killed? Now we know where he was killed and how he was killed: he was shot in the elevator of Frank Mackey’s apartment building after a visit with Mackey’s wife. You knew he’d been schtupping her, right?”
Nadleman nodded. “It was no big secret.”
“No, but nobody was interested in volunteering the information to me—not even you, Bernie. Little hints, but nobody came out and said it. All right, that’s water under the bridge. So, first we think it’s dope. But Marion isn’t a user or a dealer.
“Then we think it’s the sister. She’s a doper, and a mule. We know Marion cared about his family, maybe he tried to make her stop and the pusher she worked for decided to ace him. But scratch that; we know the pusher now, and despite his many crimes, he didn’t do it.
“OK, maybe it was Mackey in a jealous rage. But the affair has been going on for a while, so why now? Scratch that one.
“Finally, we have the motive I just told you about, the stadium. Julia Mackey likes it. And it fits all the facts except one.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s not something Marion Simmons would do,” said Karp. “Here’s a man who cared about two things: his family and basketball. Those are the only two things that would have made him put himself into a position where somebody might have a reason to kill him. It wasn’t the family. That leaves the game.”
As Karp spoke, he was studying Nadleman to see whether the coach would light up, would come spontaneously to the same conclusion, and he was also examining himself. He did not often speculate in advance of the facts—it was one of his maxims. But once the thing was out in words, it felt right, the way it felt right when in the midst of jostling bodies twenty feet from the backboard, he released a ball, knowing that it would float in a perfect arc and pass through the net without touching the rim.
Bernie was silent. Karp saw fear building behind his eyes, and he spoke. “Bernie, what it is, Wallace is shaving points. Marion knew it, and he was going to talk, and that’s why he was killed.”
Nadleman sprang from his seat like a fish gaffed out of a tank. “That’s bullshit!” he cried.
Karp didn’t move, nor did he raise his voice. “No, it’s true, and I think you realize it’s true. What you don’t know is that Chaney’s in on it too. The Mob owns him.”
Nadleman sat down again. His head waggled back and forth in a continuing gesture of denial. “Butch, for chrissake, do you know what you’re saying? Shaving in the N.B.A.? It’s …
it’d be like the Black Sox.”
“Exactly,” said Karp. “It’s unprecedented. Which is why somebody stands to make a serious chunk of money out of it.”
“I still can’t believe it. There has to be another explanation. I mean, for starters, why the hell would Wallace do it? He’s got more money than God. What could they offer him?”
“Maybe we should ask Doobie about that,” suggested Karp mildly.
Nadleman rolled his eyes. “Oh, sure, I’m just gonna walk up to the guy and say, ‘Hey, Doobie, shave any points recently?’ “
Karp stood up and stretched and rubbed his throat. It hurt him to talk, and his voice, deep to begin with, had changed into a scratchy bass growl. “OK, Bernie,” he said, “whatever you say. You asked me to find out how and why Marion was killed and I did. In the process I turned up a corruption scandal, a point-shaving scandal, gross malfeasance in two district attorneys’ offices, arson, and an attempted murder, directed against my own wife.
“But from my point of view, that’s just the beginning. Now we know what happened, but we haven’t built any cases. When we do, there’s going to be a firestorm. So you’ll forgive me if the possibility of insulting Doobie Wallace doesn’t hang very heavy in my thoughts. Hey, are you all right?”
Nadleman had turned waxy in the office’s fluorescent light, like a slab of fatback in a supermarket meat bin. His brow glistened with oily droplets of sweat. He seemed to have trouble catching his breath. He swallowed hard and said, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be fine. Everything got woozy there for a minute.” He looked up at Karp, the pain standing out on his face like tattooing. “Butch, how the hell do you prove something like that? I mean, if I say something like that to him, all he has to do is say fuck you and the next game he goes for a triple double.”
“It is hard to prove, unless somebody rats,” said Karp. “What would help a lot would be finding Simmons’s diary.”
“It still hasn’t turned up?”
“No. Any ideas where it could be?”
“Hell, I don’t know. He never let it out of sight that I remember. That last night, after the San Antonio game, I grabbed him and told him to come early to the next practice, and he took the thing out of his bag and wrote in it and put it back. Then he left.”
Material Witness Page 29