Act of Revenge

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Settled, Doherty did not beat about the bush. “You want to know was the suicide legit?”

  “Yeah, that’d be a good place to start.”

  He made a steeple of his fingers and looked out the window past beige drapes printed with flags and drums to a small stone patio and the yard beyond. “Officially, we found no evidence of foul play. The man went up to the observation deck, bought a ticket, opened a locked maintenance door, went out onto the overhang below the deck windows, and climbed over the parapet.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “Unofficially . . . ? Well, I was the junior guy on the case. Arnie Mulhausen was running it, and he couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. But I had some problems, yes.”

  “Like?”

  “Okay, no note. Not unusual, but you have to figure, a lawyer, a man uses words every day . . . it made me itch a little. Arnie’s take was, hey, the guy was nuts, right? Who else takes a header off of the Empire State? So I’m doing interviews, family, friends, associates—”

  “Excuse me a second, Mr. Doherty, this kind of investigation for a jumper—it’s not that usual either, is it?”

  “Well, it’s sad to say, it depends on the person. A cop eats the gun, hey, it’s pretty cut and dried. Some guy gets out of Creedmore and jumps in front of a bus, same thing. Guy, a Mob lawyer, no history of depression, goes off a building, we look a little harder. So, my other problem, like I was saying, I couldn’t get anyone to tell me Fein was depressed, despondent, whatever. The wife, the daughter, colleagues. He was laughing, he had plans to recover, he wasn’t hurting that bad for money.”

  “Except for Herschel Panofsky,” said Marlene.

  “Yeah, except for him,” said Doherty, giving her an interested cop look.

  “That didn’t make you suspicious?”

  “Oh, suspicious, yeah. But, like Arnie said, who’s to say the guy didn’t have a great front, the only guy he leveled with was his partner? I checked up on Panofsky, just on my own, and he was alibied pretty tight on the day of. The guy became a judge later on. Changed his name. Anyway, I let it go.”

  “Anything else fishy?”

  He frowned. “Fishy isn’t the word I would use here. But, yeah, there was the key business. The door to the maintenance area was always locked. The management was real careful about that, for obvious reasons. Fein had a key. We found it in his pocket after he hit. Where’d he get it? We figured he bought it off one of the maintenance guys, and we sweated every one of them, every person who had access to a copy, and came up with zip.” He paused and stared out the window again. From the yard came the liquid trilling of a robin, and they both listened to it for a while.

  Doherty looked at his watch and leaned forward in his recliner. “I got to start moving,” he said.

  Marlene put away her notebook and stood. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “I wish I had something else for you. You know, you have, detectives have, hundreds of cases, and most of the time you figure you gave it your best shot. Here, though . . .” He waggled a hand. “Nothing to go on, not really. And the family bought it, and that was it, case closed. Everybody bought it, as a matter of fact, except the secretary. She wasn’t in any doubt.”

  “Secretary?”

  “Uh-huh. Fein’s personal secretary. She took it harder than the family, practically. She got to be something of a pain in the you-know-where after. She couldn’t understand why we were treating it as a suicide when she knew for a fact that it wasn’t.”

  “What was her evidence of that . . . oh, first, do you recall her name?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. A hard one to forget. Waldorf, like the hotel; first name . . . ?” He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them. “Jesus, it’s gone! Sheila? Sharon? One of those. What she had was a bunch of letters, carbons, of stuff he’d sent out, all about relocating in California, applying for the bar there. Plans, you know? Therefore, not going to kill himself. Arnie looked at her stuff, didn’t find anything definite. She kept coming by, here’s more papers, Detective. After a while we didn’t bother looking. I mean, the case was closed. Panofsky had to get rid of her. I guess she was an embarrassment.”

  Marlene made a note, shook hands, and they walked together to the front door, in her head asking the questions that couldn’t be asked out loud, like how does an ex-cop on a pension afford a half-million-dollar house and a country club membership, tarpon fishing in Florida, and exactly how bent had Arnie Mulhausen been, and who else got paid off, and by whose money, for whisking Gerald Fein’s murder under the rug back in 1960?

  Ray Guma walked into Karp’s office unannounced, slammed the door behind him, and flipped the thing onto Karp’s desk. Karp looked at it, and then up at Guma, who was frowning so hard that his chin showed dimples and his thick eyebrows nearly met in the middle.

  “That looks like a subpoena, Ray,” said Karp. He picked it up with two fingers, like a dead fish, and snapped the folded document open. “Yep. I was right. It’s a federal subpoena. When did you get it?”

  “Just now. What the fuck is going on, Butch?”

  “You got me,” said Karp. He read through the document. “No indication of what they want you for, but there never is. The statute is 18 U.S.C.371, the good old criminal-conspiracy steamer trunk, could be anything. Got a guilty conscience, Goom?”

  “Get out of here! Me?”

  Karp laughed. He read the name of the issuing assistant U.S. attorney. “Douglas E. Eitenberg. You know him?”

  “Never heard of the asshole. He must be new.”

  “Call him yet?”

  “No, I was so pissed I didn’t trust myself not to blow up on the phone there. I figured Jack’s out of town, you’re the man, I’d talk to you first.”

  “Wise. You want me to call him?”

  “I want you to rip his lungs out.”

  “Maybe later. Okay, Goom, calm down, go back downstairs, give Roland a heads-up on it so he knows what’s happening, and since I’m king for a day, I will call our colleagues and find out what the story is.”

  Keegan was at the Greenbriar in West Virginia at a big-time legal institute barbecue of the sort that he never offered to let Karp stand in at. Karp would be the district attorney for two whole days. As such, according to protocol, he should have called the U.S. attorney directly, or Eitenberg’s boss in the organized crime and public corruption division, but he decided to let protocol go hang for once, and just penetrate through the bureaucracy in the hope that his temporary clout would blast some plain speaking loose from the lowly worker bee across the square.

  He had O’Malley make the call (this is the office of the district attorney calling) and got the guy on hold and kept him there for a minute.

  Eitenberg had a light voice, one that seemed only recently to have changed, and he spoke very carefully, with more than the usual number of ahs and ums.

  After the briefest pleasantries, Karp said, “Yeah, Mr. Eitenberg, just checking out this subpoena you issued to one of our assistants, Mr. Raymond Guma. Do you recall that one?” Eitenberg did. “Well, here’s the thing, Mr. Eitenberg, as a rule, we in the criminal justice business, being the good guys and all, we try to avoid this sort of thing, throwing subpoenas at one another. I mean, just as an example, if one of your fine federal law enforcement officers inadvertently violated the laws of New York state, we would not expect to find them in shackles walking the perp walk the next morning. No, a couple of phone calls, a friendly meeting or two, we’d straighten it all out. Unless there’s some particular reason why Mr. Colombo doesn’t want to go that way.” Silence on the line.

  “Is there?” Karp asked. Ums and mumbles, and Mr. Eitenberg would like to consult with his management.

  Fifteen minutes later, that management called, in the person of Norton Peabody, the head of the organized crime division, a man Karp knew to say hello to, and by reputation. Buttoned down and intense was the rep. More pleasantries, after which Peabody said, “Doug Eitenberg tells me you ha
ve some issues on this subpoena we sent out to Raymond Guma.”

  “Issues, yeah. I didn’t mean to get your boy all bent out of shape, but we were a little concerned. A subpoena? Why not a call? Or a visit? You look out your window, you could wave at my office.”

  “Well, the problem with that approach, Butch, is your guy showed up on surveillance saying some pretty disturbing things to a pretty bad wise guy. We thought it was best to keep the whole thing formal for now. You understand, given the sensitivity—”

  “What wise guy was that, Norton?”

  “Gino Scarpi. We have them taped in the prison ward at Bellevue.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Peabody! Ray was interviewing Scarpi at my direct request.”

  “That’s interesting. It was clear from our tape that he had no recording device on him. Was there one in the room?”

  “No, because he wasn’t there to gather evidence. He was there to gather intelligence. It’s not the same thing.”

  A pause. “Don’t you think it’s irregular to send an assistant district attorney to talk to a Mob gunman? Don’t you have investigators for that?”

  “Yes, of course, but so what? He wasn’t sneaking off to conspire with a criminal, for God’s sake. He was interviewing a prisoner at my direction. And for this he becomes subject to a subpoena? What is wrong with you guys?”

  “You should see the tapes, Butch, before you go off half cocked. They look bad, real bad. Your boy sounds like he’s a fully paid-up Mafiosi. He even says it out of his own mouth.”

  “Oh, Peabody, that is such horseshit!”

  “Hey. I’m trying to be constructive, here. I tell you what: come over, we’ll run the tape for you, and then look at me with a straight face and tell me you don’t have a problem with it.”

  “I’ll be right there,” said Karp.

  Marlene’s next appointment was her lunch with Abe Lapidus, which had been scheduled for a restaurant in the Village, but on the way back from the Island Marlene decided that she was not up to facing stares in so public a place on her first day out, and so she called Lapidus from her car phone to cancel and he, sensing the problem, said, “Don’t be ridiculous! You’ll come up to our place. We got food, we got drinks, and later, if you want, you can visit Sophie.” To this she readily agreed; she was accustomed to making light of her physical beauty, as a good feminist ought, but in fact, although she had learned over the years to deal with the missing eye, she found that the loss of hair and the marred face had proved too much for mere ideology. She didn’t like being repulsive, and she was not going to expose herself to its consequences if she could help it, at least not before age seventy.

  The apartment of Abe and Selma Lapidus was furnished in what Marlene always thought of as bad good taste: that is, they had paid a decorator to give them whatever look was fashionable at the moment, although in this case successive waves of fashion were in evidence, like tidemarks on a beach. The wall-to-wall was pale beige, the couch was Duncan Phyfe in pale blue silk, the coffee table was thick glass and chrome, the chairs were designish Scandinavian in teak and leather, the breakfront was massive mahogany from the current plutocratic era, and it was full of bits of pre-Columbiana and African fetish work to exhibit the right political sympathies with the oppressed. The wall art was expensive investment-grade abstract, plus one bright rya from the sixties decor, and a couple of original oils, pasty sad clowns by, Marlene would have bet a million, the chatelaine herself. The room was spotless, and smelled of Pledge and rug shampoo.

  “Selma will be out,” Abe had confided over the phone. “We won’t be disturbed.”

  Nor were they. Abe served tuna fish salad on croissants, which they ate around the coffee table, with a big bottle of San Peligrino to wash it down, drunk out of cut-glass tumblers almost too heavy to lift to the mouth. A silent brown woman in a white uniform drifted in and served and quickly vanished.

  They small-talked during the meal, and when the servant had removed the plates, Marlene got out her notebook. Before many minutes had passed, it was clear to her that Abe Lapidus liked to talk, that he regarded her as a captive audience, and that he considered himself free to ramble on about whatever interested him, something, she suspected, that was fairly rare in his life with Selma. He spun anecdotes of the New York bar of thirty years before, political perceptions, contacts with the famous of that era, general appreciations of the urban scene then and now, comparisons of same, to the detriment of the current era, and around and around the old barn until he was ready to discharge a useful nugget.

  “I’m rambling,” he confessed. “You wanted to know about Jerry Fein, and I’m rambling.”

  “That’s okay,” said Marlene. “Take your time.”

  He peered at her, tilting his head back to catch her image in his bifocals, and shook his head and tut-tutted. “What a shame! All your hair! And those bruises! That little son of a bitch, they should throw the key away, that . . .” He drew a breath. “Always, he was like that, a vicious, brutal piece of dirt. I don’t know how many times Jerry pulled him out of trouble, starting from young, thirteen, fourteen. But what do you expect from that family?”

  “You mean that they were gangsters, Mafia?”

  “Oh, Mafia, schmafia! Darling, believe me, it doesn’t matter what side of the law, it’s the character I’m talking about. I knew Meyer Lansky quite well, and he was always a perfect gentleman. Lucky Luciano the same. Murderers, dope pushers, but also gentlemen. Can you understand that?”

  Marlene could. “I know people like that,” she said.

  “Right. And there are distinguished citizens, businessmen, attorneys, never even dropped a piece of paper on the sidewalk, I wouldn’t trust them alone with my daughter for five minutes. This one, the little Bollano, was a momser from the cradle, and the father was worse. If Jerry Fein had lived to see his daughter married to that piece of scum, he would have killed himself.”

  They both froze for an instant at this, and both then let out a burst of embarrassed laughter.

  Abe took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. “My God in heaven, some things are so tragic the only thing you can do is laugh.”

  “Yeah, about that: Why did Vivian Fein marry Sal Bollano? Any ideas?”

  “Oh, well, you know, I only knew Jerry as a colleague, I wasn’t intimate with the family. It’s possible Sophie would have some thoughts on that, if you can get her to talk about it. She and Ceil were close for some years.”

  “Ceil is the mother?”

  “Yes, and I believe she’s still in their old house in Brooklyn. You think you’ll talk to her? I hear she’s not so good.”

  “If she’ll talk to me. Vivian doesn’t want me to.”

  “Ah, Vivian, what a shame, what a shame! Oy! A gorgeous girl, and he worshiped her, Jerry. For her sweet sixteen party he took over the Versailles ballroom, everything the best, fountains flowing with champagne, Lester Lanin orchestra, must have been five hundred people. Let me tell you, darling, if a bomb had gone off at that party, it would have wiped out organized crime in New York, and half of law enforcement. Jerry knew everyone, on both sides, and if you treated him with respect, he treated you with respect, he didn’t care from what you made your money.”

  “Did he have any enemies that you know of?”

  The man made a sour pickle face. “Enemies? What are you talking enemies? He was an attorney. He wasn’t in politics, he didn’t have the kind of practice where he would screw people. He represented defendants in court, that’s what he did. If some of them were gangsters, then some of them were gangsters, big deal, the law says bad people are entitled to representation, too. This is not a life that makes enemies.” He paused and looked at her more sharply. “So, how come you’re asking ‘enemies’?”

  “The cop who investigated his suicide thinks there was something not right about it.”

  “Who, that what’s-his-name, the big Nazi?”

  “Mulhausen. No, he’s dead. His partner, Doherty.”
She offered a summary of what she had learned from the former detective.

  Lapidus waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, don’t get me started on the cops. They do a perfunctory investigation, and then this guy gets a guilty conscience twenty-five years later. Phooey!”

  “You think they were bent?”

  “Think? No, they were all Abe Lincolns. Don’t be ridiculous, the fifties? In New York? Sal Bollano had a bigger payroll in some precincts than the police department.”

  “Just a minute, Abe. You’re suggesting that Sal Bollano had Fein killed and bribed the cops not to look so hard?”

  “No, I’m suggesting look at the facts you just told me. One, no note. A man who loved his family? He wouldn’t try to explain, say he loved them one last time? I can’t believe it. Two, his appointment book was chock full for weeks after the death. A man makes dozens of appointments he knows he’ll never keep because he’s going to kill himself? Nah!”

  “Were you interviewed by the police at the time?”

  “Me? Nah, I told you, we weren’t that close. But they did people I knew, and it was naturally, such a thing, a subject of discussion around the courthouse. No one could believe it, no one!”

  “Except Panofsky.”

  “Aha!” Abe raised a finger in the air, as if he had discovered something. “Smart girl. Except Panofsky.”

  “But eventually everyone went along with the suicide finding, nobody objected.”

  Abe sighed. “Darling, the family accepts it, the law partner accepts it, what can you do? We all figured there was stuff, disgraceful things, we didn’t know about. You know, back then some people wouldn’t say the word ‘cancer.’ This other business, what you see on the talk shows, people wouldn’t even confess to their closest friends.”

  “But his secretary didn’t accept it, did she?”

  “Oh, well, that was different, the poor woman! See, that was Jerry again, he would make people love him. Charming, even if you would have lunch with him, a casual thing, you would go away thinking what a guy! And to tell the absolute truth, you would think you were closer to him than you really were. Anyway, Jerry took in this kid, Shirley, just out of high school, a nice girl, plain but nice, very efficient. She was with him years, never married, devoted, totally, you know? And, you know how it is, that kind of thing, she thought the sun shone out of his tuchas. So it was a killer for her when he died, she couldn’t understand it. And she would go around with the appointment book, showing it to everyone, to prove that he couldn’t have done what they all said he did, jump like that. Panofsky, the momser, threw her out right after the funeral. He didn’t have the balls to do it himself even, is what I heard, he got Jimmy Nobile to do it.”