Enemy Within

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “The thing went down about two hours ago. Paxton’s in custody at the One-six.”

  “Good. Any problems?”

  “No. They called your office as arranged when they scooped him up.”

  “The bust was legit?”

  “Oh, yeah. Half the people on that block are snitches. Three Mob-looking guys carrying a duffel bag into a building, the lines were humming half an hour later. Meanwhile, everyone’s glued to the tube back at the office. Your exploits. The DA wants to see you as soon as you get in.”

  “He can wait.” Karp looked out the window at the city. It looked the same—people, cars, buildings, all oblivious to what they walked, drove, and stood over. It seemed wrong somehow that only hours had passed since he had descended into the underworld. Like all people who have experienced the remarkable and terrifying, Karp wanted the world to have been changed and was irrationally annoyed that it was going on in its accustomed way, like ants in a child’s ant farm.

  “What’s wrong with your face, Murrow?”

  “My face?”

  “Yeah, you look like you stepped in dog shit. I stink, don’t I?”

  “You might want to change your clothes,” said Murrow delicately.

  They went to the loft on Crosby Street, and Karp stripped and tossed the sewer gear into a trash bag and took a long, hot shower. Bruises he had not felt at the time were blossoming like flowers after a rain, blue and purple. Dressing, he found he had to sit on the bed to get into his trousers. I am getting too old for this shit, he thought.

  At the precinct, Karp found Ralphie Paxton in an interview room, looking gray and frightened. Karp gave him a smile.

  “So, Mr. Paxton, we meet again. You’ve got yourself in some trouble now, haven’t you? Have you been read your rights?”

  “Yeah. Look, I don’t know nothing about any bag of dope. Someone must’ve laid it on me, in my place, while I was out.”

  “Yes, and I see here on this paper that you have waived your rights. Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to talk to an attorney?”

  “I don’t need no attorney. I didn’t do nothing. I told you, they dumped that shit in there when I was out. How do I know what’s in the back of some damn closet?”

  “I see. The problem with that story, Mr. Paxton, is we have witnesses say you were there when the package was delivered. We even have a witness who says you set up the whole thing for money.”

  “He’s a goddamn liar!”

  “Uh-huh. Mr. Paxton, are you aware of the penalties this state provides for possession of narcotic drugs? Under Section 220.21, possession of more than four ounces of narcotic drugs is a class A-one felony. That carries with it a mandatory fifteen-year minimum sentence upon conviction, and then sentences can go as high as twenty-five years. We don’t like drug lords in the state of New York.”

  “I ain’t no drug lord, for God’s sake! Do I look like a damn drug lord?”

  Karp ignored this and went on calmly, still smiling. “On the other hand, we often make allowances for people caught in a squeeze. You don’t have to be charged with anything. I can’t make you any promises, but sometimes when a person comes forward of their own volition and helps us out, we can help them out. You know how the system works.”

  “You mean like I tell you who gave me the stuff?”

  Karp pretended to think this over. “Well, yes, sometimes that’s possible. But in this case, we know very well who gave you the stuff. So we don’t need you for that. Can you think of anything else?”

  Paxton thought. He knew nickel-dime dealers he would be glad to sell, but he sensed that these would not lift the load for a major-quantity dope bust. It was unfair. He had never even had a taste of the stuff, he had been good as gold, had taken the warnings seriously, and now this. The guy was staring at him with those funny eyes. He remembered them from court, how he could hardly stand looking at them while he told the story of Des and that woman. Really, that was all he could think of, and he didn’t think it would be enough. Despairingly he said, “I got that thing, that thing I was in court for?”

  “Yes?” Karp exhibited the mildest interest.

  “Yeah, what went down with Des and that Marshak. That wasn’t exactly what happened.”

  “I see. And you would be willing to tell us what did happen?”

  “Yeah, if I can get a little help off of this dope beef.”

  “Well, that’s certainly possible, but first I’d have to hear your story.”

  Paxton nodded. Possible was a good word just now, a lot better than fifteen mandatory.

  Karp made a gesture to the one-way glass, and a police technician walked in with a video camera on a tripod. A clerk came in and placed a typed paper on the table and left. Karp said, “Okay, Mr. Paxton, this document here reiterates your waiver of your rights and expresses your willingness to freely give a statement without legal counsel, and it also expresses your willingness to be videotaped doing it. If you’ll just sign there at the bottom.”

  Paxton signed without reading. The camera whined into action. Paxton looked into the camera like a good American and told the truth. With very little prompting from Karp, he described how Des Ramsey had approached Sybil Marshak. He had been using a knife to cut twine, but he did not have it with him when he approached her. He had been polite. He had said, “Excuse me, lady. Do you have the right time?” And she had pulled out a gun and shot him, just like that. Paxton had run. He hadn’t even checked to see how Ramsey was, he had grabbed up the knife and run. Then later, he’d seen the flyers about five grand for any information about the case, called the number, spoken with a guy named Peter Walsh, and told him the story, the truth, just how it happened, and mentioned what they were doing when the thing went down, and the knife business, which seemed to interest Walsh a lot. And then Walsh had taken him to see Mr. Solotoff, and he had shown Mr. Solotoff the knife, and Mr. Solotoff had said that he must have been mistaken, that his client had told him that Ramsey had come at her with a knife, and he had said, no, Ramsey just asked her the time. And Solotoff had said that wasn’t a $5,000 story. The five-grand story was Ramsey had the knife. And Paxton had agreed to tell it that way. Ramsey was dead, it wouldn’t hurt him any. And Solotoff had rehearsed Paxton, over and over, and Solotoff had told him he was connected, and if Paxton told anyone, he was going to get whacked. Paxton looked at the camera, and then at Karp, imploringly. “So . . . am I gonna get protection?”

  “You won’t need protection,” said Karp. “He was bullshitting you.”

  Paxton looked doubtful for a second, and then he relaxed and tried on a smile. “I guess. He must’ve been bullshitting about you all, too.”

  “In what way?”

  “He said the whole thing was wired with the DA. He said you all wanted it like that, on account of Marshak being such a big fucking deal, politics and shit.”

  Karp felt a peculiar chill at this statement, but kept his face blank and his voice neutral.

  “Did he mention anyone specifically? In the DA’s office?”

  “All you all, he said. The DA, Keegan. And his main guy, what’s his face?”

  “You don’t happen to recall his name, do you?”

  “Feller? Or Puller, something like that. But his first name was Norton. I remember that because he had him on the phone while I was there to impress me or some shit. Norton this, Norton that, like they were buddies. He even showed me he had a tape recorder of them talking, make sure the guy didn’t back away from it. He said it was a done deal. But it must’ve been a scam. I mean, like you say, the man’s a bullshitter.”

  “Why do you think it was a scam?”

  “Because he also said you was in on it, too. Matter of fact, he said it was all your idea.”

  Karp closed off the interview by having Paxton recount the various dates involved and was not surprised at how good he was at this. Scavengers, he knew, typically have a keen appreciation of calendrical time since their livelihood depends on knowing when different neighborhoo
ds have trash picked up. Paxton would make an even better witness than he had as a perjurer.

  Karp had the technician turn off the camera and leave. “Mr. Paxton, I want to thank you for being so forthcoming. I’m going to have your statement transcribed and have you sign it, and then we’ll be done.”

  “What about me? What about my case?”

  “Well, there’s the matter of your perjury before the grand jury. That’s a serious matter, and we’re going to hang on to you until it’s resolved. What we do about it will depend on your testifying truthfully when we reindict Ms. Marshak.”

  “No, I mean what about the dope? The fifteen years?”

  “Oh, that. I think we can go easy on you there. I just want to say that I hope your baby recovers from its constipation.”

  Paxton goggled. “What the fuck you talking about, man? I ain’t got no baby.”

  “You don’t?” said Karp, miming vast wonder. “Then why did you have twenty-two pounds of baby laxative in your apartment?”

  Karp called the DA’s office and was connected immediately.

  “We need to talk,” said the DA.

  “We do, but not today. I’m beat and I’m going home.”

  The DA didn’t acknowledge this. “The press is going crazy. What the hell were you doing down in those tunnels? And whatever possessed you to take along your family and that priest?”

  “It’s a long story, Jack. There was an important witness hiding down there, and for a number of reasons I didn’t want to involve regular channels.”

  “Regular channels? What the devil are you talking about? Why do you think we have a DA squad?”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, I promise. But I can’t even think straight right now.”

  “And why was Cooley down there? Jesus, Butch, if you’re fucking with that case after I warned you off . . .”

  “Jack, really, I’m practically falling off my feet. I’ll see you in your office tomorrow.”

  “With good news, I hope.”

  “The best, Jack.”

  Karp was, in fact, falling off his feet, and hurting besides, but he did not go home. Instead, he went to Bellevue with Murrow in tow. After checking in on his daughter, he went to the locked ward, where he found a large, black detective sitting outside a room. This was Mack Jeffers, one of Clay Fulton’s people from his days as a Harlem lieutenant. Clay had been true to his word. No one who shouldn’t was going to get past Mack Jeffers. Karp exchanged a few words with the cop, and they went into the room.

  Bellevue had washed John “Canman” Williams and trimmed off some of his hair. He had been battered by his struggle with Cooley, but he looked more like an undernourished professor than anything resembling the fire-faced demon of Rat Alley. Karp wondered whether the transformation was due to the hospital’s cleanup or to something his daughter had accomplished. Canman was thirty-something, Karp estimated, although his skin had the thickened look common to those who lived rough. His eyes were blue, intelligent, wary, proud.

  “How’s Lucy?” were his first words when Karp entered, which Karp took as a good sign.

  “She’s not badly hurt. Her body, anyway. They’re checking her over. You seem okay.”

  “Are you charging me with a crime?” Light on the pleasantries was the Canman.

  “Well, I guess I could charge you with any number of crimes, but just now we’re holding you as a material witness.”

  “Witness to what?”

  “To the relationship between Detective Brendan Cooley and Shawn Lomax. Cisco Lomax.”

  “What if I don’t know anything material about that?”

  “If I think you’re lying, which I do, you would be in serious legal trouble.”

  “And if I tell you what you want to know?”

  “Then I can be accommodating.”

  “Great. Just write out a statement of what you want me to say, and I’ll sign it.”

  “Don’t be a wiseass, Mr. Williams. I just want you to tell the truth.”

  “Oh, the truth. Excuse me, I thought you were a lawyer.”

  Karp had few real prejudices, but one of them was against lawbreakers with brains and education. He had far more sympathy for the Ralphie Paxtons of the world. So when Karp spoke, he turned the lasers to stun and put an edge in his voice.

  “Yes, and we could sit here all day and trade brittle one-liners about the corruption of society. But, frankly, I am bruised and tired, and so is my whole family, which is more or less your fault, nor do I forget that you nearly murdered me and my daughter this afternoon. So you’ll forgive me if I cut to the chase. It is not often that I lead Leviathan out of his cave and let him feed freely on a citizen, but I am inclined to do so in your case. If you play with me, Mr. Williams, I promise you that I will indict you on three counts of attempted murder, which is a class A-one felony, and I will convict you, and I will use every chip I have to get you the maximum sentence the law allows and make sure you are placed in the toughest cell block in the nastiest prison in this state. You think you’re a tough guy, but, believe me, inside of two weeks you’ll be wearing frilly nightgowns and eye shadow, and I will personally attend every parole hearing you get to make sure that it goes on and on and on. Have I made myself absolutely clear?”

  A sullen nod. “Yeah.”

  “Good. The alternative is to pretend for a few minutes that you’re the mensch my daughter apparently sees in you, and forget your epic battle against bourgeois America, and tell me the fucking truth.”

  Which Canman now did, concisely and articulately, with little prompting, and, to Karp’s immense relief, the story was the one Karp had constructed over the past months, out of hints and guesswork. Cisco Lomax had been the fence Firmo’s man. Lomax had arranged for packages to be transported by the more responsible class of street merchants, including Canman. Canman had seen Lomax with Cooley many times, and Cooley had seen Canman, because Lomax had also been a snitch for Cooley, cultivated slowly over a year. Lomax had helped set up a bust at a site where Firmo would actually take personal possession of a looted shipping container.

  “And what went wrong?” Karp asked. This was the crux.

  “I don’t have the details, but what I heard was that Cisco was just, like, stringing him along. Cooley was paying out serious money, maybe some of it his own, to keep Cisco on board. It could be that Cisco made the whole thing up, the big deal in the warehouse. He was that kind of guy. Anyway, the night it was supposed to have gone down, Cooley gets to the warehouse with a whole army of cops, and nothing’s there but a crate of Taiwan watches. He came down later to the yards and routed everyone, looking for Cisco. And me. As it happens, I wasn’t there. He must’ve thought I was in with Cisco on it or something.”

  “Were you? Where were you that night?”

  “At Cannes for the festival. I don’t know, man—somewhere across town, negotiating for bags of empties. That’s what I do. I’m a fucking homeless. I don’t check in at night, all right? The next night was when Cisco got it. Then Cooley started to come around looking for me. So I got small. That’s it, that’s all I know.”

  “Okay, you got all that Murrow?”

  Murrow looked up from his pad. “Got it.”

  “We’ll have you sign a transcript,” Karp said, pausing at the door.

  “Can Lucy come by and see me?” asked Williams.

  “No,” said Karp, looking down at the man with distaste. “Let me ask you something. How can you settle for the kind of life you’re leading, living on the street in cardboard boxes? You’re smart, you’re skillful, you’re educated. You could have a real life . . .”

  “I had a real life once. I was an engineer. First, I made toys for people to kill with, and then I made toys to keep rich people from being bored. And I had to take pills to help me forget what I was doing. And after a while the pills made it impossible for me to do that stuff anymore. A self-correcting system. What I wonder, though, is how a bastard like you ever produced someone like Lucy.”


  “A question I ask myself all the time,” said Karp, and shut the door. He sent Murrow back downtown and went to find his wife.

  Who was with Father Dugan, just back from surgery.

  “Marlene,” said Dugan groggily, “was it a figment of my fevered imagination, or did you tell me down there that you gave me an obscene amount of money?”

  “Not a figment. Forty-six mil.”

  He groaned. “Why would you want to do a thing like that for? I thought I was always so nice to you.”

  “It’s tainted gold, Father. I couldn’t think of anything else to do with it. Besides, I discovered I wasn’t cut out to be quite that rich. It wasn’t good for my liver.”

  “You do realize I’m under a vow of poverty.”

  “Not a problem. The arch was very understanding. There’s a foundation being erected as we speak, the Lucia Foundation, to dispose of the income. I’m the chairman of the board, you’re the executive director.”

  “I see. And what is this foundation supposed to do with its money?”

  “To be decided. Good works. Righting wrongs. We’ll think of something.”

  “I’m sure. Could I have a long white limo with darkened windows?”

  She laughed. “Only if you take to wearing green spectacles, a Charlie Chan panama hat, and to carrying a malacca.”

  “Done. Well, well. So the arch swallowed the black sheep getting out from under?”

  “Yes. When you give someone forty-six million dollars, your suggestions tend to be treated with respect, I find. Tell me what happened after I left the sewer. Butch was excessively brief.”

  “I wish I could. Canman had a bomb, and Butch managed to put it out. All I saw were moving shadows. But I heard snatches of what Lucy said to him, some trick of acoustics in the vault. It was quite remarkable. You don’t need the actual words, although for an impromptu sermon I wish I could do as good on my best day. No, it was the tone. We say we hate the sin but love the sinner, but we hardly ever bring that into the light. It’s so hard to make the distinction so that it’s clear to the sinner. But she did that. I’ve never heard such a combination of wrath and love. It raised the hair on my neck. The Holy Spirit, or I’m a Methodist.”