Herbert Lieberman - City of the Dead

“Christ, why?” Haggard is on his feet again, the rumpled tail of his raincoat swaying behind him as he moves up and down the length of the office. “What in hell for? Nothing there for you to see—”

“I want to.”

“If at least it would help anything, I’d—”

“It would help me. Make me feel somehow—a little—”

“Just a lotta junk—dirt. Nothing to—”

“—closer. Somehow closer.”

“—see. What the hell you gonna do up there anyway?” Haggard nearly shouts, in his mind a vision of the loft, smashed walls, battered canvases, the sour defilement of the mattress, the awful violence visited upon the place.

“I want to see it. I want to see the place where my kid was.”

“Nothing lo see there, I tell you.”

“I don’t care, goddamnit. I want to go.”

“Aah,” the detective fumes, starts for the door. “Go. Who the hell cares? You don’t need my permission.”

“Goddamned right I don’t need your permission.” Konig is on his feet bellowing after the fleeing figure. “Don’t you forget that, either.”

Haggard wheels, starts back, veering toward Konig like a locomotive, all steam and hurtling mass. Then he shudders to a halt before him. “I don’t give a goddamn where you go. But if that creepy son of a bitch calls again—”

“Yeah—”

“Before you do a thing, you better damned well let me know. I got a pretty good lead now on one of Meacham’s buddies, see? If I get hold of him, I’m pretty sure I can smoke Meacham out too. I’m convinced Meacham is still right here in this city. Now if you go and fuck this up for me—”

“Don’t you talk that way to me. Goddamnit, don’t you ever—”

“Shut up,” Haggard bawls. “You shut up now. I’m goddamned sick of you, you pigheaded son of a bitch. You think you know it all. You don’t know nothing. You hear that? Nothing. You know bones and blood and wounds of the flesh—but you don’t know nothing.” He lunges swiftly over the desk, a motion so sudden and monitory that Konig rears back, like a man trying to evade a blow. But the motion ends merely with the detective reaching into a pot of pencils and yanking one out, causing the pot to topple, its contents to spill out fanlike across the desk. The next moment he’s scribbling an address furiously onto a pad of paper. “I’ve seen some of her paintings.”

Konig’s jaw drops and he gapes up at Haggard. “What?”

“I’ve seen some of your kid’s paintings—a gallery over on Madison and Sixty-seventh.” He rips the scrap of paper from the pad and with a gesture of infinite scorn flings it across the desk at Konig. “Go see them. They’re good.”

“Nice to see things going so well for you, Charley.”

“Can’t complain, Paul. Fate’s been kind.”

Paul Konig and Charles Carslin stand amid rows and aisles of headstones on a grassy knoll situated somewhere above the New York State Thruway. The sun hangs halfway up the eastern sky above the haze-covered hills of lower Westchester. The haze is a mephitic yellow-brown, as much the product of carbon monoxide from the Thruway as it is the earth warming up quickly after a chill night. Blackbirds chug back and forth at each other, foraging between the narrow lanes of stones. Here and there a dirty, scruffy pigeon wambles about, purring disconsolately between the headstones. From below on the Thruway comes the steady muted whoosh of traffic streaming north and south, like the sound of quickly running water. While here, up on the hill, Konig and the brisk, punctilious Carslin chat easily to tht thudding sound of dirt being vigorously spaded and the grunting of two Italian workmen laboring knee deep in an open grave.

“Can’t pick up a newspaper without reading something about you,” Konig goes on expansively. Even though he has not slept for thirty-six hours, the fresh morning air on the hill and the sweet, green smell of impending spring have revivified him. For a moment he is able to forget his exhaustion, the dull gnawing pain of his leg, and the awful load of wony he hauls about with him each day like heavy luggage that cannot be put down. He waxes enthusiastic now not because he feels that way, but rather because of some need, call it pride, to look good before a former student who has made his mark in the world.

“One minute you’re here testifying in Criminal Court,” Konig gushes on, “then I read about a paper you’ve presented at a symposium in Jakarta or someplace. And I’m delighted about the new professorship Charley. Much deserved and long overdue I’m proud of you.”

“I had the best teacher in the world, Paul,” Carslin remarks coolly. “I don’t deny that.”

Konig detects the wary, slightly begrudging edge in that response. Something like a smile crooked and a trifle mischievous, slides fleetingly across his lips, then once again he is all expansive good will. “And I think what you do is goddamned admirable.”

Carslin’s eyebrow cocks; his back stiffens perceptibly. “Someone has to.”

“Absolutely.” Konig nods enthusiastically. “Absolutely. Most of these other sons of bitches won’t cross the street for you if there isn’t a fee in it. But every time I see the DA trying to railroad some poor black or Puerto Rican into the Tombs, I know that Charley Carslin will be there on the side of the oppressed.”

Konig is all aglow with earnest admiration, which puzzles Carslin. He has known the Chief long enough and well enough to catch a hint of something slightly mocking in those spiteful, merry eyes.

“You’re not really still bitter about that DeGrasso business, are you, Charley?”

“Bitter? I was never bitter.” Carslin waves the suggestion aside. “You won that one fair and square, Paul. Made a jackass out of me in court I learned a very useful lesson from you that trial.”

“Oh?” Konig’s curiosity is pricked. “What was that?” Carslin laughs slyly. “If you don’t know I won’t tell you. Quite frankly, I’m surprised to see you here this morning.”

“If there’s been a slip-up at my office,” Konig flares suddenly, “I want to be the one who sets it right.”

“Naturally. I don’t doubt that for a minute. Ah—this will be Schroder now.”

A dusty Plymouth with a dented fender rattles up the narrow auto path and stops directly before them.

“Who’s he?” Konig snaps, instantly wary.

“The Westchester man. Fellow who examined young Robinson at the request of the family. Reported that the bruises around the head looked suspicious.”

“Ah.” Konig muses thoughtfully as he watches a tall, brisk, fortyish chap shamble up the aisle toward them. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Carslin’s and Konig’s voices collide in quiet response. Carslin, all solemn and professional, makes introductions.

“Dr. Schroder—Dr. Konig.”

“Hello.”

“How do you do.”

“Konig? Not Paul Konig of the New York ME?”

“Yes, sir.” Konig straightens. “That’s me.”

“Oh.” Schroder beams. “This is an honor. I cut my forensic teeth on your book. Something of a bible around our office.”

“Very kind of you.” Konig glows, obviously pleased. “Not at all. It’s simply a fact. It’s one of those seminal works. All of our professional lives have been touched by it. Wouldn’t you say so, Charles?”

“Absolutely,” Carslin replies so acidly that Schroder is momentarily shocked. It’s an awkward moment and for a while the three of them turn to the hole where the two Italian workmen, now hip-deep, continue to pitch spadefuls of thudding dirt upward onto a small slope of tumbling earth.

“Well—who are we waiting for now?” Konig inquires, trying to fill the void.”