Robert Tanenbaum: Falsely Accused

“Easily. So, no more talk about leaving, huh? We’re filthy rich forever. On to Goldsboro?”

“Ah, shit, I don’t know, Marlene,” said Karp, sobering. “Since this case I have less enthusiasm for cleaning up the piles of poop left by major corporations. And between you and me, dear, Goldsboro’s hands are not entirely clean.”

“What? And B.L. is going to defend them? I’m shocked. Shocked !”

“Yeah, right. Oh, also, did you hear? Jack Keegan didn’t get his robe. They gave it to Jerome Oster.”

“Who he?”

“Nobody special-some law school professor. This will kill you, though: he’s married to Milt Veers’s sister.”

“The A.G.,” said Marlene, recalling the article in the paper. “Sandy’s covering his ass, you think?”

“Bet on it! But it’s not going to work this time. Look, fuck Bloom anyway. We want to celebrate tonight. Can you set up a sitter and we’ll pick you up in Murray’s car around seven?”

It was more than agreeable to Marlene, who could not recall when last she had spent an evening on the town that did not involve packing heavy-caliber firearms. She collected Lucy at school, noting with pleasure that she was again playing with her old friends, Janice Chen and Miranda Lanin.

Lucy was fed and sent downstairs to stay with neighbors. The only problem was what to wear; she was now swollen enough so that none of her good skirts would close. She chose a blue beaded suit with a long jacket and faked it with safety pins at the waist. At least she had a bag and shoes to match this outfit, and if anybody bitched she could shoot them with her gun.

The evening was a success. The Seligs were roaring, Karp was more relaxed and happier than Marlene had seen him in some time, thanks in part to a whole glass and a half of Dom Perignon. They went to Le Cirque. Le tout New York seemed to pass by their table, showering congratulations on Murray, on Naomi, and Karp, the man of the hour. Nor was Marlene excluded from the general approbation: an extremely famous actress approached her hesitantly in the ladies’ and gushed about how much she admired her and what a wonderful job she was doing with those poor women; it hardly diminished Marlene’s sense of well-being when she followed this with a detailed description of what her ex, the bastard, had done to her. They exchanged numbers.

In the morning Marlene was up early, having passed the evening happily enough on soda water, while Karp, the wretched sot, was still snoring. He was to be allowed to sleep in.

She roused Lucy, started the coffee, and switched on the little kitchen television set to the Today Show. The weather; an author pitching a book; a review of the breaking news. Marlene was cracking eggs into a bowl when the mention of a familiar name brought her out of the pleasant trance of domesticity. She looked up at the screen: a color photograph of Joseph Clancy in his blue uniform with medals. They cut to tape from the night before. A police radio patrol car sat at the curb on a street in Spanish Harlem, the yellow tape holding back a crowd. The passenger door of the car was open. The camera dwelt lovingly on the thick, dark stains spreading over the back of the seat.

The on-scene reporter, a studious black man, reappeared, saying, “Although there were numerous witnesses to the crime, the street was crowded because of an auto accident on the next corner, and, according to police, the stories conflict. Some witnesses said it was a tall teenager in a gang jacket. Others said it was a middle-aged man. Some said it was a thin child not more than twelve. All we know for sure is that an hour ago, someone stepped from the crowd, fired four bullets into the head of Sergeant Joe Clancy as he waited for his driver to fetch their usual coffee and donuts from the convenience store behind me. A police hero is dead, four children are without a father, and no one knows why.”

Marlene left the eggs in their bowl and walked down to her office. She consulted the Rolodex where she kept business cards, and made a call, and left a message. Then she finished scrambling eggs and making toast. She called her family to the table. Her heart was gelling in her chest. The phone rang. She dashed down to her office to pick it up.

“This is Detective Moon. You called me?”

“Yeah. This is about the mugging, the attempted murder? My friend Stupenagel?”

A pause. “Yes, well, Ms. Ciampi, see, that case’s been cleared. We believe that Paul Jackson did that. I’ve already spoken with your friend and she agrees.”

“Oh, good! That’s what I was going to say. I didn’t want to leave any loose ends. Oh, gosh, here I am bothering you with a case you already solved, and you’re probably busy with this terrible murder. Sergeant Clancy. God, I was just talking to him the other day.”

“You knew Joe Clancy?”

Marlene explained why she had been at the Two-Five, omitting, of course, the rest, and then said, “My God, three thirty-eights in the head! At least he didn’t suffer.”

Another pause. “Um, where did you hear they were thirty-eights?”

“Gosh, I don’t know. Didn’t they mention it on TV?”

“They were wrong if they did. Twenty-two’s. They thought it was a Mob hit at first. Then everybody’s talking about this little kid. Look, I got to run, Ms. Ciampi. Thanks for your help.”

Marlene mumbled a good-bye. As soon as the phone was down she went to her gun safe. It took her two tries to work the combination. Her vision blurred; her face felt like a bag of blood.

She reached in and pulled out her chromed.22. Oh, you clever child, she thought, stifling the mounting horror. You heard me yelling at Clancy on the phone, you and Hector both, and you put your little heads together, didn’t you? You spied from your window up there and got the combination and then swiped the pistol and gave it to Hector, and then you put your little silver cap pistol in there so it wouldn’t be missed until Hector had a chance to use it. And you remembered what Clancy had said about running on a schedule. He knew just where to find him.

Marlene replaced the cap pistol where she had found it and closed the safe. She took several deep breaths and pinched her cheeks to get the color back into them. Karp and Lucy were at breakfast already, Karp in his ratty plaid bathrobe, unshaven and happy, Lucy neatly got up in her white leather skirt and a shirt with tiny red checks, chatting to her father about something silly. Marlene forced a smile and sat down, poured some coffee.

“I think I’ll take the whole day off,” said Karp. “I think I should get a day off every time I make three quarters of a million dollars.”

Lucy was impressed by the figure. “I could get a pony!”

“Of course, m’dear,” said Karp expansively. “We’ll train it to go down the fire escape, and it can sleep in your bed.”

And more nonsense of the same sort, Marlene dying inside, laughing away.

They stopped at the school. Lucy opened the door to get out, but Marlene stopped her. “Luce, could I ask you something? You tell me the truth, don’t you? I mean, if you did something really bad, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

Lucy did not squirm or avoid Marlene’s gaze, but looked her boldly in the face and replied, “If it was something about you and me, I would. Like if I promised to do something and you asked me did I do it and I didn’t I would tell you.”

“But what if it was, like, a crime? Would you tell me?”

Lucy thought about this for some time. “I would if you asked me and I thought it, well, it wouldn’t hurt anybody.” She hesitated. “But God is the judge of everything, isn’t He? Sister Theresa says, God judges the truth in our hearts.”

Marlene felt a stone rise in her throat; she had made this and would have to live with it. What a rocky path, she thought, and then she said, “Listen! A great man, a priest, said this a long time ago: La falsita non dico mai mai, ma la verita non a ogniuno. It means, I never, never tell a lie, but the truth is not for everyone. Do you understand that?”