Robert Tanenbaum - No Lesser Plea

After he had run out of steam and wiped his face on the sleeve of his bathrobe, he noticed, with some dismay, that she was gesturing him closer with her good arm. He rolled to the side of the bed and leaned over. She was saying something, but her voice was very weak. He put his ear next to her mouth.

“Butch …” she whispered.

“Yeah, baby, I’m here, what is it?”

“Butch, Butch, for chrissake … don’t be such a schmuck!” she sighed, and drifted back into her drugged sleep.

She still loves me, thought Karp, and kissed her cheek.

The remains of a giant mushroom-and-pepperoni pizza with extra cheese had been pushed to one side of Karp’s bed. Guma had brought it, together with four quarts of Schaeffer, and Karp, desperate after nearly a month of hospital food, had eaten most of it. Mike Kaplan, Roland Hrcany, V.T., and Sonny Dunbar were arranged around the room, drinking beer, smoking, eating cannolis out of greasy paper, and generally helping with Karp’s readjustment to life on the outside. Tomorrow he was scheduled to go home-on crutches.

Karp tried to get into the spirit of celebration, but failed. This was noticed.

“Hey, Butch, smile! It’s supposed to be a party. You look like a rainy day in the cancer ward,” said Guma.

“Yeah, Karp, lighten up!” said Hrcany. “Have some more beer. Hey, I’ll get my projector, we’ll set it up and watch skin flicks.”

“No, maybe later,” said Karp. “Listen, guys, let me not beat around the bush. I need some help here. Sonny and Mike are already in it, but we’re not going to pull it off as a part-time thing. Especially with me on crutches.”

“What, this is the liquor store case, that guy Louis?” asked Guma.

“Yeah, but let me fill you in on the details.”

After Karp had done so, Guma gave a low whistle.

“Holy shit! This guy Louis aced Sonny’s brother-in-law, blew up Marlene, and almost killed you, while he was locked up? ”

“I see your point, Butch,” said V.T. “If this guy walks, nobody will be safe in their beds.”

“Yeah, safety in bed is one of our most sacred rights as Americans,” said Hrcany. “OK, you must have a plan. How do we nail the fucker?”

Karp grinned for the first time that evening. “We have to do two things. First, we have to crack Elvis. We’re not going to be able to get next to him officially, not with Sussman on the case. So we’re going to go after his alibi.”

“The girl, Vera,” said Dunbar.

“Right, but we also have to cover his movements from the time he was captured back as far as we can go. Where he went, the newspaper job, friends, hangouts. We should give Louis’s place a good toss, too. Elvis may have been hanging around there. He’s a skell, right? He must have done something we can bag him for.”

“I’ll do that, if I can get some help,” said Dunbar.

“I’ll come along, if I can wear a disguise,” said Hrcany.

“Wear your Nixon mask,” said Karp. “Mike, you go with the uptown squad, too. It’s good training. Guys, be gentle with him, he’s a mere child.”

“What’s the other thing?” asked V.T.

“Yeah, that’s the hard one. We’ve got to bring Louis to trial, which means we’ve got to destroy this Ganser syndrome bullshit. Which means knocking off Werner.”

“Can you do that?”

“I’ve been thinking about it, V.T. I figure the only way to get the kind of information we need on Werner is to get somebody on the inside, to present somebody as a patient with Ganser syndrome. Get a line on the internal politics of the forensic staff. I can’t believe every psychiatrist in Bellevue is as whacked out as Werner.”

“So somebody has to pose as a crazed criminal and be locked up in Bellevue, and be examined by Werner,” V.T. mused.

“Exactly,” said Karp, “but who?”

“Yeah, somebody would have to be crazy to pull a trick like that.” Guma laughed. Then he realized that everybody else in the room was silent and looking at him expectantly.

“Uh-uh, guys. No way. No fucking way. I mean, I’ll help out and all, but I draw the line there. No way am I going to get locked up with a bunch of loonies. Sor-ree …”

“What’s the matter, Goom, afraid they won’t let you out?” said Hrcany.

“Up yours, blondie! You’re so fuckin’ wise, you do it! Sorry, Butch, that’s it, that’s final.”

Ten minutes later Guma was sitting in a wheelchair, dressed in a Bellevue robe and pajamas. V.T. was preparing to push Guma down to the locked wards.

“I don’t believe I’m doing this,” said Guma. “I can’t believe you had it all set up, the paperwork and everything. What if I’da said no?”

“We had faith in you, Mad Dog,” said V.T. “Now start acting crazy, we’re rolling.”

Kaplan and Hrcany were standing outside Louis’s apartment. Nobody gave them any trouble. Two white men in suits walking together in that neighborhood could be only cops.

Hrcany knocked on the door. It opened three inches on a chain and a blast of high-volume Funkadelics washed over the two men.

“Hi, DeVonne,” said Hrcany. “Can we come in?”

“Who you?”

“What? Didn’t Louis tell you? We got the money. All of it.”

“What money?” said DeVonne suspiciously. Louis usually left her pretty explicit instructions about what he wanted her to do. He hadn’t said anything about white guys and money. On the other hand Louis was sounding flaky on the phone recently, jabbering about plans and lots in a way that she couldn’t follow. DeVonne liked simple orders. But maybe he forgot. Also, DeVonne was running short of cash. Elvis had cleaned out the cash box, and she was afraid to sell Louis’s stuff. He could be back any time. Something didn’t happen in a couple of weeks, she was going to have to go back to work.

“The money from the deal. Hey, baby, let’s not stand out in the hall so all the neighbors can hear Louis’s business. C’mon, let us in.”

DeVonne shrugged, closed the door, slipped the chain, and the two men entered. DeVonne walked across the living room and sat on the couch. She was wearing a floor-length, patterned orange lounging robe, loose and cut to the thigh. She crossed her legs and lit a cigarette with a large silver lighter.

“You all better not be shittin’ me. What kinda deal.”

“Smack. You know. Louis moved some shit for us. His end is ten grand. Here it is, OK?”

Hrcany held out a thick wad of bills wrapped in a rubber band. DeVonnne saw Ben Franklin’s picture on top. Her eyes widened and she reached out for the wad.

“Uh-uh, baby. First you got to sign this receipt. I don’t give nobody ten grand in cash without a receipt.” Hrcany held out a piece of paper and a ballpoint. DeVonne took it and signed it on the glass coffee table.

Hrcany picked it up: “Received September 10, 1973, $10,000, signed, DeVonne Carter,” he read. “Real good, DeVonne. OK, here’s your cash.” He tossed the roll to DeVonne, who pulled off the rubber band and riffled through the bills. Her mouth opened in shock when she discovered that the hundred dollar bill covered a hundred ones.

“Yeah, baby, next time you want to count the money before you give the man a receipt.”

“Hey! Goddam, what you doin’?” yelled DeVonne as Hrcany and Kaplan started for the door. Hrcany turned.

“Well, we thought we’d go make a copy of this receipt and give it to Louis, so he’ll know his ten grand is safe and sound.”

“What you mean? They ain’t no ten grand here. This here’s nothin’ but a couple hunred.”

“Yeah, well that will be sort of hard to explain to Louis when he gets out. On the other hand …”