Robert Tanenbaum - Act of Revenge

“So who did the deed, Guma? You probably already have a name for us.” Anselmo spoke sarcastically, but Guma took the question on, knitting his brows as if trying to think of an actual name.

“Not a Sicilian, Frank. No Sicilian would hit a made guy and a capo in his own family without an order from his don, and if he was from another family, not unless he wanted to start a major war, which we got no evidence at all is what’s involved here. So who? Well, if Murder Incorporated was still in business, this is the kind of stuff they used to contract out to the Jewish fellas, but I don’t think Jews are into whacking anymore.”

“Only whacking off,” said Karp. “You’re suggesting that Pigetti would reach out to one of our fine non-Sicilian ethnic groups?”

“I am,” said Guma. “As far as which one. .” He shrugged. “It’s a whachamacallit. . an embarrassment of riches out there.”

The meeting broke up soon afterward. Guma and Hrcany vanished into the hallway, and Anselmo walked through the door that led to the D.A.’s office. Karp finished cleaning up his notes. When he went a few minutes later into Keegan’s office, he observed Anselmo talking vigorously at the D.A., in undertones, and the D.A. not liking what he was hearing, shaking his noble head. When Anselmo ran down and left, Keegan hooked a finger, and Karp followed him to the other end of the office, where Keegan sat down in his chair with a snarling kind of sigh.

“What did Frank want?”

“Oh, he was pissed off about Ray, needless to relate. Christ, the pair of them are like a couple of brats. No, Frank, you can’t be in charge of Guma, for the ninetieth time. And of course Roland set the whole thing up, just to show Frank who’s got the biggest dick. Jesus!”

“You could put Guma in charge of Frank,” Karp suggested.

Keegan goggled at him until he saw Karp was joking, and then he barked out a laugh and grinned. “Oh, yeah! That’d be rare, our own junior Mafioso in charge of Rackets. Tell me, did Guma really once stash a material witness with an out-of-town wise guy?”

“I’ve heard that story, too,” said Karp in a noncommittal tone. “You got a minute for this?”

Keegan had, and Karp epitomized what had just happened in a little under two.

“So you’re telling me we got bullshit.”

“What can I say? Police baffled, as the headlines used to say.”

“Well, that can’t be,” said Keegan, putting away all smiles. “No chance that this Marky guy was involved?” He sounded wistful.

Karp said, “It doesn’t even pass the laugh test.”

For an instant Karp was afraid that Keegan was going to reverse him on arresting the fool, but the man’s better angels chimed in and he merely cursed under his breath and said, “This isn’t your everyday public service Mob hit. Tommy is running for whatever the fuck he’s running for on fighting the big bad Mob, showing that although he’s an Italian-American gentleman he’s not that kind of Italian-American gentleman, and if he’s got to run all over me to do it, that’s fine with him. This is not one we can afford to lose.” A steely glare, before which Karp did not in the least flinch, and then he added, the grin returning, “Say, ‘Yes, boss,’ so I know you understand you have complete charge of this shit pile.”

“Yes, boss,” said the good soldier.

Marlene Ciampi was wearing a red T-shirt with white Chinese calligraphy on it, similar to the one her daughter owned. Unlike her daughter (as far as she knew) she was also wearing a pistol, a slim Italian 9mm semi-auto, in a nylon belt holster, and a blue cotton blazer to conceal it. This T-shirt had been a gift from Lucy on Marlene’s last birthday, back when she and her daughter were still friends. The child had ordered the shirt from a copy shop on Lafayette Street, where they would turn any design you wanted into a shirt, and the calligraphy was in Lucy’s own hand. It supposedly read, “What is the most important duty? The duty to one’s parents. What is the most important thing to guard? One’s own character.” Below this was the colophon (Meng Ke) of the author, Mencius, and that of the calligrapher (Kap Louhsi), the kid herself.

Marlene stared at the pay phone in whose demi-booth she stood and let the events of the previous two days rankle in her mind. The Lucy business. The Chen business, now tangled together. She thought of calling home and talking directly to Lucy. She had two potential conversations in mind: one a cold interrogation, using all her considerable investigatory skills to determine what her daughter was doing between 3:45 p.m., when she had spoken with her at Columbia-Presby, and 6:10 p.m. when, according to her husband’s report, the little wretch had sashayed into the loft, or, alternatively, one that included some magical combination of frankness, wisdom, and empathy that would turn Lucy into the agreeable little girl she once was, and give to that vexed segment of Marlene’s motherhood a fresh start.

She sighed, after a few dithering moments, then cursed, and turned her attention to the corner of 23rd Street and Tenth Avenue. The fire engines had left, and the crime scene unit cops were loading equipment into their van. The yellow tape that surrounded the brick storefront was by now bedraggled, drooping to the ground in places, and a couple of detectives were standing amid broken glass and blackened trash, talking to a uniformed patrolman. Above the entrance a charred sign-Chelsea Women’s Clinic-was still legible. Abortions were among the services provided there, and someone objecting to the practice had, a few hours before, blasted out the storefront window with a shotgun and tossed in a gasoline bomb. The staff had been able to smother the flames with extinguishers, however, and no one, oddly enough, had been badly injured. The director of the clinic had thereafter been informed by the police that, despite the attack, the NYPD could not post a permanent guard at the site henceforward until forever. So she had called Marlene.

She crossed the street and walked up to the group of cops. She knew one of the detectives from the time she had spent some years ago as head of the Rape Bureau at the New York D.A.

“How’s it going, Shanahan?”

“Marlene Ciampi! See, guys, I knew this was gonna get more interesting. I hope you’re not here for an abortion, Marlene, ’cause I think they’re closed for the day. However, if you’re interested in a simple gynecological examination, I think Patrolman Vargas and I can accommodate you.”

The uniformed kid snorted in surprise and looked nervously away. The other detective chuckled and said, “Vargas, watch this-now she’s gonna sue us for sexual harassment. This is good training, Vargas. Get your notebook out.”

“Also, Patrolman Vargas,” Marlene said, “you’ll want to note that aging detectives whose sexual function has been all but destroyed by excess consumption of alcohol often try to compensate by making vulgar remarks to women, including, as in the present case, decent Catholic mothers. It’s something you’ll want to avoid as you rise through the ranks. What happened here, Shanahan?”

The two detectives were grinning broadly. They didn’t get to do this much anymore. “You wouldn’t think it to look at her, Vargas, but this woman has the dirtiest mouth in the five boroughs, not excluding Margo the Transvestite down by Manhattan Bridge. What’s your interest?”

“I’m not sure I have any, Shanahan. The people here called me, asked me to come by. Anything cooking yet on the perp?”

“You see how these cheap P.I.s operate, Vargas? Trying to get confidential information off the Job? They use bribes, threats, even fading sexual allure, like now. . what’s that on your shirt, Marlene, stick out your chest a little. Oh, yeah, Confucius say, man with erection who enter airplane door sideways going to Bangkok.”