Robert Tanenbaum - Act of Revenge

“It happens all the time. Some of the other goombahs figured Big Sally’s day was over, the kid is a loser, the capos are snapping at each other, the outfit was ripe for takeover.”

“And the Chinese connection, Willie Lie?”

Fulton laughed. “Yeah, Willie. Willie is a card, all right. No flies on Willie.”

“How do you figure the connection?”

“Here’s how it plays. Pigetti sees the Bollanos are fucked and they’re drawing all kinds of heat. He makes a deal with another family, the Gambinos, the Luchese, who knows? To the effect, I’ll take care of our guys in a way that will never get back to you, and when I end up on top, you’ll accept it. Go ahead, Joe, good luck, they say. Joe gets the Chinese fella to whack Eddie Cat. That’s one down. Then he’s got to get rid of the Chinese fella, but he misses, and Willie gets spooked and runs to the law, and Joe gets the shaft. The best-laid plans.”

“What about Little Sal, and his wife running off just at the right time?”

Fulton shrugged. “Fuck him, the little shithead is crazy. We knew that already. If not that, then something else.”

“You think it’s all in my head?” Karp asked.

“No, I think what’s in your head is you’re worried about the kid and this Chinatown business and about Marlene. Jesus, Butch! Your kid gets kidnapped and beat up, your wife’s in a gunfight and almost dies from a kick in the head. You expect to be thinking clearly?”

Karp thought about this. He thought he was thinking clearly, but, of course, one always did, even in the throes of mania. This is why one needed sensible pals. He made a silly, shuddering sound and rubbed his face vigorously. Fulton chuckled and laid a heavy arm over Karp’s shoulder.

“Listen to your Uncle Clay, Stretch. Just focus on taking care of your crazy lady and that kid. I’ll take care of the bad guys.”

“How is that going, by the way?”

“Fair, so far. Nothing on Willie, but we picked up one of the Vo boys at Kings County, face all beat to shit. We’ll need Lucy to look at a lineup when the guy’s back in shape. As far as the other three bad boys, we’re looking, but. . you know how it is. Asians: we don’t speak the language, they don’t talk to cops. These Viet boys travel around a lot, too. Show up in Bridgeport, pull a home invasion, next week they’re in Richmond knocking over a jewelry store. I got them out on the wire. We’ll see.”

Karp popped the door and got out. All of a sudden he felt deeply tired, wobbly in the knees, his head dull, eyes grainy. He leaned in at the window.

“Okay, Clay, thanks. Keep in touch.”

The car drove off. Karp walked back to the entrance and met his daughter coming out, accompanied by Tran.

“You all right now?” Karp asked, caressing her hair.

“Yes, I think so. I saw Mom. And I apologized. Tran’s taking me home.”

An objection hung on Karp’s tongue. He’d get a police escort, he was about to say, and then thought better of it, realizing that he had unexpectedly become someone who sends his little girl home with some kind of weird Asian professional assassin or whatever Tran was, not what he had started out as at all, or even imagined. He looked Tran in the face-carved ivory, it looked like in the orange glow of the lights of the avenue. He held out his hand. After an instant’s hesitation, Tran took it.

“Thanks for what you did for Lucy. I appreciate it,” Karp said.

“No sweat,” said Tran.

On the Monday after the events at the East Village Women’s Shelter, Karp called Roland Hrcany.

“Doing anything for the next hour or so?”

“Why?”

“Tommy Colombo’s holding a press conference in ten minutes. He’s got his federal grand jury indictments. I want to hear what he’s going to do about the Pigetti business.”

They walked across Foley Square to the Federal Building and went to the press room on the eighth floor. They got in without difficulty, using their D.A. identification, and stood at the back of the room behind the TV cameras. Inside the miniature auditorium was the usual bedlam-cursing of technicians, the sounds of marshaling and testing media gear, the low, dull roar of the jackal press. Roland was smiles, Karp glum. He hated this, while Roland had the politician’s instinct: he understood that in the present age it was not what you were that counted but how you appeared, which was controlled by the fifty or so ladies and gentlemen seated and standing in the hot, bright room.

Nine-thirty came. Karp checked his watch irritably. Colombo was making them wait, just like the president. Roland was trading wisecracks with a couple of print guys. Karp heard him say, “Ah, the lovely and talented!” and turned to see Gloria Eng approaching, trailed by her crew. She gave Roland a professional dismissive smile and focused on Karp.

“How’s Marlene, Butch?” she asked.

“Recovering,” said Karp.

“Good. No impairment, then?”

“No.”

“That’s great. I’d really like to do a piece on the raid. Any chance of setting that up?”

“Ask her,” said Karp, continuing his well-known tradition of restricting all his conversation with the press to phrases of two words or less, a habit that had earned him among journalists the nickname “No Komment Karp.”

Eng made a gesture, and the camera light behind her shoulder went on, blinding Karp as she brought her microphone up to attack position.

“You know, Sal Bollano’s lawyer is claiming it was a setup. The story is he and his bodyguards were lured to the shelter so he could be assassinated in so-called self-defense. They claim Marlene was in on it. What about that, Butch?”

“No comment,” said Karp.

Eng rolled her eyes and turned to Roland. “Do you have anything on that, Roland? Is the D.A. going to look at this as an attempted murder?”

Roland flashed his perfect set of caps. “Well, Gloria, it’s far too early for any speculation on that score. The police investigation is still ongoing.”

“But Marlene Ciampi remains in police custody, is that right?”

“As far as I am aware,” Roland lied.

“And what about the Catalano murder?”

“That investigation is still ongoing.”

“You don’t intend to charge Joe Pigetti with that homicide?”

“As I said, Gloria-”

“Is it true that a witness to that murder presented himself to the district attorney’s office and you turned him away?”

The smile vanished from Roland’s eyes, and involuntarily they flicked over to meet Karp’s. Gloria Eng’s smile broadened, because she now had tape of the Homicide Bureau chief looking shifty in response to her questioning. Roland cleared his throat. “Gloria, we, ah, get any number of people coming in and claiming to be witnesses to crimes. There’s an assessment procedure that we go through, and I would venture to say. .”

A venture aborted, for Roland was saved from having to concoct a load of nonsense by a stir at the front of the room. The man himself walked across the little stage and took up position at the podium behind the Justice Department seal and a bouquet of microphones. The room settled, the lights flared, the cameras hummed. Thomas Colombo looked at what he had wrought and apparently found it good, for the small man seemed to inflate under the focused attention of the onlookers.

“As many of you are aware,” he said without preamble, “for the past three months a federal grand jury has been hearing evidence concerning the influence of organized crime on various businesses in this city. I am pleased to inform you that the grand jury has issued twenty-four indictments under the so-called RICO law, that is, the federal Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization statute. This statute is our major weapon against the ability of organized crime to infiltrate and corrupt legitimate enterprise and to launder its ill-gotten revenues. Among the criminal organizations of this city, it is the crime family run by Salvatore G. Bollano that has been most famous for the extent and subtlety of its infiltration. It has sent its grimy tentacles into commercial laundries, food importing, meat cutting, trucking, restaurants, construction, and waste hauling. To cover up these infiltrations, it has bribed and corrupted public officials at all levels, including those in the criminal justice system itself. It has threatened, beaten, kidnapped, and murdered, without mercy, without the smallest shred of human decency. For over thirty years it has operated with impunity, garnering astronomical profits, and hanging like a bloated parasite on the economic life of New York. The head of this organization, Salvatore G. Bollano, and his henchmen have considered themselves immune from the law and from the legitimate anger of the people. I’m here to tell you that as of today, that immunity is at an end.”