Robert Tanenbaum - Reversible Error

"Roland, don't give me a hard time," said Karp wearily.

"Hey," said Hrcany, pointing a stiff finger at Karp. "I'm not giving you a hard time. I ask only the same. Butch, this is Roland-I'm not a hand-holder, I'm an ass-kicker. Whyn't you ask V.T. to do it, he's the big-time diplomat."

In a patient voice Karp explained, "Because V.T. is not a homicide prosecutor and you are, and you are the best I got in that line of work, and this is a multiple homicide case. Not only that, but if I recall, the last time V.T. got some exposure I heard all kinds of whining from certain parties about how nobody ever paid any attention to them, and how V.T. got all the goodies-"

"Butch, that's different-"

"If I can finish-so when this opportunity came along, to shine in a major case, and to bask in the light of favorable publicity, and to mingle with some of the most powerful folks in the city, naturally, naturally I thought of you, Roland."

Hrcany held up his hands. "OK, Butch, OK, I give. But if I get cornholed during this operation, I would expect you to apply the Vaseline."

"A deal, Roland. You can count on me, as you know. I knew I could count on you. OK, see you in the throne room at ten. I got to call the elusive Lieutenant Fulton and find out what the fuck is happening before we go up there." Hrcany laughed loudly and left, slamming the door behind him. Karp pushed the intercom button. "Connie? You know Bill Denton's secretary? Can you make yourself sound like her? Yeah? No, you won't get into trouble, I promise. Yeah, not more than six months in the slam for a first offense. Look, here's what you do: call Clay Fulton and tell whoever answers the phone that the chief of detectives is holding. When Fulton picks up, switch him in here."

Three minutes later, Karp's phone rang. Clay Fulton's voice said, "Chief?"

"No, Clay, it's Butch Karp."

"Sorry. I thought Chief Denton was calling me."

"Yeah, something must be fucked up with the phones. But while I got you, talk to me-I've been trying to get you for days."

"Yeah, well, I've been real busy, Butch. You know…"

"So I understand," said Karp as calmly as he could. "You had a big arrest in the Clarry case. I had to find out about it from the ruby lips of the D.A. himself. I had kind of hoped that with that conversation we recently had you would've kept me up-to-date on those cases."

"Well, yeah, Butch, but… it's kind of hard to explain right now."

"It sounds like it. Look, Clay-this is Butch. Remember? I understand things might be tentative. I been around. Just tell me who you arrested and what the situation is. We don't have to go to the grand jury this afternoon."

"Oh, that. It's bullshit. Guy named Tecumseh Booth. He's no killer. We're just cooking him on Rikers. We really got nothing on him."

"Wait a minute, Clay. Why'd you arrest him? What's the connection with Clarry?"

"Ah, one of my guys thought he was driving Clarry's car. Some skell spotted him on the night. It's no big deal."

"Sounds at least a solid medium-size deal to me, you got a guy who maybe drove for the shooter. When am I going to get to meet what's-his-name, Pocahontas?"

"Tecumseh. Yeah, well, when I get a chance I'll set something up. Look, Butch, I got to run now. I got another call."

"Fuck your call! What the fuck is going on here?" Karp shouted this into the phone, but he knew that it had already gone dead.

The district attorney's conference room was not called the throne room during the long administration of Francis P. Garrahy. Karp remembered it as an austere, slightly battered place with a heavy glass-topped oak table and cracked brown leather chairs. The air had been redolent with the odor of the D.A.'s pipe and the cigars of his cronies. There had been a dusty, bad portrait of FDR, in a naval cloak, on the wall.

All this was gone. The walls were decorator gray and there was a vague, pastel semiabstract painting in place of FDR. The furnishings were motel modern and color-coordinated: teak table, teak chairs upholstered in nubbly bluish wool, and, of course, the throne itself, a special chair in which only the D.A. himself was allowed to sit, a chair that, while still harmonious with the decor, was slightly larger, somewhat higher, a bit more luxuriously padded and a bit more richly covered than the other twelve chairs in the room, as befitted the august behind that occupied it.

Karp used to make it a habit to come late for meetings with Bloom, and when he entered, Bloom would always say something designed to be embarrassing and sarcastic. But when Bloom had discovered that Karp didn't care, he took to delaying his own entry until Karp had arrived. This succeeded in making all the other attendees angry with Karp. Karp now arrived precisely on time and left immediately at the time the meeting was scheduled to end, whether someone was talking or not.

At ten o'clock that morning there were four people sitting around the table when Karp and Hrcany entered. Two of them were cops, in plainclothes, but with their police ID clipped to the breast pockets of their jackets. One was a heavyset light-complexioned black man, the other was a thin, smaller, dark-complexioned white man. Both were dressed in similar dark well-cut suits. The white man wore a white-on-white shirt and a red silk tie. The black man wore a blue shirt with a white collar, and a blue silk tie. Karp knew they were narcotics cops, just as he knew they would have $120 Bally loafers on their feet.

Sitting close to the throne was the D.A.'s chief of administration, Conrad Wharton. Wharton was a small pink man with thin blond hair combed straight across, blue eyes, a pink cupid's-bow mouth, and a little round belly.

"Hello, Conrad," said Karp. Wharton looked up from the papers he was studying and looked at Karp as if Karp were a large turd that some stray dog had deposited on the table.

"Hi, Chip!" said Hrcany, imitating the voice that schoolgirls use to call each other to play. Wharton liked to be called Chip, which he considered a more regular-guy name than Conrad. Hrcany never failed to use "Chip" in that tone, in nearly every sentence he directed at Wharton-not exactly what Wharton had in mind when he concocted the nickname. Wharton pursed his lips and studied his papers, while a faint flush rose up his neck.

The fourth man was a sleepy black gentleman in his mid-fifties, with graying hair, dressed in a rust three-piece suit. When Karp and Hrcany came in, he looked up and gave them a bright smile, then went back to thumbing through a well-worn diary and making notes in it with a mechanical pencil.

At five past the hour, the door to Bloom's office opened and the D.A. entered with a well-dressed man of about sixty in tow. Bloom was a man somewhat below the average in height, trim, with large moist eyes, a wide mouth, and a thin prominent nose. His gray-blond hair was razor cut and set like an anchorman's. He sat in his chair, seated the other man to his right, and made introductions. The cops were Narcotics Squad, working out of the Thirty-second Precinct in Harlem-Dick Manning and Sid Amalfi.

The other black man was Dwight Hamilton, there representing Harlem's congressman, Marcus Fane, who was unavoidably detained in Washington. The man with Bloom was Richard Reedy, a Wall Street lawyer. Reedy and Fane were co-chairmen of an organization called Citizens Against Drugs.

Bloom began to speak. Like many men who enjoy the sound of their own voices and have the confidence attendant on a captive audience, he was not succinct. There was a good deal of "this great city" and "this scourge of drugs that is sapping the vital energy" and "citizens working together for the common good." Wharton took, or seemed to take, voluminous notes. Karp doodled idly on the pad placed before him, while his mind drifted.