Robert Tanenbaum - Reversible Error

Karp and Reedy sat at one of the select window tables. The waiter stopped by for their drink order and Reedy ordered a Tanqueray martini. Karp ordered a Coke. Reedy raised an eyebrow and the waiter almost did too.

"Don't you drink, Butch?" asked Reedy.

"No," said Karp. "It's my Indian blood. I go crazy and take scalps."

Reedy laughed, perhaps a trifle more than the joke was worth. He had a good laugh, hearty and loud, with lots of air expelled. The laugh reminded Karp of the crusty Irish homicide D.A.'s of Garrahy's generation, the men who had taught him his trade, and of Garrahy himself. They had laughed like that. He found himself being charmed, and not minding it.

The charm continued. Reedy was a splendid raconteur and knew everybody in New York. He told a funny story about the mayor and one about the cardinal archbishop, and one about how the chairman of a major bank and the heir to a real-estate fortune were both trying to get into the pants of a prominent TV personality.

He also talked about himself, interspersing bits of personal information, between the funny stories. Karp learned he had grown up in Irish Yorkville, one of ten children of a news truck driver, and worked his way through St. John's and Harvard Law School hauling boxes at the Fulton Fish Market.

"And do you know," Reedy said, "from that day to this I've never put a piece of fish in my mouth or allowed it in my house. And on Friday, before they changed the rules, we had salad, omelets-pizza pie, for God's sake! But no fish."

Today Reedy was eating filet mignon for lunch, with a glass of the house red, which today was a '66 Chambertin. Karp was having the same, and also drinking the wine. Marlene had been working on him over the past months, and while she had not yet convinced him that the ability to drink wine was as much an appurtenance of civilized life as the ability to control the bowels, he had gotten to the point where he no longer gagged when the stuff hit his throat.

So he was relaxed, and well-fed and entertained, content to wait for Reedy to deliver whatever punch line he had in mind. It came over the coffee, which was served in little cafe filtre silver pots. Reedy's came with a slice of lemon, something Karp (the big-city provincial) had not seen before. A man of definite tastes, Reedy.

Reedy had gradually steered the conversation toward the subject of Karp himself, pumping him skillfully about his background and his work. Karp went through the whole sad story: the basketball wonder boy, all-state guard, high-school All-American, Berkeley, the accident, the knee, the lost chance at the NBA, law school, working for Garrahy.

"Now, there was a man," Reedy said reflectively.

"Yeah, I sure thought so. Did you know him at all?"

"Not as well as I would've liked. We were on committees together, Church and Irish functions and all. But being in different branches of the law… and"-a sudden sly grin-"I was always after the money, to be frank, and Phil, well, as you know, he was after something else. It's not often you meet someone of whom you have no trouble saying, 'There's a better man than I am.'" He raised his glass. "To his memory," said Reedy, and they both drank and were silent for a long moment.

Karp was aware of the other man watching him closely. Finally Reedy said, "I daresay he's missed at the office."

"You could say that."

"Especially given the present incumbent."

"Especially," Karp allowed cautiously.

"He has ambitions, you know," Reedy said.

"Bloom? Does he?"

"Yes, he wants to be governor."

"He's got my vote," said Karp sourly. "I might even vote twice."

Reedy laughed. "Yes, I expect you might. He's a plausible candidate. In fact, I will tell you, in the strictest confidence, mind, that he will be the candidate."

"Oh? No damned nonsense about the primaries?"

Reedy smiled and shook his head. "Butch, be serious. In an open race like the next one will be, the primary is a bought thing. Sandy is personable, he speaks well on civic issues, he hires the best speech writers and pollsters, and he's already got the smart money lined up. Unless he gets caught with his hand in the till or his dick where it shouldn't be, he's a shoo-in for the nomination.

"Which leaves an interesting opening. Assuming he declares in, say, February of next year, it will leave whoever is appointed to replace him nearly seven months of incumbency before the general election. He'd be hard to beat."

"Yeah, he would," agreed Karp.

"Any ideas on who it might be?"

"I haven't thought about it much. I'm sure Bloom has any number of people he could recommend. The governor's got cronies too. It's a nice plum for somebody."

Reedy's smile became broader. "You don't see it? Look, Butch, these people"-he cast his hand to encompass the room and the towers of Wall Street beyond the glass-"the people who run New York, what worry do you think is uppermost in their minds? Crime!

"There's no damn reason to strive and hustle to accumulate wealth if you can't walk in the street without being hit over the head by some bastard who just walked out of jail. The city's crying for leadership to stop this, to drive the scum back into their holes, and to punish them when they dare to come out.

"Leadership. Now, don't sit there and tell me you've never imagined yourself in that role."

"Me?"

"Yes, you, and don't act so surprised. Who else is there? You've got a solid reputation in the criminal-law community, a splendid record as bureau chief-and you've never lost a murder case. For God's sake, man, you've actually been wounded in the line of duty! You're a natural!"

Karp felt his stomach rolling. "But I've never been involved in politics…" he protested lamely.

"Nonsense! Who organized Phil Garrahy's last campaign? And besides, that's all to the good. So you're not a pol! We've had enough of political wheeler-dealing in that office. We need somebody reliable, professional, tough as nails. I'm telling you, as sure as we're sitting here, you can have it if you want it. But you've got to know you want it, Butch." Reedy's sharp blue eyes locked in on Karp as he said, "Do you want it?"

As from a long distance away, Karp heard his own voice say, "I want it."

Tecumseh Booth came easily out of the light sleep favored, of necessity, by the incarcerated, to find a familiar figure in his cell. The cell was in a precinct station in Harlem, and Booth had been there for nearly three days. This was unusual, but then there had been nothing usual about this arrest. He was also alone in his cell, which was even stranger. Precinct pens were ordinarily standing-room-only until they were cleaned out each morning by the zone wagons that circulated around Manahattan, picking up prisoners and bringing them to Centre Street for arraignment.

"About time you showed up," said Booth sulkily. "S'pose to get a goddamn trial before they lock you up for life."

The shooter said, "How about keeping your voice down? Look, I hear you been doing good. I want you to know we appreciate it."

"Yeah? You got a funny way of showing it, man. When the fuck am I getting out of this shithole?"

"Soon. I can't just come in here and sign you out. You're gonna have to go to an arraignment."

Booth stood up and said angrily, "Fuck arraignment, man! That wasn't in the damn deal. I'm s'pose to be covered, and now you tell me my black ass is hanging out of the blanket? What the hell happens if I get bound over, man? I'm looking at six months in Rikers, if they want a trial, even if I beat it. No way, motherfucker! I stood up once, and I'll stand up again, but not on this shit. It don't work that way; you hump for the Man, you don't see no jail."

"Relax, will you!" said the shooter, looking nervously over his shoulder. "The fix is in. You go up to court tomorrow, and you'll be walking by lunchtime. I guarantee. Just keep your cool."