Robert Tanenbaum - Reversible Error

"Because, being good cops, they have this problem-crazy cops, it's bad for the force. It's one thing in the movies, but in real life it's another story: they're looking at a long, messy trial, a scandal, and so soon after the Knapp Commission? So maybe they can handle it privately. Grab the guys, a quick ticket out of town, case closed. And the victims are scumbags, nobody gives a shit about them anyway."

Karp paused and looked searchingly at his friend. Fulton gave him a long flat stare. At length, some little flicker around the eyes showed Karp he had gotten through, a mental transmission had clunked into a different gear. Fulton nodded slowly. "Go on," he said.

"So they're looking for wackos. The lieutenant goes underground, they start spreading stories he's dirty. Why? He wants access to the underworld. He wants to be approached. Now he's a guy who takes dirty money, he beats up people. Maybe his new mutt friends will let something drop, maybe he'll hit the jackpot, he'll get contacted by the actual guys: 'Hey, Loo, want to ace a pusher-it's fun!'"

Fulton was growing restless. A man pounded on the locked door to the toilet. Karp understood he had less than a minute to finish.

"Get to the point, Butch," said Fulton.

"The point is, they're wrong. You're wrong. It's not a couple of crazies. They're connected. They're not freelancing. They're doing it for somebody, and whoever it is has a shitload of clout."

"How do you know that?"

"Got you interested, didn't I? It was the judge who sprung Booth that got me thinking. Why would he do that? A judge conspiring with crazy cops? Maybe, if it was a certain kind of judge, but not the Honorable Mealy Nolan. This is a lightweight: intellectual and moral. And a criminal lightweight too, which is my point. On the pad since the year one, but safe.

"Not a sticker-out of the judicial neck, you know? Little fixes a specialty, for a consideration, but no fat envelopes. Somebody calls him, says, 'Terry, me lad, I just heard IBM is about to split and I took the liberty of picking up a hundred shares for you. And by the way…'

"That's how it would go. But a cop walks in, says, 'Judge, we been waxing these dope dealers, cleaning up the streets for the citizens, and now we'd like you to spring the only witness so we can wax him too.' No fuckin way, boss!"

"Who's the guy, then?" Fulton asked, going instantly, as Karp had feared, to the key weakness of the hypothesis.

"The guy who called Nolan, you mean. This I don't know."

Fulton seemed to let out a long breath. He shrugged and walked toward the door. This time Karp did not block him. Fulton said, "It's a nice story, Butch. Hypothetically speaking. I don't know what you plan on doing with it, though-"

"But I know how to find out," Karp interrupted.

"How?"

"I'm going to ask Tecumseh. He leads us to the cop, and the cop leads us to the guy."

Fulton grinned broadly and shook his head. "You don't give up, do you? What makes you think Booth will talk? He never talked in his damn life, except to tell a lie."

"He'll talk to me," said Karp, and even as the words formed in his mouth, the plan for making them true leapt all complete into his brain. He said, "Come and watch us play ball tomorrow. I'll set it up."

Fulton said, "You better not tell Dugman that I'm gonna be around. I don't think he trusts me around Tecumseh anymore."

"No, I'll fix it up so there's no contact,' said Karp. "By the way, I should call him now. You happen to know where he is?"

"Yeah, he's got the graveyard shift tonight, at the precinct."

"OK, I'll call you tomorrow after everything's set."

Fulton nodded and left.

Karp went to the pay phone and called Dugman. After some preliminary fencing, Dugman became extremely cooperative. The detective had grown increasingly nervous about his position: he was working for a lieutenant he thought was involved in the very murders that lieutenant had ordered him to investigate; he was holding a private prisoner who might be a key witness in those murders; and he sensed that there were big wheels moving somewhere behind all this, wheels that could squash a fifty-five-year-old black detective without even slowing down.

Fearless on the streets, Dugman felt helpless before the forces of bureaucracy; he was looking for shelter and when he discovered that the D.A. was going to provide it, he was unabashedly grateful.

After the call, Karp walked back to Marlene, who had ordered another set of drinks. "Hi, sailor," she said. "You were in there long enough for a blowjob."

"What's a blowjob?"

"Fifteen dollars, same as downtown," she shot back.

Karp looked at the drinks in a meaningful way. Marlene caught the look.

"It's a wine spritzer, Doctor," she said defensively. "I have cut down smoking and drinking as much as I am going to, and if you think I am going to become a granola fascist because I'm knocked up, you have another think coming. My mom drank a pint of wine and smoked a pack of Pall Malls every day of her six pregnancies, and we're all perfectly normal."

"Present company included?" asked Karp.

"Besides me, I mean," said Marlene, cracking a smile. "But really, what's going on-with Clay and all?"

"Just office stuff. Catching up on things," said Karp evasively.

Marlene pouted. "OK for you, buster-in that case I'm not going to tell you my secret. Oh, good, they're going to do another set."

Fulton and his trio had come back to the tiny stage, and without preamble burst into a lively upbeat tune.

"'Tinkle Toes,'" said Marlene. "Lester Young." They listened. After, she said, "Hey, Clay's not bad. And the sax. Not that I know much."

"Lester Young," said Karp. "Pres."

Marlene looked at him in amazement. "That's an impressive piece of cultural information, for you. He has an aunt who knew Colette, he drinks, he clubs, he jazzaficionados… it's a whole new Karp."

"Oh, and what was wrong with the old Karp?"

"Nothing, dear, nothing-you were perfect then and you're even more perfect now," breathed Marlene in her best phony Donna Reed voice. "Let's just listen to the music."

They left at two. The magic of the evening was capped by their fortune in finding an on-duty cab in Harlem.

"We'll never get to work tomorrow, and I don't care." Marlene yawned. "Let the wheels of justice grind to a halt."

"Yeah," said Karp, "what's a few less asses in jail?"

Marlene looked him full in the face. "You're such a phony baloney, Butch," she told him sternly. "The line you lay down about it all being a game-putting asses in jail. It's that number seven, isn't it? That drives you. You can't stand for anybody to get away with it. That's why you're such a fanatic."

"Yeah, right. If you say so," Karp retorted, feeling defenseless and more vulnerable than he liked to feel. "You're in charge of that deep stuff." Marlene was about to answer this, but found she lacked the energy required for another bout of mutual introspection. She snuggled into Karp's chest and immediately fell asleep.

Karp watched the traffic lights shine through the steam from the manholes, and reflected that he had not felt this good in weeks. He had managed to scoop Fulton in with a net of plausible lies, all whiter than white, revealing his own knowledge of the affair to Fulton without breaking his promise to Denton. It was unlikely that Fulton would tell Denton about this conversation; it would be close to admitting that Fulton had let Karp in on the deal. As Denton had in fact.

Fulton was now no longer entirely outside the cover of the law, nor was he pursuing the phantom of a mentally deranged-police-officer cabal. He was ready to listen, and if he rolled, Denton would roll too. The kid had dribbled through the zone, he had paint underfoot, and tomorrow he would take his one and only possible shot.