Robert Tanenbaum - Reversible Error

Hrcany smiled unpleasantly. "Fine, Sid. You want to play it that way, it's OK by me. But let me tell you something-the others are going to walk on this. Fulton and Manning are laughing at you right now. Figure it out, asshole! Two brothers, the game is falling apart-who the fuck you think they're gonna pin it on? One of them? Think again! Tapes can be edited, you know. Coupla days maybe, they'll find you with one in the ear, and a tape from old Tecumseh saying you and him did all those jobs."

Amalfi shouted, "I don't have to listen to this horseshit," then spun around and stalked up his walk to his front door. He slammed it behind him, and then ran, knees trembling, to the downstairs bathroom, where he knelt, retching for a good ten minutes.

Amalfi knew what Hrcany was doing, had done it himself a thousand times. Break up the group; sow distrust; the first step in cracking a gang. The problem was, it didn't matter that Amalfi knew what was going on; the thing still worked.

Hrcany and Waldbaum walked back to their car, got in, and sat in silence. Hrcany lit a small cigar and contemplated the glowing tip as deep twilight fell on Queens.

"What the fuck was that all about?" Waldbaum asked.

"It's funny. When I walked up that path I didn't know shit. Now I know just about all I need to. He's dirty. God, is he dirty! He's in it with Fulton. And Manning too, of course."

"What, they've been shooting these pushers?"

"Yeah," said Hrcany, "so it seems. But I don't know that, since I haven't heard the tape."

Waldbaum's jaw dropped. "You were bluffing?"

"Yeah, but he bought it," answered Hrcany.

"I didn't see much there, Roland. He looked pretty good."

"I saw his eyes, Joe. He looked bad. He's heard about the tape and it scares the shit out of him. All the schmuck had to do was look puzzled and act friendly and say he was working Fulton because the rumor mill said he was involved. Then we would've been dead in the water. I mean, it would've been a hell of a lot more plausible than believing he was in with Fulton."

Waldbaum nodded. It made a kind of crazy sense. "So what now?"

"Nothing, tonight. Let him cook for a while. The next time we roust him out, he'll be done."

"Shit, Roland, if you're right, this is the biggest thing going and I'm hanging out by my shorts here," said Waldbaum. "I can't fucking accuse a cop of murder without clearance from the unit captain."

"As I recall," said Hrcany, "you didn't accuse him of anything. Neither did I. I just said we had a tape and that he was gonna get set up."

"But we don't have a tape. We don't even know what's on the fucking tape."

"Yeah, we do. Look, what else could it be? Karp knows Fulton is dirty, so he figures a way to protect him. He gets Fulton to tape Booth telling his story."

"What good's that gonna do Fulton?"

"I don't know exactly, but trust me: if Karp's involved, you can bet it's clever. Maybe they'll doctor the tape some way. Even better, they give Booth a script exculpating Fulton. Maybe other people are involved. Karp's game has to be stopping the killings, getting the heat off his friend. I mean, once they stop, that's it-nobody gives a rat's ass a bunch of pushers got killed, as long as they don't keep rubbing our faces in it. So the tape could be a threat-Fulton telling his boys, they got Us, time to close up the store."

"But you don't know any of this for sure," Waldbaum observed.

"No, I don't," Hrcany said grimly. "That's why we need a fucking tape of our own." "How was the grand jury?" asked Karp.

"It was grand, as advertised," Marlene replied. "No problem with the indictment. We arraign this coming Tuesday." They were in the loft, sitting side by side on the couch, eating pizza off the coffee-table door, and watching the news on TV with the volume turned almost all the way down. They were not interested in the news from anyplace else but each other, but this had been delayed for technical reasons. The air had not cleared between them; rather it lay like a chill and sticky mist, permitting the passage only of polite conversation.

"Who's on D.?"

"Mr. Motion," said Marlene.

"Polaner? That should be fun; the man gives a whole new meaning to 'justice delayed is justice denied.' Your mutt has good judgment, anyway. The longer he can stretch this out, the less convincing the witnesses are going to be, and Mr. M. is the boy for that. What's he like, the mutt?"

"He's charming. It's all a terrible mistake, but he doesn't hold it against me personally. He's going to look damn good in court."

"Well, Polaner will never call him. Why should he? His game is to impeach your witnesses, not give you a shot at his boy. Are there any more slices without anchovies?"

"No, because you eat twice as fast as I do and you don't like anchovies, so you always scarf up the pepperoni slices," said Marlene.

"But you're eating a pepperoni."

"Yes, 'cause if I don't start with a pepperoni, I never get any pepperoni, on account of the aforesaid difference in eating speed."

Karp sniffed, and began delicately to pick anchovies off a slice of pizza. "That may be true," he said, "but it doesn't seem fair. We should be able to order pizza that's precisely adjusted to our individual topping preferences and eating rates."

"It's not the pizza guy's problem, Butch," said Marlene. "Have you considered that the answer might lie in personal growth and change? Perhaps slowing yourself down. Perhaps learning to savor the healthful anchovy."

"I have considered it," said Karp. "I've also considered that whenever personal growth and change enter the conversation, it's always me that's targeted for personal growth and change."

"Perhaps it's because Marlene, by dint of exhausting struggle and introspection, has moved closer to the goal of earthly perfection than you yourself have. And by the way, for the record books, I believe this is the most inane conversation we've had this year."

"I'd have to agree on that, although the year is still young," said Karp, finishing his slice and wiping his hands and face on a paper towel. "Also, I like 'by dint.' It's a phrase we don't get enough of nowadays. Speaking of which."

"What are you doing, Butch?"

"Checking to see if you have any panties under your kimono. I make it a point never to wax philosophical with people who have neglected their panties."

"And?"

"Nothing so far," said Karp, "but I'll be able to look better if I get your legs arranged sort of across my lap. Like this."

"You know," said Marlene, letting herself be shifted, and sinking back into the velvet cushions, "I have to confess, I occasionally go to the office in the summer without anything on under my dress. Do you think that's too slutty?"

"I wouldn't presume to comment. It hasn't affected your professional performance that I can see."

"Thank you," said Marlene. A long silence, humming with the Lebanese situation, and then a series of soft groans and cries. "Oh, my!" she said. "That took her by surprise. Could you feel that?"

"Yes," said Karp. "It felt like an escaping anchovy. What are you doing with your foot?"

"You mean the foot I have inveigled inside your sweats? This is called the Sicilian Rolling-Pin Maneuver."

"Sicilian, eh?"

"Yeah, and we're not really supposed to perform it until after marriage. Along with the Palermo Pout, it's the main reason our little island has been invaded so many times in history."

"I can see why," said Karp huskily. "Anyway, I guess we're back together now. I'm sorry I got mad at you and moped."

"That's OK," said Marlene. "I realize I'm hard to live with. Someday I'll settle down. And don't worry about the baby. She's half an inch long and hard as nails. So, are you going to jump on me, or what?"

"You seem ready for it."