Robert Tanenbaum - Reversible Error

On the uncluttered desk stood a dozen or so photographs of family members, most of which showed children in graduation gowns representing successive levels of education. Karp had not thought of Dugman as a family man: he seemed rather to have been exuded from the streets, living entirely on the underlife of Harlem, like some beneficent parasite.

After an interlude of stiff conversation about the Meissner case, about the job, and about sports, Karp turned to the subject of his visit, asking, with no great emphasis, whether Clay Fulton's whereabouts were known.

Dugman's deep yellowish eyes narrowed. "Shit, I don't know where the fuck he is. It ain't my turn to watch him. Maybe the Bahamas. Brazil."

Karp took a deep breath, stared briefly into the abyss, and told Dugman the whole story: Fulton's odd behavior, the searing interview with the chief of detectives, the swearing to secrecy, the revelations of Tecumseh, the discoveries about Manning and Amalfi and the suspicions about Fane.

Dugman's face was as impassive as a cypress tree for the duration of the narrative. Then he began to make a peculiar sound deep in his gullet, a rhythmic buzzing that Karp ultimately deciphered as a chuckle, a sound that at last broke out into frank laughter.

He laughed until tears streamed from his eyes, interspersing the roars with exclamations such as "He got over me, that boy," and "Son-of-a-bitch tricky damn mother-fucker," laughed until Karp was made uneasy and said, "I don't see what's so funny, Art. We're in deep shit, here."

Dugman subsided and wiped his eyes with a pearly silk handkerchief. "Yeah, well, whatever, it's better than what I thought it was. God damn!"

"I'm glad you're glad," said Karp, not without asperity, "but Clay's still missing, and I'm getting worried."

"Ah, shit, Karp, don't worry about the Loo," said Dugman. "Man can take care of himself. He's probably cooping it in some damn museum. He done it before. He'll turn up."

Karp shook his head. "He's not cooping. I'm almost certain somebody tipped the bad guys he was working for the chief. He didn't turn up at home last night. Or call in. Martha's real worried."

Dugman's face clouded. "You think somebody snatched an NYPD detective lieutenant?"

"It could happen, with these shitheads. They think they can do what the fuck they want. Let me say this: I hope to God he's just kidnapped."

Dugman snatched up his phone, punched in the familiar number of the Thirty-second Precinct, and asked to speak to Detective Amalfi. He listened for a minute in silence. "When?" he said. Then, "Is Manning around? Uh-hunh. No, no message."

He hung up and when he looked at Karp his jaw was tight and twitching. "Amalfi bit his gun last night. Manning's got a regular day off, but he ain't at home."

"Manning's got him, then," said Karp.

"Not for long, the motherfucker!" said Dugman ferociously. "We gonna turn this whole city upside down."

"I don't think so, Art," said Karp. "I think we're gonna have to do this ourselves, real quiet, and I think Clay would agree."

"You saying what I think you're saying? That the chief'd let a lieutenant go down? Someone like Clay Fulton?"

"I think he'd let a bus full of lieutenants go down on this one, Art. I don't think he's thinking all that straight, if you want to know. Sure, he wants the killings stopped, but after that his first priority is to protect the department. That's why this whole cockamamie business with Clay going under started in the first place."

Dugman took a cigar from his breast pocket, stripped off the cellophane, and lit it. He sat contemplating his blue smoke for a while. Then he said, "OK, let's start that way. Manning's place. Club Mecca. Choo Willis. His boys. We can do that much, just the three of us. But if that draws a blank…"

"If it does, then we'll worry," said Karp. "And, Art, call me anytime you get anything." There was a message from V.T. Newbury waiting for Karp when he got back from Harlem. He went to V.T.'s office and found him virtually unmoved from where he had been that morning, although looking rather more tired.

"I think I have your answer," he announced when Karp had seated himself in the rocking chair.

"That was fast," said Karp. "What's the answer?"

"What's the question?" V.T. shot back with a wan smile. "But really, what you said about Agromont was the key. So I thought of Poppie Foote."

"Poopie what?"

"Poppie Foote. We were at school together. He married my sister Emily's best friend, Anne Kring. Surely I've mentioned Poppie?"

"Not recently, V.T.," said Karp. "But you were saying…"

"Yes, I recalled that he'd touted the stock last year when it was in play. He's a specialist at Bache and he handles Agromont. In any case, here's the story. As I said before, when the takeover bid went sour last year, half a dozen people were left holding the bag in a big way, including Mr. Sergo and your congressman, but it was a lot worse than I thought. Essentially, they had leveraged everything they owned; the notes were coming due, the market was down generally, so even if they sold out, they couldn't get clear. The Street was talking about Sergo going belly-up, in fact.

"But starting about ten months ago, Sergo got cured in a big way. He was flush with liquidity and back in action. I don't have the details on Fane, but my sense is, the same thing happened to him. So the question is, where did the money come from?"

"Where indeed?"

"It came from offshore, as I surmised earlier. A brass-plate operation in the Caymans called Burlingame Imperial, Ltd. The rumors are that it's a way for people in the U.K. to play the American market without their tax people knowing about it. Everyone thought Sergo was very clever for tapping this loot."

"And is it British money?"

"One doubts it. The major British players don't seem to be involved. But it could be the royal family for all I know. The darker streams of international finance flow very deep. Or maybe Sergo started the rumor. Oh, and this too: the place didn't exist a year ago. Poppie knows that for a fact."

Karp nodded. "And who owns this ghost bank?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter who owns it. These places are always owned on paper by secretaries and maiden aunts in nursing homes. The issue is who controls it, and that's terribly hard to discover. That's why they're located offshore. But I can tell you who did the legal work involved in chartering it."

"Who was that?" Karp asked, almost knowing.

"Your new friend Mr. Richard Reedy."

"You're moping again," said Marlene at breakfast the next morning. "Why are you moping? God's in his heaven and Meissner's in jail. You have a sexy pregnant girlfriend, a good job, indoor work with no heavy lifting-what's to mope?"

"I'm not moping," said Karp, aggressively snapping the sports section of yesterday's Post.

"Yes, you are," Marlene insisted. "And how I know is, you positively rejected my patent sexual availability last night, conveyed by many a squirm and sigh, preferring to sink into sodden sleep."

Karp looked up from the paper. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Oh, not to worry," said Marlene. "I'll stop off and pick up some new batteries for the vibrator." She drank some coffee. No reaction from Karp. She continued, "But, really, I'm concerned. And I'm also starting to get mildly pissed. You can't keep dragging these black clouds into the house and expect me to cohabit around you like everything was just fine. It makes me think that maybe it's me, but I know I haven't done anything, and it drives me crazy. I'm not going to put up with it anymore."

"I'm sorry," said Karp again.

"Saying 'sorry' liked a whipped dog doesn't cut it either. Come on, Karp! This is good marriage practice. Share your inmost thoughts with your near and dear."