Robert Tanenbaum - Enemy within

Karp had not had much to do with his wife since she got rich. Marlene had always had, he supposed, a few loose toys in the attic, and at times in their twenty-year relationship she'd done things that had made him angry, such as risking her life and risking the lives of the kids; shooting people; skirting the law; breaking the law; grabbing the law, throwing it to the ground, and stomping all over it while laughing… but these had all been Marlenesque excesses, arising from the woman's peculiar sense of justice. He could understand it, even where he did not approve. This business with the money though…

He checked his watch discreetly. McBright had probably wanted to make a point by dragging him through this, but, if so, Karp had gotten it in the first half hour. He looked around at the flock. Everyone was beautifully dressed, the men in suits, the women in bright dresses that seemed to include more than the usual amount of cloth, the children brightly decorated like Easter eggs. Capes and shawls were fashionable here, and nearly every woman was wearing a hat. The only people not so attired were a small group of European and Japanese tourists crammed into one section of the balcony, observing the primitive but fascinating religious rites of the Americans. Time passed; now a soloist, backed by organ and choir, was well into "Take My Hand, Precious Lord." Karp sighed and shifted in his seat and looked at his watch again. It was still the old, beat-up gold Hamilton he had worn since law school. The Rolex Oyster with diamonds she had bought him-the kind of thing only a dope dealer or his father would wear-remained in the drawer. Lucy didn't wear hers either, and Karp rather suspected she had hocked it to fund some charitable enterprise.

The choir stopped singing, and the pastor rose to stand behind the podium. Many clergymen in New York bear the title of reverend, of course, but when people said "the Reverend" in a certain tone, they meant this particular one. He was massive, cocoa-colored, broad of brow, heavy of jaw, bristly of mustache, and wavy of hair, and he had a great, deep, growling voice. His theme this morning was youth, African-American youth in particular. These youth were in trouble: babies having babies, drugs, gangs, gangster music, no jobs, no religion. Why had this situation come about? The Reverend didn't say outright. He cast broad hints, though. There were forces that did not want African-American people to advance, and these forces were in cowardly fashion targeting black children. But, he declared ringingly, we can fight racism. (Cries of approval.) We can fight prejudice. (Again.) But when the forces of so-called law and order, the representatives of privilege, start murdering our young men with impunity, that's different. (Angry shouts of agreement.) And he went on to describe one version of the death of Desmondo Ramsey, in which Ramsey had innocently approached a wealthy white woman, and she had shot him down just like those Alabama sheriffs used to, and the authorities were just going to give her a pass on it. Is that right? (No, no!) He touched on Benson, railroaded for a crime he didn't commit because they had a rich Jew killed and they needed a black boy to throw to the wolves. (Angry cries.) Then there were these homeless getting killed in their sleep-all black men or Hispanic men. The police said there was no racial angle. No racial angle? Stand on your head, anyone who believes that. (Laughter, calls of "Tell it!" and "Right on!")

Then, somewhat to Karp's surprise, the Reverend took up the tale of Cisco Lomax. Cisco, he said, was a local child. His mother was right here today. Cisco was not an angel. He had a record. White men had poisoned him with their dope. He had stolen and been punished for it. But he had a woman and children he was caring for, unlike so many others. He was getting his life turned around. And he was shot down like a dog on the highway, by a white cop who didn't even get a slap on the wrist. Is that justice? They said he tried to run down the cop with his car, and they had to shoot him. They had to shoot him ten times, ten times! In the back!

Here Karp, who had been allowing the sermon to glide past him until now, snapped to attention. As the Reverend ran through the changes on this bit of fact, in the skillful, ironic manner for which he was known, with the congregation following him heartily with the traditional responses, Karp had little trouble figuring out who had leaked it, for it had to be a leak. As far as he knew, only a limited number of people knew the location and number of Lomax's wounds. The autopsy details had, significantly, not been presented to the grand jury. Interesting, and almost as interesting, come to think of it, was that depiction of the Ramsey-Marshak confrontation, and the detail about the watch. An even smaller number of people knew about the watch. Karp found that since he had become a leaker himself, he was much more interested in fellow leakers, and in whether they were malign scumbags like Fuller or good guys doing bad things out of necessity, like him. He hoped.

The Reverend finished his sermon with a roaring peroration, during which no one in the cavernous place could have entertained any doubts that African-Americans were in a bad way; that the white power structure liked it like that; that they were virtually lynching black kids again; that we were not going to sit down for stuff like that; and that with the help of Jesus, the eternal judge, we would see justice done in the end.

There was more music after that. Karp expressed the body language of boredom and got a number of not-terribly-Christian looks from his neighbors. When the service concluded, he lounged by a pillar and let the crowds flow past him. Someone touched his elbow. He turned and found he was looking into the face of Lucius McBright. They shook hands. McBright had a powerful grip, powerful enough that he did not have to show it off. Karp recalled that the man had been, of all things, a boxer in his youth, and a Golden Gloves contender, or maybe an actual champion, he couldn't recall which.

"You have a car?" McBright asked.

"No, I came by cab."

"Up to Harlem? Lucky man. Come on, we can go in my car, we'll get us some breakfast."

Karp followed him out of the church, McBright stopping to chat with the Reverend at the doorway. He introduced Karp, who got a formal nod and no offer to shake hands. McBright was about Karp's age and had put on some pounds since his light-heavyweight days, but he was still an impressive-looking man, five inches shorter than Karp but broader across the shoulders. He wore round, rimless glasses and a short, natural haircut and had on a beautifully tailored, navy, pin-striped, double-breasted suit. His color was coffee with two creams, and his eyes were a surprising shade of hazel.

McBright drove a silver Chrysler Concord Lxi. They got in and drove up St. Nicholas. A sunny day, blue sky, little fleecy clouds showing above the apartment houses, God's golden Sunday light over battered Harlem.

"Like the sermon?"

"I thought it was inspiring," said Karp. "The Reverend is a great public speaker."

"I'll tell him you said so. It'll make his day."

"And besides the inspiration, I was also impressed by the information. He revealed a number of things that are not generally known."

"The Reverend has a lot of friends," said McBright in a tone that closed the discussion, and he shifted the conversation to Collins, whom they both agreed was a fine young man, and then to basketball, and they talked about the teams in the Final Four for the rest of the drive.

At 145th Street they parked and walked a short distance to a large restaurant. Called Suellen's, it was clearly the place to go after church for Harlem's gratin. Karp spotted a congressman, a university chancellor, and a major narcotics dealer, although not at the same table. McBright was obviously well known in the place, and they were seated immediately, but it took them a while to get to their seats, as McBright stopped along the way to chat with the occupants of several tables. Karp was the invisible man here, which was rather the point, he thought. He didn't feel as uncomfortable as McBright probably thought he was feeling, having spent many hours of his youthful athletic career in milieus in which he was the only, or nearly the only, whitey.