Robert Tanenbaum: Enemy within

"Something like that. No, not stopped really, sort of slowed and then whipped around on the highway and attempted the ram. He was in one of those giant SUVs, too, a goddamn Jeep Cherokee. You imagine one of those tanks coming toward you? It looks like a clear selfdefense to me, Butch."

A couple of long beats while those funny eyes bored into his own. Catafalco felt sweat start popping on his upper lip and forehead. Then, to his relief, Karp nodded sharply once and said, "Fine. Bill, your turn." The complaint bureau chief rattled off some numbers and complained about the toilets down there not working. Karp made a note and said, "Anything else? No? Then thank you, and… go forth and do good."

The meeting broke up. Roland Hrcany hung behind, as he often did, to speak a few private words to Karp. The two men were friends, in an oddly rivalrous way, the rivalry existing almost entirely in Hrcany's mind. They had started in the DA on the same day nearly twenty years ago and were among the last survivors of the golden age of the New York DA, when it had been run by the immortal Francis P. Garrahy.

When the last of the chiefs had departed, Roland rolled his eyes, snorted, and said, "Christ, what a putz!"

Karp had no need to ask which putz, although there were several among the ranks of the bureau chiefs, in this age of lead. "Lou does the best he can," said Karp charitably.

"Right, and if you're a clerk boosting postage stamps, the man's all over your sorry butt. Meanwhile, the feds get all the real action on official corruption."

"Yeah, that's a shame. I'll tell you what, Roland, since you're so eager, why don't we move you over to special investigations? Make a nice change for you. You can go after the mayor."

Hrcany guffawed and held his fingers in the shape of a cross, as if to ward off Dracula.

Karp smiled. "Yeah, right. I rest my case. For whatever reason, this office has never gone after the big boys, even when Garrahy was here. The feds and the state carry the coal on that, and we pick up the bent fire inspectors, which is why we have people like Lou in there. Same with narcotics, same with fraud and rackets. As you know. What did you think of that last case?"

"What, Cooley-Lomax? Why do you ask?"

"I don't know. I didn't like how fast he got through his investigation. When was Lou Catafalco ever known for speed?"

Roland shrugged. "Hey, sometimes it's easy, like he said."

"Uh-huh. You haven't heard any buzz about this one, have you?"

"It's a little early for buzz to circulate. But, if you're uncomfortable about it, you could give the case to me."

This was a mischievous suggestion, and they both knew it. "Come on, Roland, be real."

"Why? Hey, that bozo shouldn't be allowed within five miles of a homicide case, which is what this one is. Why are you rolling your eyes? What-you think I'm in bed with the cops, right?"

"Not in bed, Roland, I would never say that. But the cops are buying you your fourth sidecar and running their hand up your dress."

Roland tried not to laugh, failed, and said good-naturedly, "Fuck you, Karp."

"Thank you, Roland. Hear anything new on the bum slasher?"

"Just the usual scuttlebutt. The cops figure it's one of the homeless, a psycho. Between you and me, it's probably not the department's highest priority. A lot of people think, 'Oh, what a disaster, the bums'll get scared and move out of town.'"

"I hope you're not one of those people."

"Moi? Hey, you know me, a soft touch. I gave a dollar to a guy last week. No, wait, I think it was 1988. Why, you think Jack is interested?"

"No, I'm fairly sure he's not. I have a funny prejudice against serial killers, even if they pick people with low incomes. That may be just me, though."

"Oh, I got a great joke reminds me of that. There's these three lesbians on the bum, right? A Jew, an Italian, and a black one. And they're diving in Dumpsters and all, and they find this dead rat…"

Karp looked ostentatiously at his watch. "I have another meeting."

"You do? What an extremely important man you must be!" said Hrcany, miffed.

"Yeah, I am, and Roland? I'm sure it's a hilarious joke, but let me remind you yet again…"

"Oh, right, the thought police. For crying out loud, it's only a joke."

"Nothing's only a joke anymore, man. And you have the rep."

"Bullshit! I haven't grabbed anyone's ass in over two weeks."

"Laugh all you want," said Karp wearily, for they had been over this ground many, many times, "but I'd hate to see you crash and burn on this."

Hrcany cocked a hand behind his ear. "Okay, what are the latest rules? Tell me. No sexist jokes, no honey or sweetie to the secretaries, no pats on the ass…"

"No calling Judge Leonora Parkhurst, quote, a fat, dumb cunt, unquote, right out in the fucking hallway in front of Part Forty-nine."

Hrcany reddened. "Who told you that?"

"Everyone, Roland. It's common knowledge."

"Well, she is a fat, dumb cunt!"

"No. She is incompetent, a nitwit, a nincompoop, a juridical nonentity, a cretinous, slack-jawed, lazy disgrace to the bench. But she is not a dumb cunt."

"If she was a man, could she be a dumb cunt then?"

Karp sighed. "Get the fuck out of here, Roland."

When Hrcany was gone, Karp stood up, stretched, yawned, and said, "What did you think of that, Murrow?"

From his chair in the corner, shaded by the leafy fronds of a potted palm, Gilbert Murrow, Karp's special assistant, said, "The colloquy with Hrcany? Or the meeting?"

"The meeting, of course," Karp snapped. "The business with Catafalco and Cooley."

"Oh. Well, Catafalco seemed anxious not to draw undue attention to the case. He seemed much more comfortable with the taxi inspectors. Do you suspect hanky-panky there?"

Karp sat down again and looked at the ceiling. He motioned Murrow to emerge from the jungle, and Murrow did. He was a small, neat man in his early twenties, sandy-haired with old-fashioned round, steel-rimmed spectacles on his bland, Protestant American face. He had an oddly Dickensian way of dressing-heavy tweeds, figured waistcoats, shiny high-laced boots, foulard or paisley ties-that Karp found both annoying and comforting by turns. Karp was a traditionalist by instinct and liked Murrow's decorative aspects, and the idea that he, an assistant himself, had an assistant amused him. Murrow was an obscure legacy of someone the DA had owed a favor and, from objecting to the idea of parking this person with him, had come to value the young man. He was efficient, invisible, had a lightning shorthand, and belying his antique mien, knew what there was to know about computers, a subject in which Karp himself remained at pre-Dickensian levels.

"Not hanky-panky as such," said Karp after a moment. "A highspeed chase… the boys get their adrenaline pumping, and they catch the guy-it's Rodney King time, they're liable to dance on his head awhile before they're calmed down enough to take him in. Especially if the suspect is from one of our fine minority groups."

"I've always wondered why they did that."

"What, be racists?"

"Oh, no, I take it for granted that they're racists like everyone else in the country. But, you know, they read the papers, they know about video cameras, they know about mass rallies in support of some poor bozo some cops shot twenty holes in for no reason. You would think they would, I don't know, pause? Maybe think, 'Hey, duh, we could maybe get in trouble if we keep shooting this demented old lady'?"

"A demented old lady with a potentially dangerous spoon," said Karp. "Yeah, I ask myself that all the time, Murrow. Most street cops would say that people like you and me aren't qualified to ask it, because we've never faced deadly force or had to use deadly force in response. My wife would be the one to ask that one. On the other hand, it's an outlier problem. Thirty-nine thousand cops, all armed, eight million people, and how many shots get fired in a year? Three hundred? We had a little over two hundred fifty cop shootings last year, twenty dead. On the other hand, that's probably more than there were in all of Europe and Japan combined. We're a violent people and…"