Falsely Accused

TEN

Old St. Patrick’s Cathedral, on Mulberry and Prince Street, had been built as the archdiocesan seat in 1815 when the surrounding area had been the heart of the City. The area had gone downhill since then, as the surrounding tenements had first filled with Irish and then Italians. Both tides had rushed in and aged and become rich and ebbed out to the ’burbs. Now Old St. Pat’s was just another church, its parishioners now few and largely Latin American. Every Sunday they were joined, at the latest possible Mass, by Marlene Ciampi.

Who maintained, as she had since the age of fourteen, a complicated, variable, and heterodox relationship with the Holy and Apostolic Church. She tended to treat the various contradictions she found in her religion-all that business about women and who was allowed to place what sexual part in what opening and when-as she treated those in her quotidian life: with cavalier disregard. If she could be a good mother and an irresponsible rakehell, she could also be a weekly communicant and a kick-ass feminist. In her secret heart she believed that were she allowed a half hour with the pope, no holds barred, she could straighten him out, but failing that, she refused to either give up the Church or go along with it.

Beyond that, Marlene’s natural cast of mind was contrarian, the single aspect of character that she shared with her husband. As a girl at Sacred Heart, she had read proscribed books and carried herself like an infant Voltaire; at liberal Smith, and later at cynical Yale, she had dragged herself up out of Saturday night debauches and, dressed in sober black, sporting a Jackie Kennedy-style lace mantilla, had floated off to early Mass, quite astonishing the circle of godless musicians and artists she frequented. Over the years she had drifted in and out of regular communion, although she acknowledged an increase in constancy since her marriage to Karp. It might have been, at first, merely a resurgence of her contrarian spirit-marry a Jew, become more Catholic-but lately she had felt a vague discomfort of soul, the sort of thing in which the Church was supposed to specialize, although it had been years, decades, since Marlene had actually brought such a problem to a priest. On recent Sundays, looking at the dull, sheeplike face of Father Raymond at Old St. Pat’s, Marlene tried to imagine what he would say if she revealed to him her recent quasi-legal doings-and more disturbingly, her bloodthirsty prospects. Although she was barely able to admit it to herself, she had begun to hope for-in some undefined fashion-moral guidance.

And, of course, there was Lucy. Quite apart from her own beliefs, Marlene had made a solemn commitment when her family’s parish priest had agreed to marry her to a non-Catholic that she would raise her child in the bosom of Rome, and she intended to do so. Happily, St. Pat’s had an excellent Sunday school, where she deposited Lucy while she attended the service. The girl had taken nicely to the Sunday ritual (her only bitch being the necessity for unnatural cleanliness, and the wearing of a succession of darling dresses, lace-collared velvets or elaborately ruffled muslins, lovingly purchased by her mother and a supporting body of female relatives), Lucy having reached the age where theology was of interest.

This morning, entering the car in a glory of dark velvet, camel-hair coat, and wool hat, Lucy asked Marlene, “How come God has three names?”

Marlene shot her daughter an inquiring look. It seemed unlikely that Sister Theresa, who ran the junior Sunday class, had exposed her charges to the mysteries of the Trinity.

“What do you mean, dear?” asked Marlene.

Lucy counted the persons off on her fingers. “One is Jesus Christ, right? Two, is baby Jesus. Three: Harold.”

“Harold?”

“Uh-huh. AreFatherwhichArtnHeaven, Harold Be thy name.”

“Ah, mmm, I think that’s ‘hallowed,’ baby. It means blessed. Also, Jesus Christ and baby Jesus are the same person.”

At this Lucy gave Marlene a disbelieving look. She said, “I’ll ask Sister Theresa,” and withdrew into what seemed like religious contemplation for the remainder of the ride.

Throughout the service, Marlene made a greater than usual effort to open herself to divine guidance. A faint headache was, however, the only result. Afterward, the sermon was on one of Father Raymond’s two favorite themes: the need to support the foreign missions as a front line against the spread of godless communism (the other being the Evils of Unsanctified Sex). The featured mission today was the Missionary Sons of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, this particular Sunday being the feast day of St. Antony Claret, its founder.

Marlene let the words wash over her, hardly hearing, as one waits for a TV commercial to end. Fr. Raymond was, on this Sunday as usual, dull but thankfully brief, and Marlene was inclined to reward the brevity at least with the acknowledgment that St. Antony C. was the devil of a lad and his Charetians deserved at least a sawbuck. She reached into her wallet when the collection started, yanked forth a bill, and saw that her fingers had also plucked out the very slip of paper upon which Professor Malkin had written the name and address of Mattie Duran. A sign, was Marlene’s first thought, and then she carefully put that thought aside. But she gave twenty dollars to the mission when the plate came around.

After church, Marlene found herself driving east on Houston. Lucy glanced out the window, recognized the route, and asked, “Are we getting knishes?” A swing by Yoneh Schimmel’s for a bag of the tasty bricklike pastries was a frequent coda to their Sunday devotions.

“Maybe later. I want to stop off someplace first.”

“Where?”

“A place. It’s a women’s shelter I want to take a look at. It won’t be a long visit.”

“What’s a women’s shelter?”

“It’s a … sometimes there are bad men that like to hurt women and kids, and this is a place they can run to and hide.”

“Are we going to hide there?”

Marlene laughed and gave her daughter a squeeze. “No, silly! Daddy wouldn’t hurt us.”

“If he did, Uncle Harry would shoot him with his gun,” said Lucy matter-of-factly. “Then I would take care of him, and you could hide in that place.”

This comment produced enough distraction from the task of driving to have caused a serious accident on any day but Sunday. As it was, there was a squealing of brakes and a honking of horns.

“Good plan, Lucy,” said Marlene upon recovery, to which her darling returned a glance both blank and sweet.

The East Village Women’s Shelter was on Avenue B off Sixth, occupying the whole of a store-fronted six-story tenement. The former shop windows had been covered with steel plating, painted black, upon which the institution’s name was neatly lettered in white. There was an iglesia on one side of it and a shoe-repair shop with a traditional hanging shoe sign on the other. Most of the businesses on either side of the street-stores selling salsa records, cheap clothing, and furniture on credit-had their corrugated steel shutters down, and these were covered with graffiti, much of it gang spoor. There were graffiti on the iglesia too, but none on the women’s shelter-not a one, despite the blank, smooth expanse of black steel.

Marlene observed this and thought it significant. She parked and ushered Lucy up to the door, which was solid, also black, and equipped with a peephole. She rang the buzzer. A voice emanating from a little box affixed to the doorframe asked her business. She said she wanted to see Mattie Duran. The voice told her to wait, and she was aware of being observed through the peephole.

Shortly she heard clankings, as of heavy locks being disengaged, and the door opened. In the doorway was a young woman in her late teens, with a long, thick braid in her black hair and a suspicious look on her face; the face, which was thin and biscuit brown, had darkened channels cut under the eyes, as if by corrosive tears. She was dressed in a black sweatshirt and jeans. This person looked Marlene up and down, and was clearly unimpressed, although she smiled and said hi to Lucy. Without another word she barred the door with a dead bolt and a police lock and turned away, allowing Marlene to follow her if she would.

A short corridor made from plywood led to a glass door. Marlene and Lucy followed the teenager through it and into a room carved out of the center of the former retail store. The room was clearly an office: four unmatched filing cabinets stood along one wall, and another wall held a corkboard covered with messages. Two battered steel desks in the center of the room were occupied by a pair of women, one black, one white, who were talking on telephones. Another phone rang unanswered. There were grubby toys strewn in odd corners. The place smelled of cooking soup.

“She’s in there,” said their guide, pointing at a door.

Marlene knocked and, in response to a vague noise from within, opened it, revealing a tiny office, no larger than an apartment bathroom. It contained a rack of steel shelving overflowing with stuffed manila files, a scarred wooden desk, one leg of which was missing and replaced with phone books, a miscellany of straight chairs in dubious repair, and, affixed to the walls, an office clock, a calendar, much inscribed, and a color reproduction of one of Frida Kahlo’s self-portraits, with mustache. On the desk was a rough-looking, large black Persian tomcat, nesting in a wire basket full of what looked like official manifold forms. Behind the desk was a swarthy woman of about forty.

Or Marlene guessed her age at about that; she could have been any age from a hard thirty to a light fifty. She was a Latina of some variety, but probably not a Puerto Rican. Her skin had a cinnamon sheen to it, her cheekbones were broad and sharp, and her mouth had that lovely, lanceolate sculpting of the lips that said Mexico. Her eyes, oddly, were gray-blue.

The woman was giving Marlene the once-over too, and Marlene could see that she was somewhat put off and confused by the fancy clothes. Her gaze, however, softened when she examined Marlene’s face, which still bore the yellowing bruises left by Pruitt’s fists.

“Can I pet your cat?” asked Lucy, who had wormed her way past Marlene’s hip.

The woman smiled at this, showing powerful teeth and a flash of gold, and beckoned the child forward. Lucy stroked the cat, who spat briefly and then submitted to a stroking. The woman stood and held out her hand to Marlene. “Mattie Duran,” she said. Her hand was large and rough, with thick, square-cut nails. She was dressed in a black cotton turtleneck under a cover-all garment of vaguely military cut, with many pockets and zips on it. It was also black, which seemed to be the color of choice at the Women’s Shelter.

Marlene said her own name, and Duran gestured her to one of the straight chairs. She sat down again behind her desk and said, “Look, we’re a little jammed now, but I’ll try to help.” She pulled a clipboard from a wall hook and took a pencil from behind her ear. “Where are you living now?”

“In my loft,” answered Marlene, puzzled.

“Is he still there?”

“Who?”

“Your husband, your boyfriend-the guy who beat you up,” said Duran.

“Umm, I think we’re off on the wrong foot. I’m not a client. Professor Malkin suggested I come talk to you, and since I was passing by …”

Duran laughed heartily and tossed the clipboard down. “Oh, yeah, the little professor. You’re that one … in the article. That’s where you got the face. Well, well! Yeah, we should talk … don’t do that, honey, he’ll scratch the shit out of you.”

Lucy had been trying to lift the cat out of his basket, and the animal was making increasingly more aggressive noises.

“He doesn’t like to be hauled around,” explained Duran.

Lucy asked, “What’s his name?”

“Megaton,” said Duran, and then, to Marlene, “You know, we have a playroom upstairs; there’s kids and a bunch of toys. Maybe Lucy would like to go up and stay there while we talk?”

“How about that, Lucy? Would you like to play with the kids who live here?” asked Marlene.

“The ones who’re hiding from the bad men?” asked Lucy.

Duran gave Marlene a quick sidelong glance. “Yeah,” she said to Lucy, “those’re the ones.”

The woman took Lucy by the hand and led her away. She was back in a few minutes. Sitting down again in her chair, she considered Marlene thoughtfully for a moment and then said, “You don’t look like what I thought you would.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, all this …” She fluttered her fingers up and down her chest to indicate Marlene’s careful navy suit and silk blouse.

“I just came from church,” said Marlene, feeling defensive, and absurd because of feeling so.

“Church, huh. A good Catholic girl.”

“I try to be,” snapped Marlene. “You have some kind of problem with that? I have a butch black outfit too, you know; maybe I should’ve come in the right costume, get a little less heat.”

They locked eyes for a few seconds, glaring, and then Duran flashed her golden smile again. “Hey, no offense. I don’t get along with the church, it don’t mean you can’t. Anyway, it was a neat number you did on that piece of shit. In the Voice article, I mean. You want to go into that business, I got a list for you about eight feet long.”

She said it jocularly, but Marlene answered her in all seriousness. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

Duran cocked her head. “Say, what?”

“I want to be, I am, in the business. I want to protect women from stalkers.”

Duran’s eyebrows rose and her mouth twisted quizzically. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“No.”

“Honey, most of these ladies don’t have a pot to piss in. How’re you going to make a living off of protecting them from men?”

“Money’s not a problem. Not right now.”

“Rich lady, huh? What is this, a hobby?”

Marlene kept her voice even and responded, “Ms. Duran, I’m not an asshole, and I suspect you’re not either, so could we cut the horseshit? You want to trade working-class credibility, we could be here all day.”

Duran seemed startled for a moment and then grinned and let out her big, hearty guffaw. “All right!” she said. “The girl means business! Okay-what is it-Marlene? Okay, Marlene: what you’re telling me is, you want to run, like, an agency that does protection. You don’t mean like, guarding the victims, because that’s what I do, me and the other shelters, and there’s no way you could afford to put a seven ‘n’ twenty-four guard on more than a couple of women. So what you mean is, you want to take the bastards out.”

“If they commit crimes, if they violate protective orders-”

Duran waved her hand dismissively. “Nah, nah- I mean, take them out. You know damn well you get one of these bastards for assault, he’s away for eighteen months at the most, less for a contempt cite. And when he comes out, what’s the first thing he’s going to do? He’s going to get even with the woman. And he’s going to keep it up until she’s dead. You know that’s the way it is. I can see it in your face.”

“Not all of them are like that,” said Marlene.

“Hah!”

“Yeah, well, if you start with the premise that the solution is wholesale slaughter, you’re finished before you start. But there must be hundreds of thousands of cases of battering in the country and maybe thousands of stalking incidents. We have only about fifteen hundred, two thousand homicides in that class across the country per year, maybe a couple of hundred in the City.”

“That’s some ‘only.’”

“That’s why I went to Malkin,” explained Marlene, unable to keep some sharpness out of her tone. “I was looking for some way of predicting real danger in these cases.”

“So? Could she?”

Marlene shrugged. “Not really. That’s why I came to see you.”

“You think I have some kind of … system?” Duran said, and then laughed. “Hell, girl, I got all I can do to keep this place from closing down, getting women relocated with new ID, getting them jobs or welfare. Christ on a crutch, I get five minutes to think a week, I’m lucky. You think I can figure out which of these wackos is going to do something bad and which won’t?”

“No, not really,” said Marlene with a sigh. “Look, it was just a thought-I’m sort of new at this. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

She started to rise, but Duran waved her back and said, “No, sit. This is sort of interesting. Maybe I should think about the problem more, I wouldn’t be getting my ass in a sling as much as I do.” She glanced at the wall clock. “Look, we’ll shoot the shit, I’ll take you around and show you the setup, introduce you to some of the women. You like hard-luck stories? I can tell you do, a good Catholic girl like you. We’ll have lunch.”

So they did. Marlene met most of the thirty or so women in residence, and heard their hard-luck stories and met and admired their children (almost all the women had children) and, where appropriate, examined their wounds: Donna with the wired jaw, Maria with the separated shoulder, Maureen’s broken nose, and Vickie, whose husband had set his pit bull on her, mangling her knee. Toward the end of the tour, Marlene was feeling more like St. Catherine of Sienna licking her way through the lazaretto than she liked, and had decided that massively viewing misery was not her line of work.

Lunch was served in one of the apartments of the former tenement, which had been fitted out as a common area, the remaining apartments being used as dormitory space. The kitchen had been enlarged and the interior walls knocked down to form a dining room. The rest of the floor was devoted to a playroom for the children. Duran led Marlene there to gather her daughter for the communal meal.

Marlene’s heart sank when she entered. It was a tawdry place, and it smelled strongly of the little accidents of childhood and strong disinfectant. The children, who ranged in age from toddler to preteen, fussed with the few, dirty playthings, and quarreled and cried, while the moms on playroom duty struggled to keep some order and prevent injury. In fairness, she thought a moment later, although it was dreadful as a playroom, it was not half bad as a prison, which is what it really was. The thirty-eight children resident in the shelter could not go outside to a playground or to school for fear of their fathers or their mother’s boyfriends. The playroom was also a lot better than being dead, or motherless.

Marlene looked around for Lucy and couldn’t find her. After the usual stomach-roiling burst of panic, she waited until the place had emptied out for lunch and then crossed to a refrigerator carton that had been laid on its side and converted into a playhouse, with painted walls and flower pots and cut-out windows. She knelt and peeked in one of these.

Her daughter was sitting on a cushion declaiming the story of Cinderella to two older children, a girl of about fourteen and a boy who looked twelve. These two had covered themselves with a ratty pink blanket, and were clearly riveted by the tale. So sweet was the picture that Marlene was reluctant to interrupt, but Lucy noticed her face peering through the window and stopped.

“We’re playing house,” said Lucy. “I’m being the mommy.”

“That’s nice, dear,” said Marlene, “but we’re going to have lunch now.”

“Here?”

“Yes, here. In the room next door.”

“Can I eat with Isabella and Hector?”

“Of course. Come on along.” Marlene smiled at the two children. To her surprise, the girl gave a start and pulled the blanket over her head. Lucy and Hector both began talking to her and gently tugging the blanket. After a few minutes of this, the girl emerged and followed the other two out of the carton.

Later, when the three children were sitting at a card table, eating vegetable soup and bread, Duran leaned over to Marlene and said, “You know, that’s amazing. This is the first time Isabella has eaten in the lunchroom. Usually, she grabs food from the kitchen and runs to eat it in that carton.”

“Yes, I think Lucy’s made a conquest. It’s not the first time either. The kid is clearly destined to sell insurance big-time. Is she all right, though? Isabella? I mean, mentally?”

“I have no idea,” said Duran. “She’s obviously scared shitless of everything and everybody. Except Hector, of course, and now your kid. Understands Spanish and English but won’t talk at all. It looks like traumatic shock of some kind to me. I see a lot of it. It’s a shame too, a pretty kid like that.”

“What does her mother say about it?”

“Oh, her mother isn’t here. Somebody dumped her on our front steps last spring.”

“Literally?”

“Oh, yeah. There was a knock, and the night duty woman heard a car burning rubber down the street and there she was, soaking wet, curled into a ball. Somebody’d raped her, naturally. So we took her in and she’s been here ever since.”

“You didn’t call the cops?” asked Marlene.

Duran gave her a pitying look. “Please! The cops leave us alone, and we return the favor. Same with the state social workers. Child Welfare’s got enough problems of their own. They know I’m up to code, and that’s all they care about. I don’t take any government money and I don’t want any. Because of that, I get women who won’t come to any other shelter.”

“You mean illegals.”

“Them,” Duran agreed, “and others.” She did not elaborate and her tone did not welcome additional prying.

“What about Hector?” Marlene asked, looking over at the children’s table. Lucy was talking a blue streak and making faces. Hector was giggling; Isabella had a peculiar strained expression on her face, as if she were trying to remember how to smile. Duran followed Marlene’s look and said, “Damn, I ought to rent that kid from you. I actually think Isabella’s about to crack a grin. Oh, Hector-he’s another drifter. Doesn’t live here. Shows up a couple times a week for lunch and a talk with Isabella. He says she’s his sister.”

“Is she?”

“Search me, Jack. She could be. On the other hand, Hector’s a bit of a slippery character himself.”

“But can’t you find out where he’s from, his family …?”

“See, you’re still thinking like a social worker. Look, you want to hear my take on them? Illegals, pretty sure, but from someplace bad. Salvador or Nicaragua. See that little shawl she’s got? That’s from somewhere down there, the embroidery. The white dress too. It’s the only thing she’ll wear and it’s falling apart. The boy’s accent is Central American or south Mexico, Chiapas or around there. Anyway, say they came to the big city with Mom and Dad, illegal as hell, live in a shithole, take some kind of sweatshop work. One day Mom and Dad are gone, who knows where. The migra got ’em. Or it could be worse, they were mules and they tried to skim some of the product, or maybe somebody just thought they tried to, or the drug people did it themselves and laid it on the dumb campechanos. So the kids come home one day and there’s cops all around and they run. They know not to talk to cops. Or they were there when it went down, the dealer sent a couple of choteros around, and either they did them right there or took them away someplace, cut them up a little to see what happened to the powder. The kids’re hiding under the bed. Either way, the kids are on the street, don’t know nobody, don’t trust nobody. God knows what happened to the girl-I don’t want to think about it.”

“And there’s no clue about where they came from?”

A tired wave of the hand. “No, and I asked around the neighborhood. Nobody knows them or who their parents could’ve been. Either people don’t know or someone’s got them really scared.”

“So who dropped her off?”

“Who knows? I figure he grabbed her off the street, raped her a couple of times and got scared, and he was too chicken to kill her and drop her in a dumpster like they usually do. A Good Samaritan. You’re shocked? Honey, we get them dropped off here like that all the time.”

“I’m not shocked, Mattie, just reliving. I used to run the Rape Bureau at the New York D.A.’s.”

Duran nodded. “Yeah, I remember from the article. You got out and now you’re back in it. With a kid too.”

“And another on the way.”

“Hunh!” Duran’s eyes widened and then she smiled. “It can’t be displaced maternal instincts, like me. So why? You got money, you’re a lawyer …”

“I’ll introduce you to my husband, the pair of you can bat it around,” said Marlene impatiently. “Why don’t we leave it that it’s just something I need to do just now?”

Duran stared at her for a long moment, a flat, penetrating Indian look, while an amused smile flickered on her lips. Then she muttered, “A lo dodo no se le busca lado.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just an expression,” said Duran. “Gift horses. The thing of it is, I could use your help. Let’s get the meal cleared away, and we’ll take some coffee into my office and have a talk.”

Lucy had to be dragged away from the shelter, with many a promise that she could visit Isabella and Hector again very soon. Marlene reflected as they walked to the car how remarkable it was for a seven-year-old to have formed so close and so dominant a relationship with two much older children. It was as if Lucy knew instinctively that both of them were not what they physically appeared to be, that Isabella was deep in some traumatic regression, and that Hector had been severed from his childhood by overwhelming events. In treating them as she would her contemporaries, she was apparently giving them just what they required.

Back at the loft, they found Karp sprawled amid strewn newspaper, watching a football game on television. He was wearing a black sweatshirt with the arms torn off and ragged chinos; moreover, he was unshaven and was actually drinking a beer, probably his third or fourth for the calendar year. It was a rare thuggish look, and Marlene found it erotic. She came over to the sofa and gave him a friendly nuzzle.

“I was getting worried,” he said.

“Well, we’re safe,” said Marlene. “Your family has survived another day on the killing streets.”

“A long church? Lots of sins to confess?”

Lucy came dashing over, after dutifully hanging her church-going camel hair on its special peg, and jumped on her father’s lap.

“We went to the shelter,” she cried, “and I played with Isabella and Hector. They’re my new best friends and they’re really old too and they have a playhouse and we had lunch, and you know what?”

“What?”

“Ladies could stay there when bad men want to hurt them, and we could stay there too!”

Karp glanced meaningfully at his wife. To his daughter he said, “What if bad men want to tickle them?” and suited action to word, until she shrieked, after which they had some boxing practice until Marlene ordered an instant change out of good clothes.

“What was that about?” Karp asked after Lucy had run off to her room.

“Oh, just curiosity. I stopped off at the East Village Women’s Shelter and met Mattie Duran. She runs quite an operation, actually. I think we can work with them: referrals, temporary shelter for our clients, like that. And there’s stuff I can do for them too.”

“Like?”

“Oh, summonses, tracking down deadbeats,” offered Marlene casually. Mattie Duran had suggested a set of other activities, under the general heading of “taking the bastards out,” but Marlene did not care to broach these with her husband just now. If ever.

Nor did Karp seem eager to pry. “You had a load of calls,” he said.

“On Sunday?”

“Vigilantes never have a day off,” he replied and went back to watching the game.

Marlene changed into comfortable clothes and went into her office. The machine tape had a dozen or so blank messages, probably from women who had called and been directed by the outgoing message tape to her new answering service. The others were from Ariadne Stupenagel (six) and from Harry Bello (one).

She called Harry first.

“Where were you?” he asked without preamble when she identified herself.

“In church, Harry. It’s Sunday.”

Grunt. “We got court tomorrow on Pruitt. I’ll pick you up.”

“I have it down, Harry. By the way, I made an interesting contact today.” She gave him a summary of her visit to the women’s shelter, and of the cases Mattie Duran wanted her to work.

“This is what? Like the Pruitt and the other guy?”

“Only if necessary. We’ll try reasoning with them, explain the situation. Make sure they understand that we’re watching, that if they violate an order or try a break-in or an assault, they’re looking at consequences. One or two, Mattie thinks they’re beyond that already, in which case-”

A pause on the line. “You need a gun.”

Marlene laughed. “Oh, yeah, that and a divorce. You’re the gunslinger, Harry.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” said Harry, and hung up.

Ariadne was at home and clearly waiting for a call. She picked up on the first ring.

“Where have you been?” Stupenagel demanded.

“I’ve been having my nipples gilded.”

“On Sunday?”

“What can I do for you, Stupe?”

“I need a favor. Do you know anybody, like a friend, in the medical examiner’s office?”

“Yeah, I know some people. Why?”

“Because this thing with the Latinos who died in jail is heating up. Paul Jackson and another cop are definitely shaking down gypsy cabbies, and they’re not gentle about it either.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I gypsy-cabbed in drag a couple of nights and I got shaken down and slapped around.”

“Jesus, Stupe!”

“Then I hung around the Two-Five and ID’d Jackson. He’s hard to miss-the guy’s a moose. The funny thing is, I had a feeling I’d seen him someplace before, but I can’t recall where.”

“Didn’t Roland take you around to the Two-Five?”

“Yeah, it must have been then, but there was something else about it too. I’ll think of it. Anyway, I went to see Tommy Devlin at Internal Affairs, and he sort of hems and haws and says he can’t do anything directly because the shakedowns are part of a separate investigation, being run out of the D.A.’s squad. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Sure. The D.A. squad does a lot of official corruption stuff, but that’s usually politicians and bureaucrats. It gets dicey when it’s just cops, like God forbid anybody should suggest that the P.D. isn’t competent to police itself.”

“Yeah, that’s what he said. The hack bureau’s involved and the licensing division and the medical examiner.”

“The M.E. too? How?”

“Well, they suspect somebody covered up on the autopsies. The boys didn’t really hang themselves, maybe somebody helped them out. But I can’t get a hold of the reports, because they’ve been impounded pending investigation. So I thought-”

“Stupe, forget it! I’m not going to be party to screwing up an investigation.”

“Just ask, Marlene, for chrissake! You can do that, can’t you? Somebody must know if something fishy went down.”

There was an unfamiliar strain audible in Stupenagel’s voice, one at odds with the cool and wheedling tone she used when she wanted to extract information. Marlene asked, “Is there something wrong, Stupe? Are you in trouble?”

A nervous laugh, and, lightly, “Me? Oh, no more than usual.” Marlene waited. “Well, actually, yes,” said the reporter. “I think somebody’s following me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hell, girl, I’ve been followed by experts. There’s two kinds of following: when they want you to know, so you’ll get scared off doing whatever it is they don’t want you to do, and two, when they don’t want you to know so they can see where you go and who you talk to. This is the first kind. I’ve seen the same dark Plymouth Fury in my rearview or outside my place about ten times in the past couple, three days.”

“So complain, Stupe! This isn’t some police state hellhole. You want me to help you file a harassment complaint, I’ll be happy to do that for you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re probably right. Maybe I still have Guatemala on my mind. I mean, what’re they going to do, shoot me?”