No Lesser Plea

Chapter 7

Monday was the first of April and Karp kept expecting somebody to yell “April Fool” in his ear and tell him that the homicide appointment had been a big joke. On his arrival at Centre Street he discovered that he was still scheduled to take a full load of cases in Criminal Court. The dead hand of the Mad Onion was evident in this, Karp thought.

His weekend, in contrast, had been not that bad, not the usual restless, boring intermissions they usually were. He’d awakened that Saturday missing Susan intensely, remembering their conversation with shame. His head was of course full of heartfelt, logical, and compelling arguments which would have been marvelously appropos last night, but which now cluttered up his head like a stack of dusty magazines that don’t get thrown out because you might want to read one of the articles again, someday.

He lay in bed as long as he could stand it, then had a scalding long bath and got ready for playing softball with the DA office team, the season’s first game. He spent two minutes dressing in old blue sweats and high-top sneakers, after spending twenty minutes wrapping his knee in layers of wide tape and Ace bandage.

It felt fairly robust as he began walking up Sixth Avenue to Central Park, with his big glove tucked under his arm and his old-fashioned all-wool Yankee cap on his head. Playing first base he didn’t have to run much, but he ran-so it seemed to him-like a camel on eggs. And he still couldn’t risk any dramatic slides on the base paths. But maybe it was getting better.

For breakfast he stopped at the sidewalk window of a Greek joint on 14th Street for a sausage sandwich with peppers and onions and a Diet Pepsi, which he consumed while walking north. The day had clouded over and turned chilly. Spring, scheduled to appear the previous week, had reneged. At 43rd Street he bought a couple of egg rolls and an orange soda from an Oriental lady with a push wagon. He ate one and drank the soda while walking, and kept the other one in the front pouch of his sweatshirt, as a temporary hand warmer and for later snacking.

It was not a bad game. The DA’s team was called the Bullets, after the slang for a year in the pen, and because the DA liked to hire athletes, it was a good one. Today they were playing a tough team from the New York City Department of Sanitation, officially named the White Knights, but known to the city leagues as the New York Stinkees.

Pitching for the Bullets was Big Joe Lerner, the Homicide Bureau’s star trial lawyer. Lerner was taller even than Karp, and about as ferocious a competitor as one can be in slow-pitch softball. Guma at short, naturally; Karp at first; Hrcany caught and played the outfield. As they flipped the ball around the diamond before the game, Karp felt centered again. Sometimes it seemed to him that his real life was just this: leaping around on a patch of ground with ruled lines, flinging a ball around with a bunch of other guys. Everything else-marriage, family, work-was to a greater or lesser degree merely a pain in the ass.

Garrahy was there. He came to the ball field in the bottom of the first, during the Bullet’s at-bat and watched the game intently, like a major-league owner in his private box. Karp thought he looked ill and shrunken, and mentioned this to Guma on the bench. “Him?” Guma retorted. “He’s made of rock. He’ll last forever. I guarantee you, he’ll bury us all.”

“No, really, Goom. You ever think of what’ll happen to the DA’s office when he goes?”

“I don’t know, but it’ll be a helluva wake. We’ll all be drunk for a month.” A bat cracked and Guma leaped to his feet. “Way ta sock it, Jamesy baby! No pitcher, no pitcher!”

Karp glanced again at Garrahy. The old man was sitting in the small set of bleachers behind the players’ bench, hunched in a camel hair coat, his thin white hair covered by a grayish green loden hat. His nose was red and he looked cold, but his eyes were clear.

Karp did not see much of Garrahy in the normal course of work and it was always a thrill to be in his presence. Karp was an unashamed hero-worshipper. As a schoolboy athlete, he had once sat next to Mickey Mantle at an awards dinner and been speechless with awe. (He eats! He drinks! He wipes his mouth with a napkin.) Karp stole the napkin afterward; he thought he still had it somewhere. The iconoclasm of the sixties-“don’t follow leaders, avoid parking meters”-had barely touched him. In his soul Karp loved being coached. Besides his obvious physical skills, that was the one thing that made him an extraordinary player, his willingness to make himself an instrument of a larger, grander design. As they say in basketball circles-and this is a high compliment-he moved well without the ball.

Garrahy caught him staring, smiled, and gave a nod and a little wave of his gloved hand. Karp smiled back. The Bullets had a little rally going-two men on-and when Karp came up to bat, his head was full of the kind of romantic hero drivel usually found only in the kind of sports books written for ten-year-old boys. Karp was not that great a hitter, having too much of a strike zone and the wrong kind of body and reflexes, but this time he whacked the second pitch into deep center field and made it to third standing up. He scored on the next play and-as it turned out-that was the winning margin, as the Bullets took it, six to four. Garrahy shook his hand. Lerner shook his hand and said if he needed any thing when he got to homicide to be sure and look him up. After the game the whole team went as usual to McGonnigle’s on Third Avenue. They drank beer and ate corned beef and told lies and watched the Knicks win another on their march to the playoffs. A perfect day.

Sunday he went to the NYU law library and read, and didn’t think of Susan until he was in bed that night. He called, but her mother answered and he hung up without saying anything. He was hyped for the new job and didn’t want anything bringing him down.

Which was why another day in Yergin’s courtroom amid the petty miseries of New York was too much to bear. At the lunch recess he called John Conlin, and the smiling secretary told him he was out. He called Lerner, a triple ought to be good for a little information, but Lerner was out too. Or maybe they were just saying that. Not ordinarily paranoid, Karp started to get antsy. Friday the fix was on; maybe it was off again. Standing in Calcutta at lunch time he had a horrifying vision of permanent entrapment. What did he know, after all, of the deals that went down at the upper reaches of the DA’s office. Maybe he should call Garrahy? He shook himself. Don’t be an asshole, Karp. This joint is Kafkaesque, right on, but not actually Kafka itself. He went to find V.T., who usually had the inside poop, or if not, some words of what passed for wisdom on Centre Street.

A man touched his arm. “Mister Karp? I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Mervyn Stein. Representing DeLillo, Brant, Billings, and Coker? Could we talk for a moment?”

Karp had his hand taken and shaken vigorously by a large man in a three-piece banker’s gray pinstripe. The man had frizzy pepper-and-salt hair, thick tortoiseshell glasses, and the ingratiating hand-rubbing manner of a maitre d’ or an undertaker.

“What about? What’s Delilla et cetera, a law firm?”

Stein gave a little giggle. “DeLillo, Brant, Billings, and Coker are the four correctional officers at the Drug Center against whom you filed assault charges. You recall, do you not?”

“Yeah, I recall. You their lawyer?”

“I am indeed. I am also counsel to and cochairman of the Narcotic Addiction Control Center. Now, Mister Karp, or Butch, isn’t it? I thought we might have a little talk, if it’s convenient, to see if we can clear this matter up.”

“Clear what up, Mister Stein?”

“This case, Butch. You know this kind of case isn’t the kind of case that gets taken to trial, so why kid around?” He smiled broadly, except around the eyes.

“I don’t see why not.”

“Look, Butch, I used to work here, yeah, seven years. I could tell you stories you wouldn’t believe. So take my advice: save yourself a lot of trouble, because as sure as we’re standing here, the Supreme Court will never hear this case.”

“Well, you could be right, Mister Stein-”

“Please, Mervyn …”

“-Mister Stein, in that there won’t be a trial if your clients plead guilty to the top count of the indictment. If not, the case will be tried. I’m taking it to the Grand Jury myself.”

“You must be joking. Young man, you’re stirring up a hornet’s nest here, and I expect you will get more than your share of stings. All I ask is that you reconsider this precipitous action. Look at this case! Four decent young men, working under considerable pressure at a job that is vital to this city. They are brutally assaulted by a gang of depraved drug fiends, and then, before their wounds are even healed, you charge them with assault. How do you expect the city to run narcotics centers …”

“Without maiming prisoners is how. Look Mister Stein, we could stand out here and bullshit all day about how sad, how sad, but the fact is that these guys, your clients, are going to trial. If the jury thinks that three guys holding a seventeen-year-old kid down while a fourth guy kicks his eye out of its socket is a legitimate part of narcotics rehab, that’s fine with me. Meanwhile …” Karp moved to leave, but Stein placed a hand on his arm. He had stopped smiling.

“Wait just one minute, you. Look, Butch, you’re a young man. You have a fine career in front of you. What you don’t need is the kind of trouble this case is going to stir up. You know the kind, the caliber, of the people who sit on the Narcotics Control Commission? These are people you want as friends, not enemies. Now are you absolutely sure that Phil wants you to go ahead with this case?”

Karp knew that there was a small circle of intimates who called Francis P. Garrahy “Phil.” He doubted that this bozo was included in it though.

“I haven’t spoken with Mr. Garrahy about this case, Mister Stein, but as usual his name will be on the indictment.” Karp broke away and started for the stairs.

“Well, perhaps I should,” boomed Stein.

“His office is still on the eighth floor, Mervyn. Ask anybody for directions,” Karp snapped over his shoulder.

It was raining outside, so Karp bought two jelly doughnuts and a pint of coffee at the ground floor snack bar. He went back to his cubicle to eat and ran into Guma in the hallway.

“Hey, Butch, what’s happening?” Guma was wearing a dripping dark-blue raincoat and a plastic cap and was carrying a large, damp paper bag.

“Not much, Goom. You know, making powerful enemies. The usual.”

“Great! Hey, you want some lo mein? I just went over to Chinatown, I got a ton.” So they went into Karp’s cubicle and divided the quart of greasy noodles between them, with the jelly doughnuts for dessert. “I see you’re still here,” said Guma around a mouthful. “I thought you’d be up on the sixth floor today. What’s happening?”

“Damn if I know. They scheduled me for Criminal Court this morning, as usual. My guess is the Onion’s behind it, or maybe Wharton.” He ran his big hand over his eyes. “At this point I don’t particularly give a shit.”

“Ah cut it out, you’d trade your left nut to get Homicide. But meanwhile don’t worry, it’s just the usual sand in the gears-I guarantee you’ll be there this week. Hey, look at this, this’ll cheer you up.” Guma reached across the desk to the paper bag and spread it open. “Fireworks! I picked them up in Chinatown from a guy I know. I got ten packs of ladyfingers, cherry bombs, M-Eighties, Whiz-Bang Flying Bomb Rockets. Hey, I got a Triple Royal Star Salute too, the whole schmeer. All illegal, of course.”

“Of course. What’re you going to do with them?”

“I’ll think of something. Right now I got to go to court. I got a victim-marone! — got a set of jugs that won’t quit.”

“Are you going to impound them as evidence?”

“I wish, any kind of pounding. I’m gone, see ya.”

Guma breezed out with his fireworks and, after cleaning up the debris, Karp went to court. It was not a good court in which to be a petty felon that day. The Legal Aid attorneys were dumbfounded as Karp held out for trial-on what were ordinarily bargainable offenses-in case after case. Finally, Yergin called him to the bench. “Butch, what’s wrong with you? This is a domestic. You really want to try this man for aggravated assault?”

“He used a pipe wrench. It’s a deadly weapon, Judge. The law makes it clear …”

“I know the law, Counselor,” said the judge, his voice rising, “and I’m telling you to lighten up. I don’t know what put the hair up your ass today, but don’t take it out on my calendar. Let’s just get through today in an expeditious manner, and save the trial slots for the bad guys. Understood?”

Karp mumbled assent and walked away. Yergin had never dressed him down before, and he felt his face burning. He tightened his jaw and tried to ignore the smirks from the defense table. He finished the calendar in an expeditious manner.

Then he went back to his cubicle and kicked his desk a couple of times, hard, so that the tin walls of the cubicle rattled like the cage of a psychotic hamster. He called Conlin, but the smiling secretary said he was in a meeting. He slammed down the phone, which immediately rang. He picked it back up and Lannie Kimple’s South Brooklyn soprano sang into his ear, “Hello. Guess who’s in trouble again?”

“Lannie, why don’t you tell the Onion it was Guma who porked you so he’ll get off my case?” A pause.

“He doesn’t need an excuse, Mister Karp. Nobody likes a wise-ass. I think you’d better get down here right away. He has Mister Wharton in with him and they’re both waiting to see you.”

“Great! That makes my day. OK, Lannie, tell them I’ll be over as soon as I’ve filled my enema bag.”

When Karp got to Cheeseborough’s office, he walked right past Lannie, gave a perfunctory knock on the frosted glass of the inner office door, and entered without being asked. The Onion and Conrad Wharton were sitting with their heads together; the Onion planted behind his large wooden desk as usual, Wharton in the green, studded-leather visitors’ chair to the right of the desk. They both looked up sharply when Karp came in, like startled geese.

“You wanted to see me, Mister Cheeseborough?”

The Onion frowned. “Yes, Karp, we did. You know Chip Wharton here, of course.” Nobody but the Onion and a few sycophants called Conrad Wharton “Chip,” a name he was trying to cultivate because of its clean-cut, horsey-set, masculine connotations. Everybody else referred to him as “Corncob” because of his peculiar walk, a sort of rapid waddle with the thighs of his short legs pressed close together, which suggested that he had secreted such an object in an intimate recess, and was trying to keep it from falling out.

Wharton was about thirty-five, plump, with a round face, wide-set blue eyes, and a red cupid-bow mouth. He had fine, almost white-blond hair, which he wore long, razor cut, and blow-dried. He looked like a mean, animated Kewpie doll in a three-piece suit.

Wharton shifted his chair so he could look directly at Karp. Cheeseborough went on. “Chip has brought something to my attention that requires an explanation from you. Chip?”

Wharton consulted a folder on his lap. He spoke in a rich, fruity voice, of the type that was popular among radio announcers in the forties. “This case you’ve filed, Butch, against these four guards at the Narcotics Center? I’m afraid it is in serious violation of our Trial Screening Profile. Not only that, we, that is the district attorney and I, have received numerous complaints from several highly placed …”

Karp broke in. “What the hell is this, Wharton? Since when are you reviewing Criminal Court actions? I thought you were supposed to be chasing jerk-off movies.”

Wharton glanced at the Onion and the two men traded supercilious smiles. “Ah … the Pornography Campaign is just one of my duties. I’m also responsible for seeing that our resources are appropriately targeted so as to produce the maximum benefit to the taxpayer.”

“Very noble, Wharton. What has this got to do with my case?”

“Well, to gain maximum efficiency, we have to view the entire criminal justice system as a whole, and adjust the inputs of resources at each node so as to optimize throughput. Now, as you know, Butch, trial time is one of our scarcest resources. It hardly makes sense for one part of the criminal justice system-us-to spend that resource trying to penalize representatives of the Drug Center, which is another part of the same system. So we have developed a Trial Screening Profile that assigns priorities to different sorts of cases and generates scores. Then we can observe the trial dispositions of various ADAs and bureaus and see whose scores diverge from the optimum, and take corrective action. Am I making myself clear?”

“Um, I’m not sure, Conrad. This is a little new to me. You seem to be saying that people who work for the criminal justice system, if they break the law, well, they can get a sort of special deal from the DA’s office, maybe cop an easier plea because the whatsit, the Trial Screening Profile, gives a low score to those particular crimes.”

“I wouldn’t say a ‘special deal,’ actually. It’s a … more subtle ordering of priorities type of thing …”

“No, I think I got it now. So it would mean that, if I were a cop sitting here, and you were to go over to Mister Cheeseborough there and start sucking his cock, and he said, ‘Let go of my hose, you little faggot,’ and then I arrested you for sexual battery, in such a case, because you were part of the criminal justice system, the Honorable Francis P. Garrahy or his representatives would be more inclined to let you plead to say, consensual sodomy. Is that how it would work, Conrad?”

The Onion came up out of his chair so fast that his anti-hemorrhoid Komfort-Kushion squawked. “Damn you, Karp. You’re offensive!”

“Not as offensive as what I’m hearing from him.” Karp jerked his thumb at Wharton, who was silent, with an expression of superior resignation on his cherubic face. “The law doesn’t say diddly-squat about goddam priorities, Mister Cheeseborough. It says everybody gets the same shake, the same day in court, and if we spend more time nailing a multiple killer than a sidewalk spitter, that’s part of the discretion of the assistant district attorney in charge-which is me- subject to the concurrence of the district attorney, from whom I have heard not one word on this matter-”

“Karp, you’re way out of line now,” sputtered the Onion, his top knot lashing about like a palm in a typhoon. “I am …”

“-and furthermore, behind all this happy horseshit about ‘optimizing throughput’ I detect just a taste of old-fashioned politics. You wouldn’t have gotten a call from a guy named Mervyn Stein, hey Conrad?”

“That has nothing whatever to do with it,” said Wharton, coloring slightly.

“Oh, Conrad, is that a blush of shame on your cheek, naughty boy! Does Mr. Garrahy know you’ve been using his office to make important friends for yourself on the Narcotics Control Commission?”

Wharton sighed. “Karp, you’re getting carried away. This case has nothing. You have the word of four teenaged addicts, who were regrettably injured during an escape attempt, against the testimony of four reputable guards. In my view, you’re wasting the office’s resources because of some private vendetta that …”

“In your view! The courtroom wizard speaks. When was the last time you tried a case, Wharton? In moot court?”

“He’s right, Karp,” the Onion said nastily. “You haven’t got any evidence besides those scumbags’ testimony.”

“You’re wrong there. I have complete documentary proof that the guards lied about their whereabouts during the time the inmates were beaten.”

This was bluff. Karp had sent Hal Dooley up to the Drug Center to check on the movements of the guards on the day in question, but so far, he had come up with nothing. But there had to be that evidence.

“Oh?” said Wharton, “what sort of proof?”

“Come to court, you’ll find out.”

“No way, Karp,” the Onion put in. “I’m still running this bureau, and I won’t have …”

But they never found out what the Onion wouldn’t have, because at that instant there was a loud explosion from the direction of the outer office, followed by two more in quick succession.

“Jesus! What the hell is that?” cried the Onion. And then several more sharp reports.

Wharton’s pink face blanched and he croaked, “We’re under attack by radicals! That’s automatic weapons fire!”

All three men rushed into the outer office, where Miss Kimple was crossing herself nonstop and begging forgiveness for her sins. Lurid flashes could be seen through the frosted glass of the hallway door.

Luckily Wharton was there to take charge. He had spent four years in the ROTC and nine months in a logistic-support unit in Saigon. On two occasions he had flown in a helicopter over paddies where there were reliable reports of Vietcong sightings, for which exploit he had received a Bronze Star.

“Miss Kimple!” he barked, “get down behind the desk! Everybody, take cover!” They all got down on their knees behind the secretary’s desk, Kimple half dead with terror, the Onion red faced with rage (this was not covered under Civil Service regulations), and Karp feeling foolish. Wharton pulled the phone down and dialed 911. For a wonder he was connected at once and began shooting vital information down the line in clipped military tones: “This is the DA’s office, One hundred Centre Street, fourth floor. We’re under attack by a group of armed radicals. They have automatic weapons, probably Kalashnikovs, grenades, and rocket launchers …” Suitable background noises for this dramatic report continued to come from outside: explosions, the sound of breaking glass and now a woman’s voice screaming hysterically and a man’s hoarse shouts.

Wharton concluded his report: “… my name is Conrad Wharton, I’m Mister Garrahy’s special assistant. For God’s sake, hurry! They’re getting closer. Send the SWAT team!” As he hung up the telephone there was an unusually loud BANG-WHOOOOSH-BANG! outside the door and the room was lit with a hellish red glare, which died and was then replaced with a blue light and then a green one. Finally, the loudest explosion of all went off, the door shook, its glass rattled and a wave of harsh actinic white light, like a welder’s torch, came through the door glass. Miss Kimple screwed her fists into her ears, shut her eyes, and commenced to scream at the top of her voice.

Green light? Karp had never seen combat, but he doubted that light shows were part of the standard repertoire of the militant left. He rose to his feet and walked toward the hallway door. “Get down, you fool! You’ll draw their fire,” croaked Wharton, still prone. “Doyle! Can’t you shut her up!” The Onion grabbed Miss Kimple’s shoulder and shook her. The screams continued. Then he made his big mistake. Trained by dozens of B-movies as to the appropriate masculine behavior in such situations, he sat up and slapped Miss Kimple across the face. It stopped her screaming. She opened her eyes wide, brought down her fists and delivered a right cross that would not have embarrassed Willy Pep smack on the Onion’s nose. He fell back across Wharton’s body gushing blood. Kimple closed her eyes, plugged her ears and began screaming again.

Karp left the office and walked out into the hallway. He already had a pretty good idea of what had happened, and it was confirmed by the charred and glowing cardboard cylinders that littered the floor. The passage was smokey and thick with the acrid fumes that recalled childhood summers and Tuesday night fireworks at Coney Island. People were beginning to emerge cautiously from the other offices in the hall. Karp spotted Roland Hrcany and waved.

“Karp? We have to stop meeting like this. What the fuck’s happening, man? Another bombing?”

“I doubt it. It seems to be coming from Guma’s.” Karp pointed to Guma’s door, two doors down from the Onion’s and across the hall. As one of the senior ADA’s in the bureau, Guma had his own office. Its door glass was shattered and it now appeared to be the source of the smoke, the continuing red glow, an occasional BANG! and the noise of a violent argument between a woman shrieking in a foreign tongue and a man speaking Low Middle Brooklynese.

Now there was a rumble of footsteps on the fire stairs. The fire door burst open and half a dozen big men dressed in black uniforms and helmets and carrying riot guns and Armalite rifles charged into the hallway. The office workers backed against the walls to let them by. The SWAT sergeant shouted, “Where are they?” Silence from the crowd. “OK, you three men check the offices on this floor. Camello, Rasmussen, check the fifth. What the hell is all that screaming?”

Karp stepped forward. “Uh, Sergeant, I think there’s been a mistake.”

“Who’re you?”

“My name’s Karp. I’m a DA. Look, I think what we’ve got here is an accidental explosion of some fireworks.” Karp held up a large cardboard tube on which still fluttered some colorful tissue paper printed with Chinese characters. The sergeant swore. “Alright, but what’s going on in there?” He gestured to Guma’s office. “It sounds like a broad getting raped by a wild pig.”

Karp said, “You could be right, Sarge. Let’s check it out.”

The two men went over to Guma’s door. Hrcany and a dozen or so spectators followed and crowded around. Meanwhile, one of the SWAT officers had liberated the Onion’s fortress. Miss Kimple was being ministered to on the office couch by another secretary. The Onion and Wharton had come out into the hallway, both spattered with blood from the Onion’s nose. The Onion still held a red-sodden handkerchief to his face and leaned on Wharton for support.

“Holy shit,” said Hrcany, noticing them. “This looks like the relief of Khe Sanh. Butch, what the fuck …”

“Wait, wait,” said Karp, “here comes the payoff.”

The SWAT sergeant rattled the knob to Guma’s door. It was locked. The shouts from inside ceased. “Open up!” shouted the sergeant. More silence. The SWAT man then knocked the rest of the glass out of the door with the butt of his shotgun, reached in, and released the lock. The door swung open and the spectators leaned forward and peered through the smoke still rushing out through the doorway.

Guma was standing in the middle of the small room. He held up his pants with his left hand and with his right held the arm of a very large, very angry, very blonde, and very naked woman. The surface of his desk was cleared of everything except a green blotter and a gooseneck lamp. Smoke still poured from the waste can near the desk. A black lace brassiere hung from the lamp. When the woman saw the crowd she cried out something incomprehensible and slapped Guma’s face with her free hand. She broke free, snatched various items of clothing off the floor, and, clutching them to her middle, bent over double to shoot out through the doorway and down the hall before anyone could stop her. The last part of her they saw was a set of generous white buttocks twinkling away through the swirling smoke.

Karp spoke first. “Sergeant, this is obviously not a job for the SWAT team.”

The sergeant laughed. “I guess you could say that. But what’ll I do about my report? I gotta say something.”

“Just say it was … a case of DHE, that’s detonative hysterical ecdysiasm.”

“What?”

“Here, I’ll write it down for you. Detonative hysterical ecdysiasm is an uncontrollable desire to undress in front of lawyers while setting off fireworks. We have two or three cases of it every week.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure, Sarge,” said Hrcany. “We usually handle it quietly, but this was worse than usual. That poor woman! I’ll see that she gets the appropriate treatment.”

The sergeant appeared satisfied with this explanation. He had once worked in the East Village and had heard a hundred stranger stories. He gathered his commandos together and left. The crowd began to disperse; it was after five and most of them were on their way home anyway. Karp and Hrcany went into Guma’s office. Guma was straightening his clothes.

“OK, Mad Dog, spill!” said Karp.

“Holy shit, Karp, what the fuck am I going to do about this office?”

“More to the point, what are you going to do about the Onion?” said Hrcany.

“He won’t do shit,” said Karp. “Corncob Wharton will convince him to keep it quiet because he won’t want it known that he called out the SWAT for some firecrackers. It might prejudice his machismo, and the Onion won’t want the world to know he was cold-cocked by his secretary.”

In fact, they could hear the Onion bellowing in the corridor, a bellow transmuted by the tissue jammed into his nostrils: “I wonk to know the meanbing of this! What is gonking ong here?” They also heard Wharton talking rapidly to him and then the closing of the Onion’s office door.

“See?” said Karp. “OK, Guma, what is gonking on here? Who was that bimbo?”

Guma collapsed in his swivel chair and sighed deeply. “That was no bimbo, that was my witness, Christa Spirotekas. She’s a Greek, runs a bar on Eighth Avenue. I just nailed some guy who burgled her place and she wanted to show her appreciation. So I let her. I sat in my chair smoking a cigar and she did the horniest strip act I ever saw in my life. Then she sat on my lap and started torquing my tool. What could I do?”

“What, indeed?” said Hrcany.

“So she cleared off the desk-”

“Except for the blotter.”

“-except for the blotter and lay down on her back, and I dropped my drawers and got to work. Mama mia! What a piece of ass! Did you catch those mazoomas?”

Karp said, “I can see it coming.”

“Right. I tossed my cigar into the shit can. I guess I forgot that’s where I stashed my fireworks.”

“And the rest is history,” said Hrcany. “One thing, Goom, since me and Karp saved your butt with our quick thinking, I figure you owe us something.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Guma suspiciously. “Like what?”

“Goom,” said Hrcany, “I don’t know what Karp wants, but I want that blotter. I’m going to have it framed.”

“Terrific, you can have it.”

Karp went to the door. “Guys, it’s been real, but I gotta go.”

“Stay, Butch, we’ll go for beer and pizza. You’re not gonna work now, are you?”

“Yeah, Goom, I got to clear up some stuff.”

Karp went directly to his cubicle and dumped the contents of his desk drawers into a waste basket and stuffed all his books and papers into his briefcase. He went out into the hall, found a janitorial cart and took a couple of brown plastic trash bags. These he filled with the rest of his things and the briefcase. Then, burdened like a pack mule, he staggered to the elevator and rode it up to the sixth floor.

He went directly to Joe Lerner’s office. The secretary had gone home, but he knew Lerner would be there. The man was famous for working late. He was also famous for not tolerating bureaucratic bullshit. Twenty minutes later Karp was unpacking his stuff in a tiny office-tiny, but with a real door and walls that reached to the ceiling. He had just hung up his Polish picture, when Lerner came in with a fat sheaf of papers and dropped them on the desk.

“What’s that?” asked Karp.

“Coram nobis petitions.”

“Oh, crap.” Coram nobis are postconviction appeals filed by people in prison demanding retrial on the grounds that a witness had changed testimony or that evidence had been illegally seized. Answering them is a boring, thankless, endless, and necessary task-and the job was always given to the lowest scullion in the bureau’s kitchen, which at this point, was Karp.

“You’ll love it,” said Lerner. “No, really, I know you’re a hotshot, but Homicide is a slightly different league than what you’ve been doing. You’ll see. You’ll come to the meetings, go on call, see the way we do things. Then, after a while, they’ll let you second-seat on a case. Unless they stop killing each other out there, you’ll be up to your ass soon enough.”

Karp gestured around. “No, it’s OK. I like the office. Thanks.”

“Yeah, it used to be a supply closet in the old days. When it gets damp, you can still smell the Lysol. By the way, what was all that commotion downstairs a little while ago?”

“Nothing much,” said Karp. “One of the DAs was fucking a witness on his desk and set off a bunch of fireworks.”

“Oh,” said Lerner. “The usual.”