No Lesser Plea

Chapter 9

Twenty of the best prosecuting attorneys in the Western world sat in Jack Conlin’s office for the Homicide Bureau’s weekly meeting. It was the next Monday. Karp had been working nonstop on the Marchione case in preparation for this weekly event.

The meetings usually took place on Thursday, but somebody in the mayor’s office had scheduled a Bullets softball game with the Bronx DA’s office on the previous Thursday, in Yankee Stadium no less, which of course took precedence. The point of these meetings was to allow the assistant DAs to present their cases, and for the other assistant DAs, especially the half dozen or so senior ones, to tear them to shreds. This was done with acid wit and without pity.

Karp sat in the rearmost of two rows of straight chairs that had been set up behind the leather banker’s chairs around Conlin’s big table. The senior guys sat around the table, with Conlin himself, looking now like a large pink shark, at the head. The man presenting the case would stand or sit by the door at the foot end of the table. This was where Karp would be in a few minutes and present the liquor store murder case, after the bureau got through with chewing up poor Terry Courtney.

Karp was fibrillating with nervous energy. The room was overheated and he was sweating like a pig and hoping it wouldn’t show. Every few minutes, he casually wiped the heel of his hand across his face like a squeegee and wiped the collected sweat on his trousers. He thought, I can do this, the case is in my head, I did everything right, it’s OK to be nervous, this is just like before a game. Like a game, he thought, grimly, but I never played against Bill Russell.

Courtney was a good lawyer who had come to the bureau six weeks ago from Felony Trial; this was only his second homicide case. He’d won his first and had gotten cocky. Now he was meat.

Courtney felt as he imagined Angel Ramirez, the deceased in this particular case, must have felt, when the 4.3-inch blade wielded by his rival in love, Hector (Kid Benny) Benvenista sliced through his anterior abdominal musculature, inflicting a 2.1-inch perforating wound in the inferior vena cava, causing death by exsanguination and shock at approximately 11:30 P.M. on March 4, 1970 at 78 East 129th Street in New York County in the State of New York.

Angel was dead. Kid Benny had killed him. Courtney knew it. The crowd of witnesses who had observed the deed knew it. God knew it. But Courtney could not prove it, in the eyes of the law-and what was vastly more important-to the satisfaction of his colleagues in the Homicide Bureau.

Chuck Walsh and Sean Flaherty, who between them had nearly a half century in the bureau, were now taking turns exposing his incompetence.

“Wait a minute!” said Walsh. “How many witnesses did you say there were?”

“Ah … eight or ten.”

“Eight or ten? Eight or ten! Which was it? Eight? Or ten? You sure it wasn’t fourteen and a half?”

“No … ten. It was ten.”

“And of these ten, how many did you depose?”

“Um … three.”

“Three? Good work! What happened to the other seven? Did they die?”

“No, but ah … the three, the three that I got statements from, they ah, all agreed, and so I thought …”

Flaherty broke in. “You thought! You thought you could cut corners, save yourself a little time, right? But you didn’t think, did you, that maybe those other seven people saw something different. That maybe the defense is going to march in with evidence from those other seven people, who happen all to be solid citizens, while your three people turn out to be-surprise, surprise-asshole buddies of the deceased from birth and sworn enemies of the accused. How about that?”

Courtney opened his mouth to speak, or maybe to vomit, such was his expression, but neither words nor bile emerged. He had been caught being sloppy, the unforgivable sin in the Homicide Bureau. It was worse to be sloppy than to make a mistake. But Courtney, in his unthinking zeal, had also made a mistake.

It now turned out that he had botched the most important part of his work: the interview with the accused. Karp noticed, as Courtney stumbled through the close of his presentation, a pronounced tightening of jaws and tapping of fingers around the big table. Flaherty puffed his pipe like a locomotive getting up steam for a mountain run, always a bad sign. At last he removed the pipe and slammed his hand down on the table.

“You said what? What did you ask him?”

“I, ah, asked him if the victim had a knife, too?”

“And what did he answer, dear boy?”

“He said yes.”

Flaherty slammed his hand down again. “Jesus! What the hell did you expect him to say, you ninny? Don’t you realize you put the idea in his head and that you’ve established the possibility that he killed Ramirez in self-defense?”

Flaherty threw up his hands in a gesture of disgust and Walsh took over. “Did you establish in the witness statements that the victim was unarmed? Did you at least do that?”

Courtney shook his head, his mouth gaping in shock.

“How about defensive wounds. Did you check with the M.E. report to see if there were any? Were there any wounds or evidence of a fight on the person of the accused?”

Courtney looked from stony face to stony face around the table. Of course, he hadn’t done any of these things. He flapped his hands and made inarticulate noises. Nothing like this had happened to him in law school. His brain was numb. He began to think about how nice it would be to have a quiet real estate practice in Rahway.

Walsh turned to Conlin. “Jack, this man is wasting our time. The case stinks.”

Conlin nodded. “It does that. Courtney, this preparation is a disgrace to the bureau. More than that, you may have prevented us from trying a dangerous criminal for first degree murder. I’ll see you in my office after this meeting. Sit down. Karp, let’s hear from you next.”

Courtney took his papers in shaking hands and went to a seat in the rearmost row. Karp replaced him at the foot of the table, and opened his notes. He looked out at the faces before him and met Joe Lerner’s dark gaze. It was blank and uncommunicative. Although Lerner was the closest thing to a mentor Karp had in the bureau, it was clear that he would not budge to help if Karp floundered.

Karp cleared his throat and began. As he progressed, he became more confident and he did not falter even when the questions began. Chris Conover, Conlin’s head crony and the Homicide Bureau’s administrative chief, asked, “The two victims, do we know who was killed first?”

“Yes, we do. It was the older man, the store owner.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Angelo Marchione was killed with a shotgun at close range in a store full of bottles. There were bits of glass from those bottles and traces of his blood on his son’s shoes. I have copies of the police lab reports here.”

“OK. Go on.”

“The son was shot three times with a.38 caliber Smith amp; Wesson Airweight, once in the abdomen and twice in the forehead. Any one of the shots would have been fatal.”

“Did you check with the M.E.?”

“Yes. I read the transcript and listened to the tape from both autopsies. They check. No problem.”

Conover grunted and sat back, waving at Karp to continue.

“The M.E. says he was shot in the abdomen first, at point-blank range. The slug went right through the victim and lodged in the wall of the store. Trajectory evidence, as well as deep embedded glass in the victim’s knees shows that he was most likely astride the killer when he was shot.”

Karp then proceeded to elucidate the strands of evidence that linked Mandeville Louis to the crime. The police ballistics evidence that connected the gun found in Louis’s attaché case-after a duly warranted search-with the slugs that killed Randolph Marchione. His fingerprints on the very cartridge cases that had held the slugs dug out of the victim. The fragments of cloth in the victim’s fingernails, that matched the cloth in the suit jacket found-again after a duly warranted search-in Louis’s apartment. The fragments of glass, shown to be the same as the kind of glass shattered by the shotgun blast that shattered Angelo Marchione’s head, in the trouser cuffs of the same suit. The eyewitness testimony of Mrs. Kolka, who had picked Louis out of a lineup. The testimony of Donald Walker.

When Karp had finished, Walsh said, “Very fancy, Karp. The Walker evidence is the key to the case, as I’m sure you’re aware. But tell me, did you promise Walker any leniency in his own case? Does he know about felony murder?”

“He didn’t get any promises. The officer who interrogated him first didn’t even believe there were any accomplices. I established that in my interview. Let’s see, it’s right here.” Karp read from the transcript of his interview. “OK, I say, ‘Mister Walker, as regards your own prosecution for this crime, we will inform the court of your cooperation in the investigation, but I want you to understand before you offer any answers to my questions that I make no promise whatsoever about any case that the District Attorney’s Office may make against you. Is that clear.’ Then he says, ‘yes.’ And I say, ‘Have any promises in this regard ever been made to you by any member of the District Attorney’s Office or any police officer or any other person in authority regarding this case?’ And he says, ‘No, nobody ain’t promised me nothing.’ ”

There was no comment when Karp finished speaking. I rest my case, he thought. He looked at Lerner, who at last cracked a broad smile. Lerner began to clap and the rest of the members of the bureau joined him in a brief round of applause. As always, Conlin asked for a show of hands on whether the case should be sent to the Grand Jury with a recommendation for indictment. All hands went up. The Grand Jury’s decision was largely a formality. On a recommendation over Francis P. Garrahy’s signature they would have sent George Washington to trial for the murder of Abe Lincoln.

Then the cases resumed. As Karp sat down, Terry Courtney whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Nice job, Karp. My first one went OK too.” This sour remark did nothing to dismay Karp, who was the next thing to floating. But by the end of the meeting, he was considerably brought down.

The trouble was too many cases. The discipline and morale of the bureau, of which the weekly meetings were the living symbol, rested on the assumption that the bureau had the resources to give each case the attention that homicide cases deserved. This was no longer true. New Yorkers were killing each other at a rate four times that of thirty years ago. As the crime rate rose, people clamored for more police. More police they got, but the courts, the prisons, the DA’s office did not grow apace.

As the meeting wore along toward noon, Karp noticed that the questions were both less numerous and less sharp. The aging heroes wanted their lunches. Karp realized he was seeing the early stages of what was already rampant in the lower reaches of the system. The house Garrahy had built was rock-solid when each bureau member was handling ten or fifteen cases. Now the caseload was closer to forty. Dry rot was creeping in and the foundations were cracking. Karp knew in his heart he had done as well as he had today because he had only one case to prepare. Could he do the same with forty? Probably not. He thought of what had just happened to Courtney and shuddered. Even worse, he realized that being picked at the beginning of a meeting insured tougher questioning. For him it had been an advantage, since it gave him the chance to show off his brilliant prep. For Courtney, struggling with dozens of cases, it had been a disaster. He felt again the same disquieting sense that he was being manipulated.

That afternoon, around two, Conlin summoned Karp to his office. When Karp knocked and stuck his head in the door Conlin was on the phone, but he waved Karp in and motioned him to take a seat on the couch. Conlin was reclining in his gray-green leather judge’s chair, in shirt-sleeves and unbuttoned pinstripe vest. Karp waited while his boss poured charm over the line, punctuated by hearty laughs.

He hung up and turned his chair around to face Karp.

“The county chairman. An asshole, but he’s our asshole.” He smiled deprecatingly. “Politics … unfortunately, part of the job. Butch, I just wanted to tell you personally what a fine job I think you did on the Marchione thing. This is an important case to me, to the bureau, and while I don’t mind telling you that I was a little worried when Joe told me he was handing the prep over to you, I have to say that his confidence was well-placed.”

Karp mumbled a thank-you and waited for the other shoe. Bureau chiefs in Homicide did not call junior DA’s in for personal congratulations on case preps.

Conlin lifted a La Corona from a walnut humidor on his desk and lit it as he spoke. “You know, I feel that development of young prosecutors is one of the most important things we have to do here. It’s good for the bureau and it’s good for them. Take a young tiger with a good head, a couple three years in Homicide, hell, there’s no limit to where a man like that could go. Tell me, do you know anything about politics?”

“Not much. I was president of my senior class in college. Does that count?”

“Sure it does, sure it does. Stanford, right?”

“Um, Berkeley, actually.”

“Right, well, there’s an election year coming up. You have any thoughts about that?”

“Nationally? I don’t know. With Nixon in there the Republicans …”

“No, not the national bullshit. I mean here. The DA’s office.”

“The DA’s office?” Karp shrugged. “What’s to think? Mr. Garrahy will run and be elected by ninety-eight percent of the vote, as usual.”

Conlin regarded the younger man inquiringly through a cloud of cigar smoke. “He’s seventy-three. Have you looked at him lately?”

Karp remembered the day at the Bullets’ game and what he had seen, and what he had said to Guma and what Guma had answered.

“Yeah, but somehow it’s hard to think of the New York District Attorney’s Office without the … well, without the DA. Are you suggesting he might not run?”

Conlin leaned back in the judge’s chair and blew a stream of smoke at his high ceiling. “He’s been making noises in that direction. The question is, who replaces him if he decides to retire?”

Karp waited. This was obviously the other shoe. Conlin resumed.

“There’s what’s-his-name, Bill Vierick in the Mayor’s Office: lawyer, very big with the liberals; never argued a criminal case as far as I know, but ran the Mayor’s Task Force on Criminal Justice. I know he’d like to be DA. Like JFK said about Bobby when he made him attorney general, give him a little legal training before he goes into private practice.

“Then we have Bloom over in the Southern District. Good political connections on the state level, hard charger, ambitious as sin. Rich fucker, too. On the other hand, he comes on like a nun. Our party leaders don’t like that, so that could be trouble for Mister Sanford L. Bloom.”

“OK, who else …?” Conlin mused, as if to no one in particular.

My cue, thought Karp. “There’s you,” he said. And it was true. Jack Conlin would make a fine DA, but Karp could not help resenting the manipulation.

Conlin pursed his lips and drew on his cigar, as if this notion had never occurred to him before. Then he laughed, a short bark. “I guess you do know something about politics, Butch. OK, let me cut out the blarney. I want to be the DA. But not at Phil Garrahy’s expense, and not at the expense of splitting the Party vote. I happen to know Vierick has already organized a committee and that the mayor will support him, whether Garrahy runs or not.”

“What! Garrahy will blow his doors off. Who gives a damn who the mayor endorses for DA? The only endorsement worth squat in an open DA race would be the one from Francis P. Garrahy himself.”

“Assuming he doesn’t run, in which case I can’t see him endorsing anyone but me.”

Karp did not like the way the conversation was going. He did not care to examine that closely what went on under the hood in the DA’s office. As long as it let him get on with putting bad guys in jail, he was content to let others get greasy hands. He was also a little confused about what Conlin wanted of him.

“Yeah, but he is going to run, isn’t he? I mean, nobody is telling him not to, right?”

“Of course not. I’ve been asking him to declare as a candidate at every bureau chief meeting for the past six months. No, he’s just being cagey. I think he’s feeling his age and wants everybody to tell him he’s still the man he used to be, and all.”

“Hell, I’ll tell him that.”

Conlin chuckled. “Well, you may get the opportunity some day. Meanwhile, if he doesn’t run, and it does come to a primary fight, I’d like to be able to count on your support.”

“Uh, sure. I mean, for what it’s worth …”

“No, don’t go undervaluing yourself. You happen to be among the most respected of the younger men in this office. People listen to you. They think you’ve got a good head on your shoulders.” Conlin let go a flashy smile. Karp smiled back. An inane song of the period rattled through his head-“I’m in with the In Crowd, I know what the In Crowd knows.” Conlin was looking through some papers on his desk. Karp sensed the meeting was over and got up to leave.

“Oh, couple more things, Butch,” Conlin said. He consulted a piece of paper on his desk. “This Marlene Ciampi. You ever work with her?”

“Yeah, some. She’s hard to miss.”

“The bureau has been getting some pressure about hiring a woman. Abondini’s leaving next month, so we’ve got a slot. What d’you think?”

“I think she’s a great lawyer. Works hard, knows her procedure, plenty of guts.”

Conlin grunted. “Yeah, well Phil is a little uneasy. You know how old-fashioned he is. Thinks maybe a woman might have, how did he put it? Sensibilities too delicate for the rough-and-tumble of the Homicide Bureau. What about that?”

Karp barely restrained a giggle. “Ah … I think Mr. Garrahy can put his mind at ease in the sensibilities department.”

Conlin made a few notes and then turned to Karp again.

“Oh, and on the Marchione case? You’ll be happy to learn that our defendant has hired Leonard Sussman.”

Karp whistled. If you were a society matron and you found your husband in the rack with the upstairs maid and shot him five times in the head with your pearl-handled.32, you might hire Leonard Sussman to get you off, or if you were a Mafia chieftain and a number of your business associates had died under circumstances so unusual that the police suspected foul play, then you would definitely want Sussman to be your man in court. But Sussman did not work for armed robbers who shot liquor store owners.

“Sussman is doing pro bono? Stop the presses!”

“Nope. The little shit is paying regular rates. Where’s it coming from, I wonder? What do we know about this Louis guy, anyway?”

“Next to zip. No record, for one thing-that’s unusual as hell. No family in the city. Apparently works as a proofreader when he’s not shooting. Just a guy who decided to be an armed robber, it looks like. Say, is Sussman going to be any trouble on this case?”

Conlin said with a laugh, “Oh, he’s always trouble, some way or another. But, really, we built a great case. It’s a lock. I mean, what can he do?”

Which was precisely what Leonard Sussman was wondering at this moment.

Seated across from Mandeville Louis in the small lawyers’ meeting room in the Tombs, Sussman radiated the solid confidence that was his great professional tool. What he felt was irrelevant and invisible. He was a silver man: curly silvery hair, pale eyes, silver-rimmed half glasses, silvery-gray pinstriped suit, and silk tie. His skin might have been pale and silvery too, had it not been bronzed by a recent week of skiing in Gstaad.

Sussman was about to become annoyed with his client, something he never did. He considered it bad for business. But, of course, Louis was not part of his usual clientele. He was black, for one thing, and he wasn’t frightened, for another. In fact, he was maddeningly confident. Sussman tried again.

“Mister Louis, I seem to be having a great deal of difficulty communicating to you the gravity of your present situation. You’re being charged with murder in the first degree. Walker places you at the scene with a loaded shotgun. Another witness also places you at the scene. Your pistol killed one of the victims. I am a very good criminal lawyer, as you know, but I doubt that even I will be able to fix in the mind of a jury the possibility that in the fifteen or so minutes you were gone from the car somebody else killed the Marchiones with your weapons. Yet in spite of the strength of this evidence, you refuse to countenance negotiating a plea to a lesser offence, nor have you been forthcoming in offering me any extenuation, any scrap of …”

Louis broke in, saying, “Mister Sussman, I am not going to prison. Not now. Not ever.”

Sussman regarded his client coldly. Louis was dressed in a yellow jail uniform too large for his thin frame. His hazel eyes, discomfortingly odd in a black man’s face, glittered back at the lawyer from behind round, gold-framed glasses. Sussman felt himself becoming unsettled under this gaze and glanced down at his papers. Rich and recently widowed women did not treat him this way.

“Yes, yes, of course, that’s what I’m here for. Now I can of course delay the date to some extent, and I have in fact taken the liberty of entering a number of motions to that effect, but at some time we will undoubtedly have to go to trial, and I can assure you that …”

“There will be no trial.”

“No trial?”

“That is correct.”

Sussman stared at Louis over his half glasses. “Mister Louis, are you, ah, planning something?”

“Yes,” said Louis.

“Don’t you think you should discuss it with your attorney?”

“No, I do not.”

“You’re being impossibly difficult, Mister Louis.”

“Yes. That’s why I hired you,” said Louis with a cold smile. He rose and knocked on the door for the guard. “Good day, Mister Sussman. See you in court.”

Some weeks later Karp was having breakfast at Sam’s with V.T. Newbury.

“Anyhow,” said Karp, “I love the work, you know, but I’m getting nervous. Conlin makes me nervous. I mean I’ve always had a lot of respect for the guy, and all, a great lawyer, but this political shit is making everything wacky. I mean, he leaks stuff to the press all the time, stuff about cases that shouldn’t get out. But if it makes him look good, there it is on the front page. And, there’s cases he won’t go to trial on, cases we have good chances to win, but no, he’s thinking about the track record. It’s got to be a sure thing or he lets them cop to a lesser. This is homicide I’m talking about now …”

“And Homicide should be above reproach-and immune to the sort of corruption the rest of us are sunk in?”

Newbury finished his soft-boiled egg and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I think you’re learning that the bureau is not King Arthur’s Round Table, is that it?”

Karp bridled. “I never expected that.”

“Yes you did. But the bureau is made up of human beings. Human beings are fallible, frightened and prone to corruption. ‘In Adam’s fall, we sinned all.’ Conlin wants Garrahy’s job; why shouldn’t he jerk chains to get it?”

“It isn’t right.”

“Yes, that’s the correct Old Testament position. But look, how long did you expect Homicide to survive as an elite unit when the rest of the system is crumbling like cheese? The cops are rotten, the jails are rotten, the lower courts are rotten: it’s got to touch everything-Conlin, Garrahy …”

“Never. Not Garrahy.”

“No? There are different kinds of corruption, you know. There are sins of omission.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look around you, damn it! The criminal justice system of this city is operated like a third-class whorehouse. It would be a scandal in Venezuela. Not enough prosecutors, not enough office or courtroom space, not enough judges, not enough jails. Police corruption? I see cops wearing clothes and driving cars I can’t afford and I’m pig rich. And when was the last time you saw Garrahy making a stink about any of that on television or the front page?”

“Hell, V.T., you can’t blame the whole bad business on one man.”

“No? Who else is there? He doesn’t have the clout? The man’s got more political power than God Almighty, and as far as I can see he does fuck-all with it.”

“Jesus, Newbury, calm down! Would you prefer Jack Conlin in there? Or Bloom?”

Newbury drew a couple of deep breaths and then grinned sheepishly. “God help us! No, I guess it’s eight generations of outraged civic virtue. Good government DNA is in my genes. Look, Butch, it’s not that I don’t respect him, I mean as a person. Sure, who wouldn’t, he walks on water. But, I mean, look at the institution. Why hasn’t he groomed somebody to take over? Why does he tolerate that total shit, Wharton?”

“How should I know, V.T.? Maybe he doesn’t know what’s going on …”

“Oh, yeah. If only the czar knew how his people suffered, surely he would do something! Did I ever tell you about my Uncle Parker? A crucial event in my young life. Actually he was my great-uncle. Had a big place out in Sag Harbor where I used to spend the summers. I was crazy about that man. He had a room full of toys for all the cousins, and he would actually spend hours, playing with us down on the carpet. He was, I don’t know, everything you want your parents to be, but they never are: wise, kind, patient, unbelievably funny. A marvelous man. I was his absolute dog.

“He died when I was fourteen. I cried for a week. They thought I was bonkers-nobody cries in my family. OK, the scene switches to Newbury in college. I’m in American studies. I’m doing my senior thesis on labor organization in West Virginia in the twenties. You ever hear of the Highland Coal War? No? Not many people have. It was a little bit of Vietnam in our own dear land. For three years the Highland Coal Company carried on what amounted to a war of extermination against striking miners, their union, and their families.

“The miners fought back-dynamite, ambushes, sabotage-but Highland Coal had the county and state governments in their pocket and they had a private army of goons who used to whip through the hollows up there on fucking search-and-destroy missions. Finally, they imported blacks as scabs and kept them in locked stockades under unbelievable conditions-practically slavery. That broke the strike, but the hatred those people had-there are even songs about it-‘P.C. Highland, you got blood on both your hands. You done starve my children, you done shot down my good man.’ And so on. OK, here’s the kicker. You know who P. C. Highland was?”

“No, who?”

“My Uncle Parker, that’s who! It almost killed me when I found out.”

Karp was confused. “So he was a hypocrite; how could you know, you were just a …”

“No! He wasn’t a hypocrite. He hadn’t the faintest notion of where his money came from. That’s just the point. It was his responsibility to know, to know what was being done there in his name.”

“And you’re saying that Garrahy is like your uncle? That’s bullshit, V.T.”

Newbury sighed. “OK Butch, whatever you say. Maybe the job is getting to me. Maybe I should take my father’s advice and go work for Mitchell in Washington.” He glanced at his watch. “Hey, I love to linger, but it’s getting late.”

Both men slid out of the booth and went to the door. It was raining, a fine, warm April rain.

Karp said, “You ever think about a Washington career? God knows, you have the connections.”

Newbury looked surprised. “Washington? Oh, it’d be fun for a couple of years, but, I mean New York is … where we live.” He waved his hand in a global gesture to encompass Sam’s, Foley Square, Manhattan, the entire great, wet, smelly metropolis. “I mean, we’ve been here over three hundred years. I’m related to half the people the streets around here are named after.”

“Yeah? Like Izzy Chambers and Morris Broadway?”

Newbury laughed. “Up yours, Karp. No, really,” he said, gesturing again, “this is our … I don’t know, our … fief.”

This conversation disturbed Karp more than he understood at the time. Newbury’s attack on Garrahy had irritated him for reasons he could not quite fathom. It was all stuff he knew. Why did he so resist acknowledging it? Then there was Newbury’s confidence and security. His fief! Karp’s fief was an eight by eight office and a pile of papers, a job, and his brains. Family? His wife had flown off in her own orbit and who knew if she would ever come around again? His mother had died when Karp was a child, his father made corrugated boxes, and was not interested in a son who was not interested in sweating Puerto Ricans to make even more corrugated boxes. His two brothers consisted of annual phone calls.

Karp compared himself to his friends. They all seemed to have a center-aside from work-around which their lives revolved. Guma chased women. Hrcany immersed himself in the social life of his vast Hungarian family. V.T. had noblesse oblige and was engaged to a young lady of suitable background. He looked out of his window at the gray slanting rain over Chinatown. He felt the walls closing in. He shook himself and crumpled up the sheet of yellow legal paper he was writing on and threw it across the room to join half a dozen other sheets in the wastebasket. Two points. He thought, there’s someone in my head, but it’s not me. He got up and took his jacket off the hook and went out of the office.

There was a greasy snack bar on the ground floor of 10 °Centre Street. Guma called it the Cancer Ward. Karp went in and had a cup of coffee and a cheese Danish. Then he stood in the lobby and looked out at the rain. The crowds in the Streets of Calcutta were damp and ill-tempered. The noise level was higher than usual. The fresh smell rain gave to New York’s streets did not penetrate here; it stank of damp dishrags.

Without thinking about it, he found himself at the door to his old office bay in the Criminal Courts Bureau. “Hey, look who’s slumming,” said a voice behind him. He turned and looked into the black eyes of Marlene Ciampi.

“Hi, Champ. No, just wandering.” She smiled and made to go past him into the office, but he stopped her by saying, “Say, has Conlin or anybody from Homicide called you yet?”

She frowned. “No-is there any reason why they should?”

“Oh, it’s just that I was talking to Jack Conlin the other day and he asked my opinion about you. I think they’re thinking about you for Abondini’s slot.”

Her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped in astonishment.

“What! What did you tell him?”

“What could I tell him? I said you had a great ass and liked to talk dirty.”

Marlene jabbed him in the belly with a rigid forefinger. “Goddamit, Karp, are you pulling my pork about this?”

“So to speak. No, really, he asked me and I told him you were a sharp little lawyer …”

“Little!” Poke.

“Ouch, Marlene! No, I told him the truth: I said you worked hard, knew what was what, and had plenty of guts. Then he said Garrahy was worried that your sensibilities might be offended by the rough-and-tumble of the Homicide Bureau, and I said he didn’t have to worry about that. That’s it.”

Marlene let out a shriek of delight. “I can’t believe it. I’m throwing up. Butch, this is great! Oh, God, what time is it? I’m late for court.” She ran two steps down the corridor, then stopped, turned, ran back to Karp, gave him a solid hug and planted a firm kiss on the side of his neck. “Thanks, Butch, I owe you,” she said, and then broke loose and ran off, weaving through the crowd like a racehorse breaking for daylight.

Karp stood still and waited for his groin to rejoin the rest of him. He thought, for the first time in many months, no wonder my head’s fucked up. I’m horny.