Reversible Error

by Robert Tanenbaum

  She stood up and began soaping her body and hair with almond liquid soap. She saw that Karp had pulled an old pair of sweatpants on. Now he sat down on his ancient rowing machine and began to pull at its wooden handles.

  She watched the muscles in his back work as he pulled. He would row for exactly fifteen minutes, take a short wash in the tub, and be dressed and ready to leave ten minutes after that, impatiently pacing while he waited for her to complete her more complex preparations for the outside world. Then they would walk down the five splintery flights and the two grim industrial streets to the BMT subway at Prince and Broadway, or, if it were nice out and she felt up to it, they would hoof the distance, a little over a mile, to 100 Centre Street.

  A routine. Marlene thought, ambivalently, about it going on indefinitely, with, eventually, a stop at the day-care to drop off the kid. Or kids, as it might turn out. She looked down at her belly. Only a slight rise as yet; she could still see her mop of pubic curls. If her mother could be believed, she would carry high and small, like all the women in her family. And have an easy labor, to hear her grandmother tell it. According to her grandmother, her Uncle Marco had been born late one night with so little trouble that he barely woke her up.

  An easy slide into a stable life. Something tugged in a different direction. Watching Karp work out, the dense muscles rolling under the glowing skin, a familiar feeling spread through her groin. Her fingers began soaping more deeply between her thighs than proper hygiene strictly required.

  It’s been a while, she thought. She could hide in the bath and then when Karp appeared for his dip, she could spring on him, soapy and hot, and they could spend a delicious morning messing around.

  But no, that would require calling in to the office, and a massive rescheduling of appointments and appearances. She could seduce Karp from his duty, but he would be racked with guilt for days afterward, and take it out on her. Besides, the staff, being skilled investigators, would soon figure out what was going on, with both of them out for the morning, and so they would also have to put up with the leers of their coworkers, ace leerers all:

  Uncle George and Aunti Mabel

  Fainted at the breakfast table

  This should serve sufficient warning

  Never do it in the morning.

  No, on second thought, better later. She rose from the bath, thinking, I’m getting to be a horny old lady. Not too surprising, since I was a horny young lady too. Tonight, then, or earlier—maybe I can inveigle him into my office. Hard and fast on the desktop, amid the papers. The thought warmed her and brought a giggle to her throat as she reached for the towel.

  Dressed and primped, she in black linen suit, he in his eternal blue pinstripe, they thundered down the stairs, Karp way in the lead, Marlene feeling like Winnie-the-Pooh bumping along after her gigantic Christopher Robin.

  Out in the already dieseled air, Karp bought two newspapers, the Times and the Daily News. He stuck the Times and the brown accordion folder he used as a briefcase under his left arm and flipped through the News as he walked along. He was looking for crimes, and this morning he didn’t have to flip long.

  “Ah, shit!” he snarled, half under his breath.

  “What’s happening?” asked Marlene.

  “They got another one. Jason Brown, twenty-seven. AKA Joker Brown.”

  “A personal friend?”

  Karp gave her a look. “A dope dealer. Or ‘drug lord,’ as they now get called in the papers.” He showed her the front page. The photograph was of the type familiar to Daily News readers for five decades: cops standing around appearing hapless, a shrouded form on the ground, black splotches on the white covering, an arm sticking out, palm up, rivulets of what you knew was blood, looking like shiny tar.

  “You’re right, ‘drug lord slain, this makes eight,’” read Marlene from the huge black letters of the headline. “The same guys doing it, you think?”

  Karp shrugged. “I don’t know. Clay thinks so. I’d like to talk to him about it, if he would ever get back to me. What I’m worried about is his excellency the district attorney. This is the kind of crap Bloom lives for. Guaranteed he’ll have a fucking press conference this morning and promise to set up a special unit to bring the perps to justice. Bloom loves special units.”

  “And he’ll put you in charge?”

  “No, dear, he won’t put me in charge. Bloom doesn’t put me in charge. He’ll put some crony of his in charge and I’ll get to do all the work and get axed if something goes wrong.”

  Marlene assumed a sympathetic expression. “Poor Butch! Maybe when you grow up you can be D.A. and do all the work and get all the credit.”

  Karp snorted and stared away south down the length of Broadway, as if sizing up the run to a pole vault. Marlene caught the look and said firmly, “I’m taking the subway. Momma needs a sit-down.”

  “C’mon, kid, it’s a nice day. And the subway’s supposed to be dangerous.”

  “Walking with you is dangerous. You go twenty miles an hour reading the paper and you think walk signs are for wimps.”

  “OK, candy ass, suit yourself. I’m walking. Here’s the Times. I’ll see you downtown.” He squeezed her shoulder and kissed her lightly on her head, and turned and sped away.

  Arriving at the office, Karp found it was as he had feared. Connie Trask lifted her chin skyward as he came into the bureau office. “He wants to see you,” she said, holding out a short stack of yellow phone slips.

  “The TV guys were going up in the elevator when I came in,” she continued. Karp grunted and turned toward his office. “Say, Butch, how come we never get to be on the TV? I’d like to be on the TV once.”

  “Stick around, Connie,” said Karp over his shoulder. “You could be the one who gets to find my dead body.”

  He slammed into his office, put down what he was carrying, hung up his suit jacket, sat down behind his desk, pulled two toasted bagels (one butter, one cream cheese) and a container of coffee out of a brown bag, and began his day.

  First the phone messages. Bloom’s office, defendant’s lawyer, ditto, ditto, ditto—they all could wait. Nothing from Clay Fulton: a pain in the ass, that. He checked the schedule of appointments Trask had typed up for him. It was clear that a meeting with Bloom was in the offing, and, if precedent held, it would be a nice long one.

  Everything was going to have to be shoved around, people were going to have to be marshaled to fill the court dates and appointments he would miss, and of course their own appearances and appointments would have to be shifted around too. Bloom didn’t get much affection or respect from his troops, but he was at least able to stir the ants’ nest around in this way. Karp suspected it was one of the things he enjoyed most about the job.

  He sighed and called Bloom’s office, was put on hold for a considerable period to teach him his place, and then his reluctant ear filled with the district attorney’s mellow, fruity voice.

  “Hello, Butch! How’s the guy?”

  How’s-the-guy was new. Bloom was trying to incorporate a snappier Nelson Rockefeller-type lingo into his front, and this was the latest.

  Ignoring it, Karp said flatly, “I heard you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Yeah, yeah—terrible thing these killings. I was on the Morning Show today about it. Did you catch it?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Karp in the same tone. “Was that it?”

  “Was what it?” asked Bloom, puzzled.

  “Was that what you wanted to talk to me about? Whether I saw you on TV?”

  “What? No, of course not! I told the media I was making these drug-lord killings my top priority.” A pause for effect: “You know about the big breakthrough we’ve had in the case. I announced that too.”

  Karp felt his face grow warm. “Oh? What breakthrough was that?”

  Even over the phone, Karp could hear the tone of relish with which Bloom informed him that the killer of Larue Clarry had been arrested the evening before last and was now in the custody of the polic
e. “I guess you didn’t get the word,” Bloom concluded.

  “No, I guess I didn’t. I should watch more TV, so I’ll know what’s going on in the D.A.’s office.”

  This was ignored and Bloom went on: “I’m organizing a task force on these drug-lord murders. Blue ribbon all the way. We’re going to use this breakthrough to blow the whole mess open.”

  “Un-huh. When’s the meeting?”

  “Call my girl,” snapped the man of action, and hung up.

  Karp called, and learned that the meeting was scheduled for ten o’clock, less than an hour away. Karp then buzzed Connie Trask and told her to get busy shifting people around, canceling and rescheduling, and also told her to get Roland Hrcany for him as soon as possible.

  Ten minutes later, Hrcany appeared at Karp’s door, heralded by two glass-rattling knocks. Roland Hrcany was a man of average height, but was so heavily developed in his neck, chest, and shoulders that he appeared squat. He had a face that at first glance seemed unlikely to belong to a lawyer, or even a highschool graduate. It was ruddy, hawk-nosed, heavy around the brows and jaw. The eyes were vivid blue and small. His hair was white-blond and worn swept back and collar-length, in the manner of professional wrestlers. His eyebrows and lashes were similarly pale and nearly invisible, which only added to his disturbing appearance.

  “Sit down, Roland,” said Karp. “I think I have a treat for you.”

  “Yeah?” Hrcany grinned, showing long yellowish teeth. “You’re gonna let me have a crack at Marlene before you tie the knot?”

  “You know, Roland,” said Karp mildly, “it’s remarks like that make you unpopular around the office. We were going to work on your popularity, remember?”

  Hrcany laughed and leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head and flexing his football-size biceps. “So what’s this about?” he asked.

  “The dope-pusher killings. Apparently we have an arrest.”

  “Let me guess. A gentleman of the Afro-American persuasion with a yellow sheet from here to Canarsie?”

  “I don’t know, Roland. It could be an Episcopalian minister’s wife. Or a Hungarian. I just found out about it ten minutes ago from our maximum leader.”

  “A Hungarian wouldn’t have gotten caught,” answered Hrcany. “So what’s in it for me?”

  Karp said, “Bloom is organizing what he calls a blue-ribbon task force to coordinate the work on the whole set of killings. Needless to say, a crock of shit, but I need somebody I can count on to hold their hands and make sure they don’t fuck things up.”

  Hrcany stood up and straightened the already wrinkleless belt line of his white shirt. Smiling, he said, “Well, Butch, it’s been a pleasure, as always, but I got to run—I’m having a thin glass tube inserted in my penis and I don’t want to be late.”

  “Roland, don’t give me a hard time,” said Karp wearily.

  “Hey,” said Hrcany, pointing a stiff finger at Karp. “I’m not giving you a hard time. I ask only the same. Butch, this is Roland—I’m not a hand-holder, I’m an ass-kicker. Whyn’t you ask V.T. to do it, he’s the big-time diplomat.”

  In a patient voice Karp explained, “Because V.T. is not a homicide prosecutor and you are, and you are the best I got in that line of work, and this is a multiple homicide case. Not only that, but if I recall, the last time V.T. got some exposure I heard all kinds of whining from certain parties about how nobody ever paid any attention to them, and how V.T. got all the goodies—”

  “Butch, that’s different—”

  “If I can finish—so when this opportunity came along, to shine in a major case, and to bask in the light of favorable publicity, and to mingle with some of the most powerful folks in the city, naturally, naturally I thought of you, Roland.”

  Hrcany held up his hands. “OK, Butch, OK, I give. But if I get cornholed during this operation, I would expect you to apply the Vaseline.”

  “A deal, Roland. You can count on me, as you know. I knew I could count on you. OK, see you in the throne room at ten. I got to call the elusive Lieutenant Fulton and find out what the fuck is happening before we go up there.”

  Hrcany laughed loudly and left, slamming the door behind him. Karp pushed the intercom button. “Connie? You know Bill Denton’s secretary? Can you make yourself sound like her? Yeah? No, you won’t get into trouble, I promise. Yeah, not more than six months in the slam for a first offense. Look, here’s what you do: call Clay Fulton and tell whoever answers the phone that the chief of detectives is holding. When Fulton picks up, switch him in here.”

  Three minutes later, Karp’s phone rang. Clay Fulton’s voice said, “Chief?”

  “No, Clay, it’s Butch Karp.”

  “Sorry. I thought Chief Denton was calling me.”

  “Yeah, something must be fucked up with the phones. But while I got you, talk to me—I’ve been trying to get you for days.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been real busy, Butch. You know …”

  “So I understand,” said Karp as calmly as he could. “You had a big arrest in the Clarry case. I had to find out about it from the ruby lips of the D.A. himself. I had kind of hoped that with that conversation we recently had you would’ve kept me up-to-date on those cases.”

  “Well, yeah, Butch, but … it’s kind of hard to explain right now.”

  “It sounds like it. Look, Clay—this is Butch. Remember? I understand things might be tentative. I been around. Just tell me who you arrested and what the situation is. We don’t have to go to the grand jury this afternoon.”

  “Oh, that. It’s bullshit. Guy named Tecumseh Booth. He’s no killer. We’re just cooking him on Rikers. We really got nothing on him.”

  “Wait a minute, Clay. Why’d you arrest him? What’s the connection with Clarry?”

  “Ah, one of my guys thought he was driving Clarry’s car. Some skell spotted him on the night. It’s no big deal.”

  “Sounds at least a solid medium-size deal to me, you got a guy who maybe drove for the shooter. When am I going to get to meet what’s-his-name, Pocahontas?”

  “Tecumseh. Yeah, well, when I get a chance I’ll set something up. Look, Butch, I got to run now. I got another call.”

  “Fuck your call! What the fuck is going on here?” Karp shouted this into the phone, but he knew that it had already gone dead.

  SIX

  The district attorney’s conference room was not called the throne room during the long administration of Francis P. Garrahy. Karp remembered it as an austere, slightly battered place with a heavy glass-topped oak table and cracked brown leather chairs. The air had been redolent with the odor of the D.A.’s pipe and the cigars of his cronies. There had been a dusty, bad portrait of FDR, in a naval cloak, on the wall.

  All this was gone. The walls were decorator gray and there was a vague, pastel semiabstract painting in place of FDR. The furnishings were motel modern and color-coordinated: teak table, teak chairs upholstered in nubbly bluish wool, and, of course, the throne itself, a special chair in which only the D.A. himself was allowed to sit, a chair that, while still harmonious with the decor, was slightly larger, somewhat higher, a bit more luxuriously padded and a bit more richly covered than the other twelve chairs in the room, as befitted the august behind that occupied it.

  Karp used to make it a habit to come late for meetings with Bloom, and when he entered, Bloom would always say something designed to be embarrassing and sarcastic. But when Bloom had discovered that Karp didn’t care, he took to delaying his own entry until Karp had arrived. This succeeded in making all the other attendees angry with Karp. Karp now arrived precisely on time and left immediately at the time the meeting was scheduled to end, whether someone was talking or not.

  At ten o’clock that morning there were four people sitting around the table when Karp and Hrcany entered. Two of them were cops, in plainclothes, but with their police ID clipped to the breast pockets of their jackets. One was a heavyset light-complexioned black man, the other was a thin, smaller, dark-com
plexioned white man. Both were dressed in similar dark well-cut suits. The white man wore a white-on-white shirt and a red silk tie. The black man wore a blue shirt with a white collar, and a blue silk tie. Karp knew they were narcotics cops, just as he knew they would have $120 Bally loafers on their feet.

  Sitting close to the throne was the D.A.’s chief of administration, Conrad Wharton. Wharton was a small pink man with thin blond hair combed straight across, blue eyes, a pink cupid’s-bow mouth, and a little round belly.

  “Hello, Conrad,” said Karp. Wharton looked up from the papers he was studying and looked at Karp as if Karp were a large turd that some stray dog had deposited on the table.

  “Hi, Chip!” said Hrcany, imitating the voice that schoolgirls use to call each other to play. Wharton liked to be called Chip, which he considered a more regular-guy name than Conrad. Hrcany never failed to use “Chip” in that tone, in nearly every sentence he directed at Wharton—not exactly what Wharton had in mind when he concocted the nickname. Wharton pursed his lips and studied his papers, while a faint flush rose up his neck.

  The fourth man was a sleepy black gentleman in his mid-fifties, with graying hair, dressed in a rust three-piece suit. When Karp and Hrcany came in, he looked up and gave them a bright smile, then went back to thumbing through a well-worn diary and making notes in it with a mechanical pencil.

  At five past the hour, the door to Bloom’s office opened and the D.A. entered with a well-dressed man of about sixty in tow. Bloom was a man somewhat below the average in height, trim, with large moist eyes, a wide mouth, and a thin prominent nose. His gray-blond hair was razor cut and set like an anchorman’s. He sat in his chair, seated the other man to his right, and made introductions. The cops were Narcotics Squad, working out of the Thirty-second Precinct in Harlem—Dick Manning and Sid Amalfi.

  The other black man was Dwight Hamilton, there representing Harlem’s congressman, Marcus Fane, who was unavoidably detained in Washington. The man with Bloom was Richard Reedy, a Wall Street lawyer. Reedy and Fane were co-chairmen of an organization called Citizens Against Drugs.