Act of Revenge bkamc-11

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “I have to go to my other job,” said Tran.

  “What? You have another job?”

  “Yes, one must struggle to survive in the Beautiful Country.”

  He headed quickly toward Mott Street and the Chinese School, hoping he was not too late.

  Karp had first heard the name William Fogel while working downtown as a tort lawyer. The man was a prominent member of the New York bar, who had recently negotiated, against a local hospital, a malpractice settlement large enough to appear in the business section of the New York Times. Karp studied the name on the yellow message slip and tried to think of why Fogel would be calling him. Probably something about one of his old tort cases, was his thought as he dialed the number. The secretary put him right through. Fogel had a genial voice, like an old-fashioned radio announcer’s, and had worked hard to cover a Bronx accent. He made polite inquiries after Karp’s well-being, recalled the few mutual acquaintances they’d had in the tort universe, dealt with their well-being, and then, Karp having exhibited his lack of enthusiasm for this palaver, Fogel came to the point.

  “I’ve got an odd one here, Butch, a client, a new client, in fact, says he wants to see you, says he’s got some information about the shooting of Edward Catalano.”

  “That is odd. A little far afield from your usual run of clientele, huh? The hit on Catalano probably didn’t have much to do with malpractice.”

  Booming laugh, within which Karp detected a core of nervousness. “No, I guess not,” said Fogel. “In any case, I agreed to represent him in this matter. I imagine it’s fairly routine.”

  “Maybe,” said Karp. “Even more routine would be a guy has information about a major felony, he walks down the block to the police station and gives his statement to a detective. It’s a lot less routine when the guy retains a high-priced downtown lawyer and asks to talk directly to the district attorney. I assume he wanted to speak to Mr. Keegan?”

  “Actually, no. He asked for you by name.”

  “Did he? Getting less routine by the minute, Bill. This fellow got a name?”

  “Yes. He calls himself Willie Lie.”

  Karp waited and then said, “Well, I just checked my calendar, Bill, and I see it’s not April Fool’s Day, so. .”

  The booming laugh again, more nervous still. “Yeah, yeah, I know, what a name for a witness. But the man seems legit to me. He’s an Asian gentleman.”

  “Is he? Well, you can tell Mr. Lie to walk over to the nearest precinct and make his statement-”

  “Uh-uh, no, sir. That’s out. Mr. Lie wishes to deal directly with you on this matter. He will not be forthcoming absent that.”

  “And I assume you informed your client that all citizens have an obligation to help the police and that intentionally withholding information could be construed as hindering prosecution, which, given the underlying crime in question, would be a felony itself.”

  “Yes, I explained all that to Mr. Lie. He still insists on you.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Um, he says he doesn’t trust the police, but that you have a reputation as a man of honor. That’s almost a direct quote.”

  “Well, that’s flattering,” said Karp, “and I’ll admit you’ve got me interested. Tell me one thing: What’s the source of Mr. Lie’s knowledge of the crime?”

  A pause. “That’s something I think we’ll need to discuss face to face, Butch. Let me just say that my client has convinced me that his knowledge is comprehensive and authentic.”

  Karp suddenly recalled Guma’s remark about all of the fine ethnic groups available as a supply of hit persons, and said, “Uh-huh. Bill, is there any chance that your guy is a participant in the crime in question?”

  Another laugh, shorter and sharper. “Oh, I think when you meet him, you’ll see why that’s funny. But as far as any substantive information is concerned-”

  “Yeah, right, you need to discuss it face to face. Okay, he wants to see me, I guess you know where the courthouse is. Why don’t we say four today?”

  William Fogel was a broad, well-set-up man somewhat older than Karp, with fine yellow hair improved by an expensive hairpiece and a broad, friendly, ruddy face. He was wearing a double-breasted gray pinstripe, a yellow silk tie decorated with little scales of justice, and a gold Rolex set with diamond chips. He would have looked well in a courtroom, except that Bill Fogel had arranged his career so that he never had to go anywhere near a courtroom. His firm had guys who did that, in the rare cases when the Fogels of the bar did not arrange a mutally agreeable settlement.

  His client would hardly have made half a Fogel. He sat on the edge of his chair like a child in the principal’s office, an Asian man, thin, bone-faced, with the short-sided rooster-crest haircut of the recent immigrant. He wore a cheap white shirt buttoned to the neck, dark pants, and black loafers. They were sitting around the round table in Karp’s office, and each of them had a yellow pad in front of them. Karp thought it significant that Lie was taking notes, too. They had covered the preliminary introductions, and Karp now said, “Let me first say what we’re about here. I’ll take the lead because it’s fair to say that I have the most experience with matters of this nature.” He glanced at Fogel, who gave him a grateful smile, and at Lie, who returned a noncommittal stare. “My only concern right now is to make it possible for Mr. Lie to convey whatever testimony he has in a way that will serve justice. No record is being made of the conversation we’re about to have, and at this point we can take it as being off the record. Agreeable?” They both nodded, and Karp was interested to see Fogel glance toward Lie before he gave his nod.

  “That being the case, Mr. Lie, let’s hear what you have to say.”

  Lie addressed his yellow pad, eyes downcast. “I come here, New York, in 1980. From Hong Kong. I very poor at this time. I-”

  Karp said, “Excuse me, Mr. Lie, are you a legal immigrant?”

  “No, smuggled. Mexico, Houston, Seattle, here. So, 1980, I poor, I have no job, no family, so start in gang. White Dragon gang. Very big gang in Chinatown. I work protect gambling, massage girls, fight other gangs, also what you call, get money from storekeeper, lei shi. .”

  “Lucky money,” said Karp. “Extortion.”

  “Yes, extortion.” He said the word carefully, as if it was one he really wanted to remember. Fogel gave Karp a curious look but said nothing.

  “So I work this way, some year, then, what we call big brother in tong, make me dai ma, big horse, boss, yes? Of other gang people. I have territory, some streets, I make sure all money collected, other gang stay out.”

  “Excuse me,” said Karp, “this is how you earn your livelihood, Mr. Lie? You have no other employment?”

  “Yes, livelihood is all this what I am saying,” Lie said, and resumed. “So one my streets, Elizabeth Street, north of Canal Street, one end Chinese people, other end Italian people. So I meet Italian people, they say wise guys, Mafia guys. But we, they not do business, we stay separate all the time, separate, so I am surprised, one day, Italian man come to me, say, want to make some money? So I go have drink with him. So he say to me-”

  “Just a second, Mr. Lie-this man, what was his name?”

  “Ah, name Scarpi. Gino Scarpi. So he say, you want to work for us distribute product in Chinatown? This surprise me, because, ah, most times Chinese man is selling product to Italian. Bulk shipping.”

  “This is drugs you’re referring to?”

  “Yes, drugs. So I say to him, okay. I don’t tell big brother in tong, I figure, work for myself, you know? And we do business, Asian heroin, very pure. This is for year, year and a half, all going good, no problem. Then one month ago, something like that, Scarpi say to me, Willie, you know where I can get shooter, I have job for shooter. So, you know, I must laugh because, I say to him, why you need me, huh? You Mob! You don’t have shooters? He say, yeah, we got, but can’t use them, he don’t say why not. Hundred thousand dollar, he say, you pay shooter. So, I say know guys, I give them a call, but n
o more, I don’t set it up, he must set it up. Scarpi. He don’t like that. He say, I pay you money, you do job. I say no thanks, I say, what you think, this Chinese restaurant?”

  To Karp’s surprise Lie giggled then. “You understand? I not crazy man, I gangster, but Chinese gangster, not want shoot some Italian, get killed that way. So I go away. Two day later, at night, car comes, two men tell me, get in. So I go. Take me to apartment house, go up back way. Fancy apartment. There is Scarpi, there is another man, they say, this Joe Pigetti, big boss, I never meet him before. Pigetti say, once we ask you nice, now we don’t ask, we tell you, you get shooter, you take out Eddie Catalano. So what could I do, I say, yes, boss. Then he say got to happen a special night, a special time, nine of June, around three in morning. This two days later now. So I say, yes, boss. So two days, I get boys for this, tell them it must be so, it must be this way. Don’t use my own boys, get Viet boy, I know this shooter, he kill like it nothing, crush of fly, also another boy to help him. So they do it. Scarpi give me envelope, I give to them, I don’t touch, don’t count. Don’t want it. They take it, I don’t get no complaint. That’s all.” He looked blankly out at them, as if he had just told a joke without a punch line.

  “Mr. Lie,” said Karp, “how come you’re here? I mean, why did you call a lawyer and come in here with this story?”

  “Is not story, is true!”

  “Yes, of course, but what was the reason that made you want to tell this true story to me?”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, I scared they try to kill me, you know shut me up. So I tell, ah, Mr. Fogel this story, maybe I get some, what you call, witness protection.” He looked over at Fogel, whose smooth face was professionally neutral, with perhaps a hint of discomfort around the eyes.

  “That’s an interesting story, Mr. Lie. Would you be able to provide corroboration?”

  Fogel said, “Mr. Lie, what he means is he needs something to back up your story, some other witness, some-”

  A look of what seemed like impatience seemed to flash from Lie to the lawyer, and he said, “I know what is corroboration. Yes, I have this. I have boys who did job, names, places you find them, and, have gun they used. They use, they give it to me to get rid of, but I don’t do it. So, yes. But I must have immunity. Transactional immunity.”

  Karp shot an inquiring glance at Fogel, but the man seemed bemused by his client’s statement.

  “Well, Mr. Lie,” said Karp, “as your lawyer may have informed you, all witnesses before New York state grand juries receive automatic transactional immunity. That is, a witness is immune from prosecution connected to any transaction arising from anything covered in his testimony, a very broad immunity.”

  “Yes, is what I want,” said Lie.

  “Right, I understand that, Mr. Lie. But here’s my problem. I don’t know you, I don’t know who you are or what you’ve done. Until you’ve made a formal statement and provided us with the means to corroborate it, I can’t actually guarantee you anything.”

  Lie shook his head. “Is not good, not for me. Look, I admit I am gangster, I admit I sell drugs, I set up murder. When you have this all signed, you can say, Mr. Lie, you talk, you testify or you go to jail.”

  Karp pushed his chair back and said, “Bill, I’m going to step outside for a few minutes, and in that time I’d like you to explain to your client how a proffer works and how we’re really not interested in pulling any fast ones on him.” He stood up. “While I’m out, would anyone like a soft drink? We have Coke and Diet Coke and Sprite, I think.” Fogel declined; Lie asked for a Coke.

  Karp went into the outer office and used the phone to call the desk man at the D.A. squad, the small group of police officers assigned permanently to the district attorney’s office for various cop-type chores, and said, “Mel, get on to CATCH and find out if there’s a record on a mutt named Willie Lie, el-eye, or el-eye-ee, Asian male, age about thirty, five-five, around one-forty. Also, get a couple of the guys posted outside the courthouse. The mutt’s in my office now, and when he leaves I want him followed. He’s wearing a white shirt, dark pants, loafers. And tell Captain Fulton to call me as soon as he can. I may need full surveillance on this character. Got that?”

  The officer said he had. “Is that it?”

  “No, send a CSU tech up here in about fifteen. I’ll have something for him.”

  Karp hung up and went to the coffee room behind the secretary’s office and, after killing five minutes with a newspaper he found in the trash can, he took a couple of Cokes from the refrigerator, wrapped them both in paper napkins, and went back into his office.

  “Any progress?” Karp asked, handing a can to Lie, who picked it up, popped it, and took a swig. It was clear to Karp that lawyer and client were at odds. Lie had a cast to his face that made him look a lot less like a Chinese waiter and a lot more like what he said he was. Fogel looked confused and out of his depth, no surprise there.

  “Butch, I’m afraid we’re at something of an impasse. Mr. Lie is not willing to proffer more than a version of what he has already related unless he is guaranteed protection and full transactional immunity.”

  “Well, then, Bill, I’m afraid I can’t deal. No offense intended to your client, but somebody could walk in off the street, say he just shot the mayor and say that your grandmother set up the hit, and ask me to let him skate on it in return for his testimony against granny.”

  “That’s not a relevant analogy, Butch,” Fogel objected. “Mr. Lie had a very minor role in the Catalano killing. He’s giving you a major organized-crime figure.”

  “He’s giving me nothing but smoke, Bill. I need the shooters, the weapon, and a detailed account of how it was ordered, paid for, and carried out. With that, and after due investigation to see if the story checks out, I would be glad to place your client before the grand jury with the routine transactional immunity. Alternatively, I can offer him use immunity on his testimony, and offer him protection as a material witness. But other than that. .” He opened his hands palm up, the gesture of helplessness.

  Lie placed his Coke back on the table and rose. “Now this over. Now we go to see United States attorney.” He waited to see what effect this would have on Karp, and Karp was surprised that a Chinese gangster, a relative newcomer, had grasped the fact of rivalry between two prosecutorial organizations enough to expect that there might be such an effect. He did not think a malpractice lawyer like Fogel had the balls to play that high-stakes game. There was more to Mr. Lie than was first apparent, it seemed, and it seemed to Karp that he, rather than Fogel, was calling the shots.

  Karp smiled and gestured in the direction of the federal building, and they left. Shortly thereafter, the crime-scene-unit tech, a small, dark man in civilian clothes, came in and took away Mr. Lie’s Coke can, carefully ensconced in a plastic bag. Then it was time for Karp’s four-thirty meeting with the administrative judge’s staff, and when that was done he fielded some phone calls, and did not break free until nearly six.

  There was a message waiting from the D.A. squad desk man. Karp called him back and received the news that Willie Lie had no criminal record, no driver’s license, no Social Security number.

  “This guy an illegal?” the man asked.

  “He says. I got the lab guys working on pulling some prints he left here.”

  “That could help if he has a sheet in another state and the locals bothered forwarding them to the NCIS. Meanwhile, you got a nobody.”

  Not a nobody, Karp thought. A somebody, and a dangerous one at that. For in the last moment of the meeting, when Bill Fogel had gone out the door, Karp had used his splendid peripheral vision to observe Mr. Lie pause on the threshold and shoot back at him a look full of assessing intelligence, guile, and impersonal hatred.

  Chapter 9

  After Chinese school Lucy usually went to get something to eat with Janice and a group of friends, but today she had promised to go up to the lab and have lunch with Ronnie Chau before going to the lab. Chau had invited her se
veral times in the past weeks, when Lucy had been too depressed to go, but the new Lucy had made a cheery call from a pagoda-tipped phone booth after class and set it up.

  She boarded an uptown Broadway train at Canal, found a corner seat in the first car, and reached into her bag for a copy of Sing Tao Jih Pao, the Chinese newspaper. It amused her to observe the reactions of the passengers to a white girl reading it. But as she reached into the bag, her hand touched an unfamiliar object, and she drew out, wonderingly, Tran’s copy of The Tale of Kieu.

  Her eyes stung and she had to take several deep breaths of ozone-rich subway air before her emotions were back under control. She inspected the book closely. It was stained on the edges and endpapers with water and earth, and on the leather of the back cover there was a large dark brown blot of what was surely blood. She stared at it, jogging on her lap in the train’s motion, a holy thing, she thought, a relic of romance, of war, of horror, of courage, of desperate flight, and she felt honored beyond endurance that Tran had slipped it (she could not imagine how) in with her possessions.

  She turned past the title page, her fingers caressing the blurred memento of the dead wife, and began to read. It was slow going, for the orthography of Vietnamese is complex and the language was poetic and refined and, in the fashion of classical Asian poetry, the poet made use of compressed references that would be familiar to any Vietnamese, whose meaning she had to guess at. The train was rushing out of 72nd Street before she had the first verse clear.

  A century. In a span that long of life on earth

  Talent and destiny will often war,

  Sea becomes mulberry field and returns to sea

  And you must watch things that sicken the heart.

  Yet, is it so strange that loss and gain balance, although

  Blue Heaven, in spite, strikes down the rosy-cheeked girl?

  She shuddered with pleasure as the meaning revealed itself, and attacked the next verse at once. She was so absorbed in this difficult work that she forgot where she was. She did not notice the gradual emptying of the car as the train moved farther north on its route, nor did she notice the three young oriental men in black clothes and sunglasses sitting together at the car’s other end, did not even notice when the train stopped at and departed from 168th Street. Three minutes too late, in the irrational spasm well known to subway riders, she yelped and leaped to her feet, hurriedly stuffing the book back into her shoulder bag, and went and stood swinging from a strap in front of the door, cursing silently to herself and watching the columns whiz by in the dark.