Carlucci's Edge

by Richard Paul Russo

  The apartment was quiet, but not silent, and she thought she heard faint sounds—tinkling, a click, a slight scraping. She was too exhausted to get up, and she was only half awake. She turned over, the bed creaking, and faced the wall. Was she even half awake? Paula put her hand out and pressed it against the wall. What did that prove? Where was Tremaine?

  Time seemed strange, stretching out and closing in, spotted with fragmented dream images. Chick was dead, and now Mixer was, too. Then she heard the toilet flush, and the present seemed to lock back into focus. A few moments later she felt Tremaine get back into bed, settle in.

  “Are you awake?” he whispered.

  “No,” she answered. She felt his arm wrap slowly around her, holding her. She closed her eyes and drifted back into sleep, unsure whether things were somehow all right, or were terribly wrong.

  PART THREE

  SIXTEEN

  CARLUCCI SAT WITH Andrea and Christina on the back deck in the fragmented shade of a tattered umbrella. Christina had cooked breakfast for them and they’d eaten outside, and now they were drinking coffee and talking. It was rare that all three of them had a free day together. Gazing out over the lush, overgrown garden, Carlucci thought of how he needed to get out there and do some weeding and pruning; and there was his appointment tonight with the slug. But for now he intended to do nothing but sit and talk and enjoy the company of his family.

  There was a thump and scrabbling at the fence, and Tuffs face appeared, golden eyes wide. As he perched atop the fence, he seemed unsteady. Christina got up, hurried to the fence and picked him up, cradling him in her arms and bringing him back to the deck. “Poor guy,” she said, sitting down and holding him on her lap.

  “Why?” Carlucci asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I was talking to Harry, and he said Tuff was having kidney failure.” She shrugged, holding Tuff closer. “He’s just getting old.” She pressed her face against the gray cat’s face, and Tuff tried half-heartedly to squirm away.

  Carlucci felt bad for the old guy, and he found himself almost unconsciously reaching out and taking Andrea’s hand in his; he was thinking of Caroline again, who would never have the chance to grow old.

  Andrea smiled at him and squeezed his hand. Then, their thoughts running on similar tracks, she said, “I forgot to tell you. Caroline called last night, and she’s coming over for dinner next weekend.”

  Carlucci returned Andrea’s squeeze, smiled, and said, “Good. I wish we could see her more.” Meaning more than one thing. He turned and stared at Christina, a terrible ache going through him—grief for Caroline and fear for Christina, fear of something taking her away as well.

  The side gate squealed, and a few moments later McCuller came around the corner of the house. Carlucci wanted to tell McCuller to get the fuck out of his yard. He didn’t want the man in his house, his yard, even his neighborhood.

  McCuller approached the deck, smiling and looking too damn comfortable in his expensive suit. “I tried the front door,” he said, “but there was no answer.” He shrugged. “On the off chance, I came around.”

  “Lucky us,” Carlucci said.

  McCuller’s smile tightened briefly, but he turned to Andrea and softened it. “Good morning, Andrea, good to see you again. Sorry to intrude.”

  Andrea forced a smile. “Hello, Marcus.”

  “Christina,” McCuller said, turning to the young woman. Christina nodded, but didn’t say anything, didn’t attempt to smile. She just held Tuff closer to her, as if trying to protect him.

  McCuller turned back to Carlucci, no longer smiling. “Be ready at seven o’clock this evening. A car will be here to take you to a meeting.”

  Carlucci shook his head. “I have a session scheduled with a slug tonight.”

  “Cancel it. Your meeting’s with the mayor. His personal car and driver will pick you up and take you to his house.” McCuller put his right hand in his pocket, fingers of his left hand flexing. “Quite a privilege.”

  “Sounds more like a commandment,” Carlucci said.

  “If you choose to look at it that way.”

  “Why are you here, Captain? Why not just call?”

  “The mayor asked me to make sure you got the message personally. This meeting is important to him, and he didn’t want any ... miscommunications.”

  “All right,” Carlucci said. “I’ve received the message. I’ll be ready.”

  McCuller seemed ready to say something else. But he shook his head, as though whatever he had in mind was pointless. Then, “I’ll see you, Frank. Andrea, Christina.” Without waiting for a response from any of them, he turned and walked away, around the corner and out of sight, the side gate squealing once more, rattling shut.

  Carlucci stared at the spot where McCuller had stood, trying to ease the tension in his neck and head.

  “Frank?” Andrea said. “Frank, he’s gone.”

  Yeah, he thought, but it was too late. The man had soured his day, and Carlucci knew that no matter how hard he tried, it would stay that way.

  At seven that evening, Carlucci stood on the sidewalk in front of his house, waiting for the mayor’s car. He waved to Harry and Frances, who were sitting on their front porch next door in the last of the sun, drinking iced drinks, Tuff at their feet. It was hot and muggy, and Carlucci was already uncomfortable in the suit and tie Andrea had insisted he wear.

  Shit, he said to himself, seeing the large, dark gray limo come around the corner. He didn’t need this. What the hell would Harry and Frances think? The limousine pulled in to the curb, and before the driver could get all the way out, Carlucci was at the rear door and opening it for himself. He got in and quickly closed the door. The driver got back behind the wheel, closed his own door, and pulled the limo out into the street without a word.

  The air inside the limousine was uncomfortably cold and dry, and Carlucci tried to open the tinted windows, but none of the controls worked. He did not want to ask the mayor’s driver for anything. The guy probably earned twice what Carlucci did.

  The journey was silent, seemed almost motionless at times, and Carlucci felt cut off from the world. No wonder the mayor didn’t have a clue, traveling through the city like this, and living up on Telegraph. Or maybe the man knew exactly what he was cutting himself off from. Carlucci wondered if the mayor ever looked out the windows of the limo and watched the city go past him.

  Carlucci did. Crossing the Panhandle, he looked out on the mass of tents and shacks erected on what had once been open park land; smoke rose from open fires, and shadows of people moved across the dwellings, stretched and flickered on fabric, wood, metal. Further on, they passed the fenced-in enclave of the University of San Francisco; through the chain-link Carlucci could see the outlines of the bunkers.

  They drove through the Japan Center, heading north, passing between shiny, brightly lit buildings and glass-covered walkways, colorfully dressed men and women walking in complete security. They continued northward, avoiding the Tenderloin, then finally cut through Russian Hill, headed toward Telegraph. Crossing Columbus, they had to work slowly past a series of police barricades surrounding a block of burning buildings. Something heavy and hard crashed against the side window, but the glass didn’t break, didn’t show even a hint of damage, and the driver kept on as if nothing had occurred.

  At the base of Telegraph Hill, they passed through a heavily fortified checkpoint, then started up the steep, winding road.

  At the top, just below the ruins of Coit Tower, the driver turned into a long drive as a metal gate swung out of the way and quickly closed behind them. As soon as the limo came to a stop, Carlucci opened the rear door, but this time the driver didn’t even try to get out of the car.

  Mayor Terrance Kashen’s house didn’t stand out from those surrounding it, but then all the houses, condos, and apartments on Telegraph were worth small fortunes, especially those here at the summit, built on what used to be public park land. In the growing twilight, Carlu
cci could see the shimmering glow of a Kronenhauer Field surrounding the house and grounds. But he couldn’t see much of the house itself from the drive—most of the structure extended out from the hillside, facing north and slightly west, with what he imagined must be stunning views. Maybe even of the sunset, which was now blazing the sky and clouds with bright crimson and orange streaks, though the sun itself was no longer visible.

  The front door opened and Mayor Terrance Kashen appeared, wearing both a smile and a dark silk suit with apparent ease. Carlucci walked up the stone path and shook the mayor’s outstretched hand.

  “Thanks for coming, Frank.” The mayor stepped back to let Carlucci into the house.

  “I didn’t have much choice, did I?”

  Kashen’s smile broadened, and he closed the door. They were in a glass-walled, glass-floored entry, a pale creamy light diffusing from the glass. “There’s always a choice,” the mayor said. “It’s just a matter of consequences.”

  He led the way from the entry, passing through a shimmering curtain of metallic fabric, then over a footbridge crossing a brook that flowed out of the right wall and into the left. Then they were in the main room: huge and jutting out over the hillside, three walls of glass, with the view every bit as spectacular as Carlucci had expected: Alcatraz, with its flame towers ablaze, directly in front of them; stretching away to the north, far on the left, the Golden Gate Bridge, spans alight, orange flickers in the deepening twilight. As they approached the windows, the city itself appeared below them, glittering silver and gold and red. More lights bobbed out on the bay—private security cutters circling two large luxury yachts. The last remnants of the sunset lit the western sky with wide slashes of deep purple and crimson.

  Kashen gestured toward one of two small leather couches that faced one another, next to the main window. “Have a seat, Frank.” Carlucci sat, just back from the window, with the full view of the city below and facing the Golden Gate. Kashen remained standing. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Carlucci shook his head. Drinking with the mayor didn’t seem like a good idea. The mayor nodded once in return, then sat on the other sofa, facing Carlucci. He settled back, crossing his legs.

  “I’m told you’re a good cop,” Kashen said. “One of the best we’ve got.” He paused. “An honest cop.”

  “Is that good or bad?” Carlucci asked.

  The mayor smiled. “I’m also told you’re insubordinate. Would that be true, do you think?”

  Carlucci shrugged. “I just try to balance out those who spend too much time on their knees.”

  Kashen hesitated a few moments, then said, “Like Captain McCuller?”

  Carlucci didn’t respond. He wasn’t going to get drawn in that deep.

  “Well,” the mayor said. “There’s something to be said for both kinds of people. The world needs both kinds.”

  “I don’t think so,” Carlucci said.

  The mayor smiled again. “Okay, Frank. The political world needs both kinds.”

  Carlucci wasn’t sure he agreed even with that, but didn’t think it really mattered. He wondered how long it was going to take Kashen to get to the point of this meeting. Or would all of this be part of the point?

  “How old are you, Frank?”

  Not a question Carlucci had expected. “Fifty-two.”

  “Really? You’re in good shape for fifty-two. Well, perhaps ‘shape’ is the wrong word. You do look good for your age, though. Younger. I would have guessed mid-forties, maybe later.” He paused, as though waiting for Carlucci to say something.

  Like what? Carlucci thought. Thank you?

  The mayor went on. “Fifty-two,” he repeated. “If you had a choice, Frank, living another thirty years or so, your body slowing down, gradually falling apart—or living another hundred, hundred and fifty years, without aging, or aging so slowly you hardly notice it, which would you choose?”

  At first Carlucci didn’t think the question was serious, but as he watched the mayor studying him intently, waiting for his response, he realized the question was serious. What the hell was all this about?

  He thought about the choices for a minute, then asked, “Would my family be able to live longer as well, or would it just be me?”

  Kashen seemed puzzled at first. “Would that really make a difference?” Then, “I can see that with you it would. You’re an interesting man, Frank.” He pressed something on the square table beside the couch, and a moving hologram came to life above a well in the table. Four figures moved about just above the table, playing badminton—the mayor, his beautiful, younger wife, and a teenaged boy and girl, presumably the mayor’s son and daughter. After watching the hologram for some time, Carlucci realized that it was no more than about fifteen seconds of movement, repeated over and over.

  “My family,” the mayor said. He turned back to Carlucci. “I understand your older daughter has Gould’s Syndrome.”

  Carlucci nodded, wondering if the man was deliberately trying to cause him pain. “Yes, she does.”

  “It must be terribly hard on you, knowing you’ll probably outlive your own daughter.” ,

  “Harder for her,” Carlucci said, a sharp edge to his voice. What the fuck was it with this man?

  Kashen nodded. “Yes, I imagine so.” He pressed the table again and the hologram snapped off. He looked at Carlucci. “One of my own family members is already dead,” he said. “My nephew.”

  All right, Carlucci thought. Here it is, finally.

  “We’ve been coming down hard on you,” the mayor said. “On you and LaPlace and Hong.” He paused, nodding to himself, stretching his arms out along the back of the couch. “I want to apologize. It’s been unfair. As I said earlier, you’re a good cop, and I know you’ve been doing your best.” He uncrossed his legs, recrossed them. “I reacted the way I did because William was my nephew. He was family. The way you feel about your family, I’m sure you understand.” Carlucci wanted to shake his head. He didn’t think there was much similarity between the two families. But he sat motionless, listening.

  “The pressure’s coming off,” the mayor said. “You’ll be able to do your job just as you would with any other case. You won’t have Captain McCuller or Chief Vaughn or me coming down on you anymore. We won’t be demanding you do anything you wouldn’t normally do.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “No more crazy overtime, no more extraordinary measures or expenses. We’ll even take most of the slugs off, no sense wasting them. Treat this just as you would any other case.”

  There was a long pause, but Carlucci didn’t know what to say. He felt certain Kashen wasn’t quite finished yet. Carlucci continued to sit and wait. He wasn’t going to ask anything, he wasn’t going to make it any easier for the bastard.

  “Okay, look,” Kashen said. “The truth is, my nephew was something of a scumbag, wasn’t he? You’re on the case, you’ve been looking into his history, you know what he was involved with. I’m not going to pretend I just recently discovered what the son of a bitch was up to. I’ve known. He’d been in one illegal or immoral scam after another, and he was probably chest-deep in one more, and that’s what got him killed. He probably had it coming. He was a scumbag. A rich one, but a scumbag nevertheless, and probably got killed by other scumbags.” He paused, glancing away for a moment before looking back at Carlucci. “What I’m getting at, is, you don’t need to go out of your way to solve this damn thing. It’s just not worth it.”

  Finally, finally, Carlucci thought. “You’re not asking me to bury the case, are you?”

  The mayor stared directly at Carlucci, his gaze steady and hard. “No,” he said. “Of course not.”

  Bullshit. That’s exactly what he was asking. Carlucci didn’t say anything.

  “Just don’t kill yourself over it.” Kashen waved his hand again, the same gesture. “Like the session you’ve got scheduled with the slug. Nobody likes them, nobody likes to go through those damn interviews.” He shook his head, grimacing. “Just can
cel. Don’t put yourself through it.”

  Yes indeed, Carlucci thought. He knew just what the mayor wanted. “Too many people know about the session,” he said. “This is the second time I’ve postponed it. If I cancel now, right after I’ve had this meeting with you, it’s going to look bad. Like you are asking me to bury the case.”

  The mayor seemed to think about that, and he nodded. “You’re absolutely right, Frank. Don’t cancel.” He paused. “It’s a private session, isn’t it? No one else present, no one else listening, no recordings?”

  “Yes. They almost always are. The slugs prefer it that way.”

  “Then no one would know if you just went through the motions, showed up, asked the slug a few innocuous questions, then got the hell out.”

  “That’s right. No one would know. Just me and the slug.”

  Kashen nodded, smiling slightly. “Well. You do what you think is best, Frank. I trust you.”

  “What about LaPlace and Hong?”

  “Tell them just what I’ve told you. Take the pressure off.”

  Yeah, right, and dump on a different kind, a worse kind. “Is that all?” Carlucci asked. He wanted to get out of this man’s house.

  The mayor nodded and stood. Carlucci pushed himself up from the couch and followed him back through the main room, across the water, and into the glassed entry. Kashen opened the front door, let Carlucci out, then came out onto the porch with him. The limo was waiting in the drive, the driver standing beside the front door.

  “Thanks for coming out to see me, Frank.” The mayor put out his hand, and the two men shook. “I feel good about this meeting. I’m confident we understand one another.”

  Carlucci nodded. More than you think “Yes,” he said.

  Carlucci started down the walk, when Kashen stopped him. “You never answered my question, Frank.”

  Carlucci turned back to him. There was something here he didn’t understand. Almost like some kind of offer. But what? “You never answered mine,” he replied.