Depraved Indifference

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Karp thought about this for a while. “OK, there’s a connect, but only through Dettrick. Let’s say Dettrick’s behind the game to spring Karavitch et al. or working for somebody who is. What we don’t have is the why.”

  The door opened and Guma walked in, looking rumpled and tired. When he saw V.T. sitting in the only visitor’s chair, he went out and dragged in a wheeled secretary’s chair and sat down. Karp said, “Goom, what we want to know is why.”

  “Why is a crooked letter, as Mama used to say. Why what?”

  “Did V.T. fill you in on a possible link between Ruiz and the Doyle thing?”

  “Yeah, a little. The CIA connection, right? Sounds like a fucking movie. What about it?”

  “We were wondering why a collection of dope- and gun-running renegade Cubans with CIA connections would suddenly take an interest in Croatian national independence.”

  Guma shrugged. “Search me, Jack. Why don’t we pick up Señor Ruiz and ask him?”

  “Good idea. But why should he tell us anything?”

  Guma swiveled around on his chair, wearing a triumphant and not entirely pleasant smile. “Because I have his tiny culliones right in my hand. Elvira Melendez will testify that she saw Sorriendas get slashed to pieces by Ruiz and a pal of his, Esteban Otero, a guy they call Hermo. We just finished the Q and A.”

  “Brilliant, Guma!” V.T. said. “How did you swing it? I thought she wouldn’t talk at all.”

  “Besides my charm, which is the stuff of legends, I arranged for some protection for her and for her family down in Miami.”

  “Protection?” Karp said. “I thought the People were protecting her in the Women’s House of D. And who did you get in Miami, the cops?”

  Guma shifted uncomfortably and worked his mobile face as he searched for a plausible lie. Finding none suitable at hand, he decided to come clean. “Well, actually, she’s not in jail. I got the bail reduced and sprung her. She should be on a plane for Miami in about twenty minutes. Also, I dropped the charges on her. She’s a material witness now in a case against Ruiz and Hermo Otero. I already filed the complaint.”

  Karp whistled softly. “My, you’ve been a busy boy. So the Melendez family is to be reunited in beautiful Miami. Uh-huh. And who did you say you had watching them in the world capital of Latino crime? The South Miami police force?”

  “Actually, it’s Hialeah. But, uh, I didn’t actually involve the local cops.”

  “Guma, not the Feds.”

  “Shit, no. What kind of jerk do you think I am?”

  “Who, then? A private security firm? With what for money?”

  Guma threw up his hands. “All right, already! It’s under control. I made a couple of calls to some people I know and it’s all arranged, no money involved.”

  “These people have names, Goom?”

  Guma squirmed. “Yeah, just some people I know in North Miami Beach, from the old neighborhood, you know? Jimmy Guardino, and, ah, Tony Buonafacci. They’re actually gonna stay in Tony’s place.”

  V.T. was having a hard time stifling a case of the giggles. Karp felt it welling up in him too, but he struggled to keep his expression neutrally stern. “Ah, Guma, let me get this straight. You parked our material witness and her family with Tony Bones?”

  “Yeah. Come on, guys, it’s OK. Look, Tony doesn’t like Cuban dope dealers, right? For business reasons. And on the personal angle, he’s a family man. He don’t go for the shit Ruiz was pulling, with the girl and all. Also I figure anybody who could go one-on-one with Joey Gallo and walk away has got to have the edge on a bunch of Cubans. Hey, what’s so funny?”

  After Karp and V.T. had finished laughing, Karp wiped his streaming eyes and said, “Mad Dog, I love it! You made my week. And you know why I love it? Because I’m not responsible anymore. No more loneliness of command. I can appreciate your work for the artistry it is. It’ll be one of the comforts of my declining years.”

  Guma said, “V.T., what’s he talking about, ‘not responsible’?”

  “Karp got the sack today. He’s no longer our glorious assistant leader.”

  “What? How the hell did that go down?”

  In a flat, tired voice, Karp recounted what had happened in Wharton’s office. As he did, he found to his surprise that he could not summon the feelings of rage he had felt at the time. He was not calm, exactly.

  It was as if something was missing in him that had been there before—a certain feeling of invulnerability. With a start he recognized it as something he had experienced before, when his knee had been smashed and he had lost the dream of physical perfection. He wondered what it was he had lost in Wharton’s office.

  When he had finished, Guma got to his feet and started pacing the little room. “Goddamn it. We can’t accept this. No way.”

  “Guma, it’s OK,” Karp said tiredly.

  “It’s fucking not OK,” cried Guma. “It took me years to break you in. How am I gonna get away with stuff if I got some new asshole breathing down my neck? And it will be an asshole, you can bet on it.”

  “Got any suggestions? Anybody?” V.T. asked.

  “Short of sucking Wharton’s weenie in Macy’s window, I can’t think of anything I could do that would get them to change their minds. I’m not sure I even want them to, if you really want to know.”

  “Oh, Butch, for chrissakes, cut out that crap,” Guma said, his voice rising. “You’re not quitting on us now. What we gotta do is get rid of them.”

  “Guma, be real …”

  “No, we can do it. Wharton first. Without Wharton, Bloom is like a prick without balls.”

  “A happy conceit,” V.T. said. “Guma, do you think that this is the moment we’ve been waiting for? I wonder …”

  “The moment? What do you mean, V.T.?”

  “I mean for the creation of a situation so cosmically, so transcendently embarrassing that the victim would be rendered incapable of participating in public life for years, and which would be so constructed as to hold the perpetrators entirely harmless from retribution. I mean—”

  Guma’s face lit with comprehension. “Shit, yes! This is it! This is finally it! It’s time for the Big Prank.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Karp asked.

  So they told him.

  14

  KARP WALKED HOME up Broadway that evening around half past five. The sky still held some steely light in the west, and traffic still roared in the streets. Usually when Karp went home, the streets of these commercial districts were deserted. No more late nights, he thought: from now on I’m a five o’clock shadow. He had even left his briefcase at the office.

  Karp also continued to ponder Karavitch et al. and was troubled. He thought he had a reasonably accurate picture of the sequence of events that had led to the death of Terry Doyle, and of course he knew who had done it. What he still lacked was an understanding of motivation. And motivation was the key to this case. “The question is why?” Karp said aloud, banging his fist into his hand as he walked along, just another New Yorker talking to himself on the streets of the world’s largest open-air aftercare clinic. He stared in embarrassment and glanced furtively around. A man leaning against a wall with a flat pint of Orange Rock looked at him without interest. At least he wasn’t hearing voices. Yet. Suddenly he wanted more than anything to talk to Marlene. He cut right on Grand Street and walked over to her loft. Her window was dark and her two cats, Prudence and the immense and ragged Juris, were sitting on her front step, which meant she was out. Karp considered sitting down and waiting with the cats. Instead he kicked the wall hard enough to hurt his toe and frighten the cats away. Then he went to a lunch counter, where he purchased two leaden potato knishes and a can of Pepsi, and walked home.

  At his door, Karp realized immediately that someone had entered while he was gone. The deadbolt was open and he could smell cigarette smoke. He felt a jolt of fear. Someone had tried once to murder him in this apartment, and that incident returned to his mind in all its hideous
detail. Perhaps Flanagan had told someone about what he had told Karp, and about the Q and A. And someone had sent a hitman? Who left the place stinking of smoke? Who didn’t know enough to relock the door? No, it had to be some asshole snooper, one who didn’t expect him home until much later.

  In a rage Karp ran through to the bedroom and kicked the door open. He burst into the room, with his fist cocked back next to his ear. From the bed, where she was lying, reading a Barbara Cartland, Marlene Ciampi said, “Put down that knish, big boy, I’m harmless.”

  She giggled. So did Karp when he realized he was holding the uneaten pastry in his assault hand.

  He let out a long breath and threw himself down full-length beside her. “My God, Marlene, I thought you were a prowler.”

  “Yeah, you forgot you gave me a key.”

  “True. I give out so many.” He examined the knish. “Hell, I could have hurt you. This thing must weigh thirty pounds.”

  “Yes, and it has sharp edges too. Suppose you put it away and tell me how surprised and thrilled you are to see me, and then I might let you chew on my face for a minute.”

  When they came up for air, she asked, “Well, aren’t you going to thank me?”

  “Uh, that was the most marvelous kiss I ever had in my whole life.”

  “Not that, you goon. Oh, shit, you didn’t even notice. Wait, put your hands on your eyes. Don’t peek!”

  He did as she asked and felt her leave the bed. In a moment there was a click and Mick Jagger burst into the room, singing about Jumping Jack Flash. “Ta-daaah!” she cried. “Surprise! Isn’t it great?” She danced a few sexy steps, and Karp noticed that her legs were bare under her swirling full skirt. “I got it today. KLH speakers, Kenwood amp and tuner, sixty watts per channel. Dual Pioneer cassette deck. Leventhal even delivered. You won’t believe how much.”

  “How much?” Karp asked, noticing the glowing stereo for the first time.

  “A hundred-twenty even. The markup must be amazing. Anyway, what do you think?”

  “Um, it’s great, Marlene. Thanks, I’ll give you a check.”

  “Oh, screw the check. I wanted to do something nice for you. A little civilized pleasure in your bleak life.” She sat next to him on the bed again. “Come on, give a little! Doesn’t it make your day?”

  “Yeah,” he said in a dull voice. “Really.” He got off the bed and took off his tie and jacket. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m a little depressed. Bloom canned me today.”

  “Canned you? What do you mean, from the DA? He can do that?”

  “No, not yet. Just from the deputy slot. I’m not your boss anymore. Just a plain ADA. But I think I need to start looking for a new job.”

  “But why? What the hell happened?”

  Karp shrugged. “Some bullshit thing. I got into a fight with Wharton. We had words. It was about you, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I asked him about your appeal and he said he was going to hold it up if I didn’t—what was the phrase?—something about changing my emphasis, easing up. I guess I lost it. Called him a pimp.”

  Karp went over to his closet and changed into jeans and a gray sweatshirt. He sat down next to Marlene on the bed. She was sitting in its center, legs crossed, hunched over, her hair falling across her bad side like the wing of a shot crow. She was smoking hard. Karp took her hand and kissed it.

  “So. What do you think of that? Want to turn on some hot music on my new stereo, maybe lose ourselves in fleshly delights?”

  She said nothing. Her hand was like a fresh-killed chicken in his. He touched her shoulder and asked, “Marlene … what is it? What did I do?”

  She drew a deep breath and swallowed hard. “Oh, nothing,” she said at last. “It’s just, I wish you would think for once. I keep hoping you’ll think about something else besides your fucking cases.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Me. I’m talking about me. My claim. Have you got any idea how fucked up I am financially? Or my family?” She looked up at him and with a brusque gesture swept her hair away from her scars and the black patch over the empty eye. “Do you know what this cost?”

  “You had insurance …” Karp began lamely.

  “Bullshit, insurance. You think the kind of coverage I had takes care of this? I had the fucking minimum. Why not? I’m young, healthy, I’m going to live forever, why spend the extra thirty-six forty a week, right? I had to go to my parents, Butch. My parents. They blew their savings. They took out a second mortgage, twelve per cent. My mother told me; my father, he’d kill her if he knew she did. He’s sixty-four. He’s a plumber. It’s funny, I never told you that, and we’ve been going together two, three years.

  “Butch, his back’s fucked up. The plumber’s disease, right? He was supposed to take it easy. Couple of years ago my brothers chipped in to send them down to Florida, Fort Lauderdale, after Christmas. Maybe start thinking about selling the house in Queens, get a condo or something. That’s shot to hell now, isn’t it?

  “Last Tuesday my mom calls me up. She was crying on the phone. He’s going out on jobs. He’s lying on his back on wet concrete, goosing pipes. He comes home white from the pain, can’t even watch the news on TV. She’s crying, but she doesn’t say it, you know? When are they going to give with the money, Marlene? This isn’t right.”

  “Marlene, I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t realize. But …”

  “But, what, Butch?”

  “But what did you expect me to do? What could I do?”

  She swung her feet down off the bed on the side opposite him and started to feel around for her shoes. “I don’t expect anything, Butch. They’re not your parents, it’s not your face.”

  “Come on, Marlene. Don’t.”

  She stood up and turned around to face him. “Don’t what? Don’t be angry? I am angry. Goddamn angry!” She started to storm around the bedroom, tossing various possessions into her large leather shoulder bag.

  Karp felt an unfamiliar kind of anger rising in him as well, anger compounded of self-contempt and guilt. “Where are you going?” he snapped.

  She stood at the foot of the bed, hands on hips, chin thrust out, her face dark and furious. “Out. Home. I don’t know. Away!”

  “Fuck that! You’re going to stay and work this out. I want to know first of all what you expected me to do. Say, ‘Yes, Chip, anytime you want a killer sprung, hey, be glad to oblige. You got a little political problem, want to shit-can a good case? Give ol’ Karp a call.’ What did you want me do, Marlene? Lean over and yank his crank?”

  “Yes! Yes, I did!” she cried out. “I expected you to lean a little, compromise, stroke the bastard, for chrissakes. There are a million ways you could wriggle out of any deal you made. What the fuck does it mean? Here’s a flash, baby—you’re not going to save the world in this job. You’re not Gary Cooper, high noon has come and gone, and I’m sick of it. This crap about ‘a man’s got t’ do whut a man’s got t’ do’—it’s exhausting. It’s murdering me—”

  “How about you, huh?” Karp shouted. “Tell me you want to throw Karavitch. You want to ride out tomorrow and tell Bobbi Doyle that we’re going to let the guys who blew her old man’s head off walk away because it’s inconvenient for some politicians if we bring them to trial, and besides, Marlene needs a new face!”

  “Oh, fuck you, you bastard! You bastard! You don’t care about Bobbi Doyle or my face or my family or me. You just care about you, you and your fucking pride. A fucking Jewish prince is all you are. Well, you can yank your own crank from now on, you bastard, because I am taking my little guinea ass out of here. Enjoy the music!”

  With that, she grabbed her trenchcoat off the closet doorknob and made for the door. Karp reached for her arm, but she eluded him and went across the living room, her steps striking gunshots on the naked wood. He ran after her and threw his body in front of the outside door. Letting out a string of shrill curses, she tried to shove around him, but he grappled her, pull
ed her to his body, swaddled her struggling arms. Holding her close like that, he felt an unexpected and unwanted jolt of sexual energy. Embarrassed, he held her away from him at arm’s length, holding her upper arms tightly. She promptly kicked him in the shin, hard.

  He gasped, but did not let go. She kicked him again. Between gritted teeth he said, “Kick all you want, kid, but let me tell you something. Look at me, Marlene! They won, if we’re doing this to each other. This is what they want. They don’t want us to care about each other or love each other. I don’t just mean you and me. I mean the whole team. They want us to hate and fuck each other over. That’s what gives them their power. And that’s all they’re interested in.

  “And about what you said. Yeah, I didn’t think about you, and I should have. Big-time lawyer, I should know how to cut a deal, even with a scumbag like Wharton. But I didn’t and I fucked myself and I fucked you too, and I’m sorry as hell about it. Now, let me make you a promise. I will get you the money. I don’t know how yet, but I will get it. Not just because I love you and you’re you, but because it’s right.

  “As for Wharton, it’s open war now. He’s going to play hardball, I can play hardball too. We got a thing going I think will settle his hash for good.”

  “What thing?” Marlene asked suspiciously.

  “I’ll tell you later, providing we’re still compadres.” Karp released her shoulders and stood away from the door. “If you still want to go, you can,” he said, his gut twisted in a knot.

  She didn’t go. Instead she leaned against the door post and began to cry, silently as she had done so often in the ladies’ room. Her tears smeared her eye makeup around her good eye so that it looked like she wore two patches. After a while she stopped, exhausted. Karp scooped her up in his arms and brought her to the bed. She curled up on her side. In a small voice she said, “I’m sorry. I’m crazy.” Karp was silent. He unfolded a blanket from the foot of the bed and threw it over her. In a few minutes she was asleep. Karp turned down the volume on the stereo and lay down beside her without undressing, but it took a long, long time before he too blacked out.