Depraved Indifference

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “Yeah, I’ll hide it in my kid’s closet. You want me to drop you home or you going in?”

  “No, you go home,” Karp said, sliding out of the car, “I got some calls to make and I’m supposed to meet up with Marlene later.”

  In his office, Karp found that the person he most wanted to call also wanted to call him, and pretty badly, it appeared. His secretary was gone for the day, but while he had been out she had plastered the back of his chair with taped-on pink phone message slips marked “URGENT,” all from Elmer Pillman of the FBI.

  They made him wait a full three minutes on hold, with no Muzak, just to put him in his place. When Pillman got on, he came right to the point. “You asshole! Do you realize what you’ve done? Do you realize how much work you just blew to hell today?”

  “Why, Elmer, what are you talking about?” Karp asked mildly.

  “Don’t play dumb with me, you shithead!” Pillman roared. Karp could feel the scowl through the phone lines and moved the receiver a few inches away from his ear. Pillman sounded like a tiny man shouting into a bucket: “The fuck-up you pulled out at Tel-Air. Six months of work. The DEA, the ATF, the Bureau, even your own goddamn Queens narco! And you trash the whole thing because you think, you think, there’s a connection wit’ some goddamn spic knifing.”

  “Tel-Air? Elmer, what makes you think I had anything to do with going into Tel-Air?”

  Silence. Then a bellow of rage. “What? I’ll tell you what, asshole! I just talked to your boss, the DA. He fingered you. How do you like that, jerk-off?”

  “Gosh, if he said that, then Mr. Bloom is sadly misinformed. I’m just an ordinary New York County ADA, Elmer. I don’t command squadrons of men in Queens County like you do. As I understand it, that operation was set up by Chief Denton personally. Maybe you should talk to him, since you’re so upset. Wait a second, I’ll get you his number.”

  “I’ve got his goddamn number!”

  “Oh, yeah, how silly of me. You’re the liaison between the Feds and the NYPD. My, my, I bet your colleagues are pissed at you, Elmer. I bet they’re blaming you for the mixup.”

  “Karp, you motherfucker, I swear to God I’ll get you. You’ll wish you never were born before I’m through with you. If you think you can fuck with the Bureau and get away with it, you—”

  “But I’m not fucking with the Bureau, am I, Elmer,” Karp broke in, his voice grown hard. “The Bureau has nothing to do with it. This is your show. It’s a solo all the way. So I’m only fucking with you. You see, Elmer, I know about you and Ruiz, and I know why you’ve been trying to queer my case against Karavitch and his little gang. It took me awhile, but I finally found out. Good-bye, Elmer.”

  Karp hung up and looked at the sweep hand on his watch. In less than fifteen seconds the phone rang. Karp picked it up and said gently, “Yes, Elmer? More talkies?”

  “I didn’t like what you just implied,” Pillman said lamely.

  “You didn’t? What a sensitive nature. I wouldn’t have thought it, considering how you’re always screaming at people and calling them bad names.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Karp. We need to talk and not over the phone. How soon can you get up here?”

  “Never is how soon, Elmer. I’ll be in my office for another hour. If you’d care to stop by, I’ll see if I can squeeze you in.” Karp hung up and quickly dialed a Massachusetts number. A pleasant female voice answered, and Karp asked to speak to V.T. Newbury.

  “Well, well, how fortunate,” said V.T. when he got on the line. “I’d been meaning to get in touch with you all day. What happened? Is the despicable Ruiz in custody?”

  “Afraid not. I think somebody tipped him, and he’s on the run. But that’s sort of what I needed to talk to you about. We found out that the Ruiz operation supplied the grenade that blew up Doyle.”

  “Ah-ha! The missing link. How did you find that out?”

  “Tell you later. Right now I probably got Pillman coming over here in ten minutes. I just told him I know all about him and Ruiz and why he’s trying to bag Karavitch et al., and he’s going to pump me to find out if I’m bluffing.”

  “And are you?”

  “For shit’s sake, V.T., of course I am. All I know for sure is the grenade connection; beyond that it’s Blank City. That’s why I’m calling you. You’re into all this conspiracy jazz. I need some ideas, and fast.”

  “I’m flattered. OK, let me think.” For what seemed like an endless interval, Karp sat with the earpiece growing sweaty around his ear and listened to V.T.’s breathing and the tuneless whistle he always made between his teeth when he was deep in thought. Finally he came back to earth. “Right. Let’s start with the two facts we know for sure: one, Pillman is trying to queer the case, and two, Ruiz supplied the bomb. Now, the strange thing about these two facts is that they don’t fit together.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Because there is no way that Pillman would have authorized, or allowed, or paid for, Ruiz giving explosives to Karavitch’s group. It’s off the charts.”

  “Why?”

  “Because whatever else he is, Pillman has been an FBI agent for over twenty years. He may be corrupt, but I can’t conceive of any FBI agent abetting domestic violence for any reason.”

  “What if somebody is blackmailing him? Ruiz, maybe.”

  “Still no go. And for another reason. As they used to ask us in law school, who benefits? Why should Ruiz want to give grenades to the Croats or help them out with a little thuggery? For Pillman? No way, because why would Pillman want to help the Croats? It doesn’t make sense—it’s circular. The Cubans must have been mobilized by somebody else. From Ruiz’s point of view, supping a grenade or two to somebody or breaking a few heads is merely a sideline, something he’d do practically as a favor for whoever is making his operation possible. But it’s not Pillman. You don’t know the guy the way I do, Butch. This is a bureaucrat, not an entrepreneur. The only critical question is why Pillman is shielding Ruiz.

  “Now let’s add another fact. Before he came to New York as deputy, Pillman was stationed in Miami, where he helped to break up a group called SOBA. This was a bunch of militant right-wing Cubans who were planting bombs on people they didn’t think were sufficiently anti-Castro. A very classy piece of work, by the way, and Pillman got a lot of credit for it. This was in, like, ’68 or ’70. I’m pretty sure Ruiz was there around then too, and he was tight with a lot of former Batistianos. Pillman could have used him as an informant, maybe a provocateur, maybe skirting the edges of legality.”

  “V.T., damn it, why didn’t you tell me this stuff before?”

  “Because I was thinking CIA, not FBI. They’re in two separate, noncommunicating compartments of my brain, as they are in real life. You remember, we were going to use the possible CIA link with Ruiz to beat up on Pillman. But what if there’s a much closer link? What if somebody’s beating him up from the other side?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Say it’s like this. A connection is created between Karavitch and the Cubans. Pillman doesn’t know about it. He’s just going about his business fighting evildoers. The Karavitch case lands in his lap. But as soon as he starts working on it, he gets a call, say—and this had to be almost as soon as the names of the skyjackers were made public—he gets a call telling him that Ruiz is involved. Immediately he knows that the Croats can’t come to trial, because if they do, they might rat on Ruiz and his operation, and then Ruiz or one of his people might rat on Pillman. Alternately, somebody who knows about Ruiz and Pillman is pressuring Pillman to lay off the Croats. There’s your blackmail. Either way, it’s in Pillman’s interest, if he can do it without being too obvious about it, to prevent the Croats from coming to trial. Q.E.D.”

  “That’s very fancy, V.T., very fancy indeed. For some strange reason I like it.”

  “Why, thank you, Butch. I hope it works. Oh, one other thing. I know it’s late notice, but why don’t you come up and stay with us this weekend? We have plen
ty of room and since you’re not a big shot anymore, you can take a weekend off now and then. I invited Guma too.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yup. The Big Prank rolls next week. We have to do some last-minute strategizing, at which you are perfectly welcome should you care to risk one-to-five in Elmira. Also, I’d like you to meet Annabelle. And bring La Siciliana. You both could use a break.”

  “What about the snow? There’s supposed to be a blizzard up there.”

  “Not to worry. The plows are out and I got through OK this afternoon. Besides, it’s tapering off.”

  Once broached, the idea of spending a weekend with Marlene in the country was overwhelmingly attractive. He could not remember offhand the last time he had so indulged himself, probably years. He agreed to come that evening if Marlene was willing, and V.T. dictated what seemed like an impossibly complex set of road directions.

  A few minutes after he had finished with V.T., Karp heard the outer door open and then footsteps crossing the deserted outer office. A shape loomed up against the frosted glass and then Pillman entered.

  He was pale, his eyebrows hairy knots, and his wide frog’s mouth was compressed into a razor line. Karp motioned to the chair and Pillman dropped his blocky body into it like a sandbag. He eyed Karp sourly for a moment and then rumbled, “So? I’m here. What have you got?”

  “Well, Elmer—”

  “Goddammit, Karp, don’t call me ‘Elmer.’ Pillman, everybody calls me Pillman.”

  “OK, Pillman, what’ve I got? I’ve got you trying to queer my case on Karavitch et al. I’ve got you protecting a major narcotics trafficker and gunrunner. How’s that for openers?”

  “It’s garbage. You’re blowing smoke.”

  “How about Miami? How about what you and Ruiz pulled on the SOBA people? I’ve got that too. Still garbage?”

  Pillman licked his lips. He was even paler now. “How the fuck … ? You’ve got Ruiz, haven’t you, or Hermo … Ah, Christ, what a mess. Look, Karp, you got to understand, these people are informants. They’re flaky, but they’re valuable assets, you understand? OK, Ruiz runs dope and guns, but if not him, a million other guys. Meanwhile I keep a line on some really dangerous people, the kind who blow up airplanes and assassinate politicians.”

  “What about assassinating New York police officers? Is that in the class of excusable crimes?”

  Pillman snorted and twisted his mouth into a parody of a patronizing smile. “Karp, that was an accident. I mean real assassinations—the Kennedys, King—”

  “Pillman, stop it. Let’s understand each other. You were naughty in Miami: illegal wiretaps, bag jobs, and worse: one of Ruiz’s boys turned out somebody’s lights just to build up machismo with the SOBAs.” Karp was spitballing, but he could see from the shocked expression on Pillman’s face that it was an accurate guess. It’s always murder, the unexplainable infraction, he thought, as he plowed on: “OK, that means you and this mutt are married. But I could care less, Pillman, believe me, about what went down then. It’s none of my business. Are we in Miami? It’s snowing up to your ass out there.

  “But, Pillman, when your little shithead supplies the bomb that goes into a device that was designed, no accident, designed to kill the man defusing it, and did in fact kill said man, a New York City police officer performing his lawful duty, then I do care.”

  Pillman’s jaw had dropped and a look of unfeigned shock and incredulity had captured his face. “Wha-what?” he sputtered. “What was that about the bomb?”

  “Ruiz supplied the Soviet grenade the Croats used to make their bomb. Come on, Pillman, don’t tell me you didn’t know that.”

  “I didn’t. I didn’t, I swear to God! Oh, Christ, this is it, it’s all over.”

  Pillman was so genuinely distraught that Karp was taken aback. But he pressed on: leaning toward Pillman, he locked the other man’s gaze to his and said, “You didn’t, huh? OK, say I believe you on that—how did you know there was any connection between Ruiz and the Croats? Why are you screwing up the case?”

  “I got a call. Right after we got the word on the hijack. The caller told me that two of the hijackers, Rukovina and Raditch, had been involved in that assassination of the Yugoslav consul-general in Marseilles. They’d arranged for and delivered Soviet weapons for the hit to a group of Croats in France. Ruiz had supplied the weapons.”

  “Why Soviet weapons?”

  “Why do you think? It makes Belgrade think the Sovs are supporting separatist movements in Yugoslavia—so it works against the possibility of reconciliation between Yugoslavia and the Kremlin. It also stirs up the Croats and other separatist factions in Yugoslavia.”

  “Who would want that?”

  “Us for starters. Yugoslavia is a pain in the ass. They’re a big hole in the south flank of NATO. They’re neutral commies, but if they ever hooked up with the Warsaw Pact, which they could do tomorrow, it’d be a disaster. It’d be much better to have a set of reliable anticommunist states in that strip. Or so the thinking goes.”

  “Whose thinking, Pillman? Who called you?”

  Pillman squirmed and held out his hands in a supplicating gesture. “Come on, Karp. I can’t tell you that. We’re talking national security here. This is big time.”

  “OK,” Karp said flatly.

  “OK? What does that mean?”

  “It means OK. What do I care what kind of games you’re in as long as you’re not playing on my court?

  The only reason I give a damn about this spy bullshit is so I can find out who’s queering my case and make them stop. They want to start wars? Fuck ’em, I’m 4-F.”

  “But what are you going to do? I mean about Ruiz?”

  “Ruiz killed a guy named Sorriendas and he did it in the County of New York, so if we can catch his ass I will put him up for murder two. If he wants to cut a deal by ratting on you, or whoever he’s involved with in dope or guns, I will tell him to get fucked. People don’t kill people in New York County on my watch and then walk, I don’t care what kind of spying they did for somebody. If the narcos want to lay extra charges oh him, or the Feds, fine, that’s their business. Everybody will get their shot.

  “On the Karavitch thing, it’s even simpler. If everybody would just get out of my way, it’s a lock. They go to trial and let a jury decide. That’s how I work. They pay me to put asses in jail, not run exposés. And you will stay out of my way from now on, Pillman, won’t you?”

  He smiled nastily and Pillman slowly nodded his head.

  “So I think Elmer is cooled out, too,” Karp said to Marlene as she snuggled in his lap. It was an hour after Pillman had slunk out and Karp was feeling pretty good. He had proudly narrated the afternoon’s events, only moderately distracted by the pressure of her small, hard breast jammed against him or the warm nuzzling on his neck.

  “That’s my man,” she breathed, “I’m sitting in his lap squirming like a snake, and he’s recounting macho triumphs.” She ground her bottom into his lap. “Uh-oh, I can feel it—it’s grown another two inches. Jesus, Butch, another day like today you’ll have to tape it to your knee.”

  “Marlene, why do you like to make fun of me? I already said I was sorry. And I thought you cared about this case.”

  She drew back, looked at him seriously for a moment, and then kissed him on the cheek. “I do care, baby. And it’s great about the evidence and Pillman and all the rest. Really. But my caring machine is wearing out, you know? I’m not like you, not straight and determined. There’s something missing, you understand? In my life. And I’m being consumed by this damn claim—”

  “I said I’d—”

  “Yeah, yeah, you did, and I believe you, but still—shit, I need a smoke.” She got up off his lap and began casting through her bag for her Marlboros. When she had lit up and the little office was blue with smoke, she added, “What I need is a break.”

  He stood up. “And a break is what you’re going to get. We’re going up to V.T.’s this weekend, lie around, play in
the snow …”

  “Oh, Butch, really? Hot damn!” She ran to him and gave him a bear hug that flexed his ribs. “When do we leave? Oh, boy, this is just what we need, a little nestling under quilts in a four-poster, far from the madding crowd and the fucking city.”

  He grinned and said, “We could leave right away. All we have to do is pack. I’ll run up to midtown and rent a car.”

  “Oh, don’t do that, I got a car we could use. Let’s go now! I’ll pick you up outside your place in what? Forty-five minutes?”

  “Marlene, you can’t drive. You only have one eye.”

  “The hell I can’t. Half the people driving in New York are totally blind. Besides, it’s only a couple of blocks. You can drive us up to the country.” Before he could object, she had blown him a kiss and run out.

  An hour later Karp was dubiously eyeing the vehicle Marlene had driven up to the curb. It was a 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Air, pink on the bottom and white on top. The rear end was considerably higher than the front, and it had wide-track Eagles on the rear wheels and speed-shop stickers all over the rear quarter windows.

  “This is the car? Where did you get it?”

  “It’s Larry’s, from Larry and Stu in the loft downstairs. They’re in Bermuda for three weeks. Larry found it in Biloxi when he was down visiting his mom and fell in love with it. Isn’t it great? Hey, let’s get in, I’m freezing my genuggies off here.”

  In fact, the temperature now hovered in the low teens and the air was filled with swirls of gritty snow. They loaded the suitcases into the car and got in. Karp sat behind the wheel, a custom job made of welded chain that was about half the size of an ordinary wheel. It had a large green plastic knob attached to it at the two o’clock position. Marlene slid in next to him. “Look, Butch, a make-out knob. That’s so you can steer with one hand with your arm around your best girl.”