“Geez, Mom,” Lucy replied, as if her mother had uttered the dumbest statement in the history of mankind. “But…well, actually, Ned has something to say first.” She tugged her boyfriend, who was standing a little behind her, forward.
Blanchett’s face had assumed the coloring of a maraschino cherry and he had to clear his throat several times before he managed to stammer, “I…uh…well, I meant to try to ask you this in private…man to man,” he said, addressing Karp. “But…um…I have to leave tonight for a little while and there didn’t seem to be any other opportunities…”
Man to man? What is this? Karp wondered, and then he understood. Theoretically he’d known that this day would come, but he was no more prepared for it than he was to hear that Ned was taking his daughter to Mars. He looked over at Marlene, whose face was undergoing a transformation from “very concerned” to “dawning realization” as a smile crept onto her lips and tears sprang to her eyes.
“That’s okay, Ned,” Marlene said for him. “You go right on ahead and tell us what’s on your mind.”
Ned looked at Marlene gratefully and nodded. “Thanks. I wanted to do this proper but looks like I’m just gonna have to shoot from the hip now…. I ain’t much good at talking, so I’ll just spit it out.” He drew himself up to his full height. “Sir, Mr. Karp…”
“Butch,” Marlene offered softly.
“Uh, yes, ma’am,” the young man replied. “Anyway, Mr. Karp, sir, what I’m trying to say is that I’d like to ask for your daughter’s…” He pointed with his free hand to Lucy as if there might be some confusion regarding whom he was talking about. “Um, hand in marriage.” He stopped talking, though his pronounced Adam’s apple continued to bob up and down in his throat, which he kept trying to clear.
Karp felt all eyes turn to him, even the dog’s, and realized that his mouth was hanging open like a fish at Fulton’s Fish Market. Marlene poked him in the ribs. “You’ve just been asked a question.”
In all his years on the planet, Karp had never been at a loss for words except at the births of his three children: overcome with love for his wife and the tiny wrinkled babies she’d produced, he’d been speechless. He hadn’t expected that this question would have the same effect, but the reality that the better part of Lucy’s love would now be dedicated to another man hit him like a punch in the kidneys.
“Yeah, I know,” he said huskily, trying to smile through his own tears. Marlene seemed to realize what was going through his head and leaned her head on his shoulder and rubbed his arm.
“It’s okay, babe,” she whispered. “She’ll always be your little girl.”
Karp nodded. “I take it you’ve already asked Lucy?” he croaked.
Ned glanced quickly at Lucy, a little confused. “Uh, well, yes, I have…sorry, I know that was putting the saddle on before the blanket, but I figured there wouldn’t be much point asking you if she was just going to say no…”
Karp held up his hand. “You don’t have to apologize. I asked Marlene before I dared approach her dad.” He sighed as he looked at his daughter, noting again the changes in her.
Lucy had blossomed. Physically, she’d filled out with plenty of womanly curves—though muscular from living a ranch life with Ned; even the prominence of her Roman nose had receded as her face grew fuller. But more than the physical changes, he’d noted the maturation in her voice and eyes—as if the wise woman who’d always been inside had decided that it was time to show herself. He knew those eyes had witnessed more terrible things than any young woman in her twenties should have, and a certain amount of maturity could be expected from that. However, with Lucy it was more than unfortunate experience that made her the woman she was now, it was her determination to conquer her fears by confronting them head-on.
Especially since signing on with Espey, he thought. He respected her decision, but had a hard time accepting it when she announced that she was working in the lethal field of counterterrorism. He’d argued that there were a lot of other, less dangerous ways to contribute to her country. But she’d essentially told him to buzz off; it wasn’t his decision to make.
Ned Blanchett had changed, too. He’d always had a wiry toughness about him, and when faced with danger—particularly in defense of Lucy—he’d reacted decisively and lethally. But he, too, had grown beyond the young man he’d been since joining Jaxon. Karp, who’d been a fan of Western movies since childhood, thought Blanchett epitomized that image of the heroic archetype. Strong. Silent. Brave. Loyal. And deadly when necessary.
“Dad!” Lucy shouted, stomping her foot for emphasis. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
Karp blinked. He hadn’t realized that he was taking a long time to answer. He looked at his daughter. “Did you accept?”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Are you trying to be obtuse? Of course I accepted. I love Ned, and I want to be his wife more than I’ve wanted anything in my entire life. But he wanted to get your blessing…a silly chauvinistic practice, if you ask me, like a woman is some sort of commodity to be exchanged between consenting males…after all, I am quite capable of making my own—”
Her father held his hand up. “Nothing silly about it,” he replied. “I appreciate the the gesture, Ned.” He stood up and crossed the room with his hand outstretched. “Or should I call you son?”
Grinning and blushing even harder, Ned pumped his hand vigorously. “I’m so durned happy right now, you can call me a lowdown snake in the grass, if you want.”
Then everybody was laughing and crying and hugging. The twins, who’d been in their room, came out to see what the commotion was all about and were soon immersed in the festivities with their new brother-in-law, while Gilgamesh pranced around the group barking with joy.
A few minutes later, with Marlene on the telephone telling her father the news and the twins wrestling with Ned, Lucy walked up to her father and laid her head on his chest. “I love you, Daddy.”
Karp wrapped his arms around her, remembering the times he’d held her in the past. “I love you, too, Luce. I have from the moment the doctor handed you to me after you were born. Just remember what your mom said, you’ll be Ned’s wife, but you’ll always be my little girl.”
“Always, Daddy…always and forever.”
The embrace lasted until they both became aware of Ned standing off to one side, his black Stetson in one hand. “Sorry to interrupt,” he apologized. “But I need to skedaddle. Mr. Jaxon and some of the others are waiting for me back at the corral. We’re leaving directly from there before sunup tomorrow.”
“Where are you going?” Karp asked before realizing that he wasn’t going to get much of an answer.
Ned smiled. “To talk to a man about a horse. Sorry, Mr. Karp, but I’m not allowed to say.”
“No need to apologize. I forgot you’re not just an old cowhand from the Rio Grande anymore.”
“I still have an old Roy Rogers album with that song on it,” Ned said, laughing. “Boy howdy, I used to love that show—saw all the reruns on the local Taos station when I was a kid.”
“You’re still a kid,” Karp said, and shook his hand again. “Take care of yourself.”
“I will,” Ned replied, and turned to Lucy. “Walk me out?”
“With pleasure, you good-lookin’ cowpoke, you.”
“Shucks, ma’am, if’n I’d a-knowed that you was gonna lay it on with all that honey, I’d a-asked yew to marry me a long time ago,” Ned replied, laying it on a bit thick himself. He set the Stetson on his head, took his Marlboro Man sheepskin-lined coat off the rack next to the front door, and shrugged it on.
“Come on, Gilgamesh,” Lucy said to the dog, who was watching their every move and sprang up at the invitation. “Let’s go for a walk. At least I’ll have one big strong male to walk me around the block.”
The couple and the dog left the apartment, got on the elevator, and rode it to the ground-level foyer, where Ned and Lucy looked up and waved at the security camera.
Upstai
rs, Karp was looking at the monitor near the door and waved back, although they couldn’t see him. He continued to watch as they checked a different monitor in the foyer that was connected to a camera outside the entrance. Apparently there was no one suspicious lurking outside the building, so they left and disappeared around the corner onto Grand Avenue, where, Karp suspected, a car would be waiting for Blanchett.
As they left his sight, Karp felt a shadow cross his heart. It’s the worst that could happen. Lucy and Ned may have matured into strong individuals, even ones capable of looking after themselves, but they were up against people who had no regard for human life. He let out a deep breath and turned away from the monitor. At least it didn’t appear that Lucy would be going away on whatever mission Ned had declined to discuss.
The more immediate concern, of course, was that some unknown boy, and presumably whatever adult was telling him what to say, knew about Lucy’s clandestine activities.
Therefore, whatever message Andy was trying to send with “Casa Blanca” and “art of war” needed to be taken seriously, Karp thought as he watched his daughter return from Grand Avenue and walk past the building with Gilgamesh.
Two hours later, he was lying in bed with Marlene discussing “Andy” and his own concerns for Lucy’s safety when the telephone rang. His heart skipped a beat…. No good news arrives at midnight, he thought.
“Hello?” he answered. Karp sat straight up in bed. “Oh no,” he groaned. “Yeah, Clay, I’ll be waiting. Ten minutes.” He hung up the telephone.
Taking in the stunned look on her husband’s face, Marlene blinked hard and then dared to ask, “What happened?”
“Stewbie Reed is dead,” Karp said as he slid out of bed and began to dress.
“Oh my God,” Marlene cried. “How?”
Karp stopped and stood gazing out the window of their bedroom. “Apparently he hung himself.”
“I can’t believe it,” Marlene said, getting up. “Why would he do something like that?”
When Butch didn’t answer, Marlene guessed what he was thinking. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said.
“I don’t know,” Karp said. “Maybe I was too hard on him. Maybe assigning Katz to help on the case pushed him over the edge. I knew the case was eating at him and he blamed himself. Maybe I should have—”
“Butch, it was not your fault,” Marlene said again. “Losing a case is not a reason to kill yourself; prosecutors lose cases. Stewbie has been around a long time, this wasn’t his first hung jury. There had to be something else going on.”
Karp’s shoulders slumped. “Maybe…. Anyway, I need to go. Fulton’s sending a car to take me over to Stewbie’s apartment in the Village.” He started to leave the room but hesitated in the doorway.
“Butch…”
“Yeah, I know, it wasn’t my fault,” he said as he walked out.
13
“HERE WE ARE,” ANNOUNCED THE CABDRIVER. “TWO FORTY-NINE Forty-ninth…St. Malachy Chapel.”
Marlene paid the fare and got out in front of the small gray Gothic church known as the actor’s chapel. Built at the beginning of the twentieth century, St. Malachy had since the 1920s attracted actors, dancers, and musicians seeking refuge from the nearby Theater District. Just a couple of blocks west of the hustle and noise of Times Square, it had served as the setting for the funeral of Rudolph Valentino and the wedding of Douglas Fairbanks Jr. to Joan Crawford, and was certainly the only Catholic church in the world with chimes that played “There’s No Business Like Show Business.”
Although not as grand as St. Patrick’s Cathedral or the massive St. John the Divine, it was one of Marlene’s favorites and the current assignment of Father Mike Dugan, a Jesuit priest, another character who’d become embroiled in her family’s unusual history. But she wasn’t there to visit with him.
On the way over to the church, she’d asked her driver to turn west on Forty-seventh to take her past the Augusta Theater, where F. Lloyd Maplethorpe’s latest hit, Putin: The Musical, was playing. At the little island created by the convergence of Broadway and Seventh Avenue called Duffy Square, she’d noted the line of people waiting at the discount ticket office and wondered how many of them were hoping to get in to see Putin.
She’d glanced up at the marquee above her head bearing the name of Maplethorpe’s hit production and her stomach turned. I guess the Irish writer Brendan Behan was right when he wrote “There’s no such thing as bad publicity except your own obituary,” she thought. But it galled her that a craven coward like Maplethorpe would be enjoying such success a few weeks before his murder trial, while a good and decent man like Stewart Reed was lying on a cold steel table at the morgue.
Funeral services for Reed were still a week away. His sister was serving in the army in Iraq and had been granted a hardship leave to attend the services and care for their invalid mother, but she wouldn’t arrive for several days.
Marlene felt guilty, but wished it could be over sooner. Devastated by Reed’s suicide, her husband was obsessing over riddles sent to him by some mysterious little boy and his pickpocket father, convinced that there was a real threat and worried about the implications for Lucy. It didn’t help that Ned was away on some secret mission and Lucy was leaving that night to return to New Mexico alone.
Knowing that it might be a while before she heard from her daughter, Marlene had planned to stay home all day with Lucy. But then she got a telephone call from Alejandro Garcia asking her to meet him at St. Malachy. Lucy had told her to go ahead. “I have some errands to run before I leave. We’ll have time to talk at dinner.”
Marlene and Butch had learned that the reformed gang leader turned rap star was back in the city when he’d shown up at the loft with the twins in tow a few weeks earlier. She’d been out walking Gilgamesh and was returning home when a limousine pulled up and the twins popped out with Garcia.
“‘Sup, Marlene,” Garcia had said, his round, boyish face lit up with his trademark grin.
“Alejandro, good to see you,” she exclaimed, holding her arms out for a hug. “I read that you were back in town. And here you are arriving in style…and with my boys.”
“Yeah, check it out, señora,” Garcia said. “I saw the boys walking home…I think they said from the movies…so I offered them a lift.”
Marlene caught the follow-my-lead look from Garcia to Zak and Giancarlo. “That was kind of you,” she said, giving her boys the eye. “I can’t wait to hear all about the movie.”
Zak had yawned. “Boy, am I tired. I think I’m just going to go to bed. We’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, Mom. Isn’t that right, G?”
“Absolutely,” Giancarlo responded, barely able to stifle a yawn of his own. “Really wore ourselves out playing football in the park.” The twins had hurried into the loft building.
Marlene had laughed. “Guess that’s what you’d call ‘buying time’ or ‘by morning the old lady will probably forget.’ I won’t ask you to betray a confidence, but thanks for bringing them home.” She nodded up at where the lights were on in the loft. “Come on up and say hi to Butch.”
“Are you loco?” Garcia laughed. “A notorious gangster hanging with the Man in his crib?”
“Quit it.” Marlene laughed. “We’re all proud of you, including Butch. We have both of your CDs, and I think he knows all the words to the current big hit ‘Spanish Harlem.’ Or at least he does a pretty decent job of lip-syncing with the twins, and even busts a few moves when he thinks I’m not watching. Come on in, maybe we can get him to do it.”
Marlene was only exaggerating a little. She and Butch appreciated that unlike other rappers their boys sometimes listened to, Garcia avoided using profanity, never used “niggah” or any derivations thereof, and never felt like he had to refer to women as bitches or “hos.” His lyrics still resonated with the anger and frustrations of the streets, but they were antiviolence and preached respect for one another. The twins had pointed out that he might have made more money if he’d sold out
to gangsta rap or got more sexually explicit, but he’d stayed true to his beliefs in using his music as a constructive force.
“The Man bustin’ moves? Uh, gracias, but no, I don’t think I want to see that,” Garcia said with a look of mock horror on his face. Then he smiled. “But maybe some other time. I appreciate the offer…. Anyway, I need to cruise. I’m supposed to meet up with Father Mike, and I’m running late. I was at a cast party with an old girlfriend who has a part.”
“Really? Which show?”
“Putin: The Musical,” Garcia said, and noted the sour look on Marlene’s face. “Yeah, I know, I know. I’m not wild about it either. But she’s just trying to make it on Broadway and it’s a job. She’s also having a hard time believing that little punk-ass is a killer. Or she doesn’t want to believe it.”
Alejandro had obviously been uncomfortable talking about Maplethorpe, so Marlene had patted him on the shoulder. “I understand. Say hi to Father Mike,” she said. “I hope you’re not going in for confession, he might be up all night listening to your laundry list of sins.”
Garcia laughed, but then a troubled look crossed his face. “Unfortunately, it’s nothing as simple as that. I don’t know if you heard about it, but a couple of my old homeboys got shot up a couple weeks ago.”
“The Inca Boyz shooting in Central Park? Sure, I read about it in the newspaper,” Marlene replied. “The press speculating that it was some sort of turf war.”
“Well, for once they got it mostly right. Another gang is trying to muscle in on my old hood in the SH. They call themselves the Rolling 777s. They’re Black Muslims.”
“A Muslim street gang?”
Garcia nodded. “Damn straight. I’ve been told that the triple Seven is a special number to Muslims, like triple Six is to devil worshippers. Word on the street is that they were associated with that mosque that was involved with that attack on the New York Stock Exchange. Until recently, they mostly stayed in the black part of Harlem, but according to my former homies the Inca Boyz, that’s not true anymore.”
Capture (Butch Karp Thrillers) Page 14
