Manning sat in a large leather armchair. Fulton was on the Haitian-cotton couch opposite and Amalfi was in a chrome-and-leather sling chair off to one side. It was Fulton's first visit, and he regarded it as a good sign, the only good sign in a period of intense frustration. Six weeks had passed since he had revealed Tecumseh's tape to Manning and Amalfi, weeks devoid of action. All the remaining dope dealers were healthy. Fulton had no play except to sink deeper into his persona as a bad cop. As a result, no cop would talk to him unless he had to. Even the King Cole Trio was giving him furtive, hostile stares and responding to his orders with sullen obedience.
Manning poured Hennessey and orange juice into glasses and handed one to Fulton. Amalfi came over to the coffee table and got his. Manning said, "Drink up, Fulton. You look like you could use it."
"I'm psyched," said Fulton. "Long time, no action."
Manning lifted an eyebrow. "You think there's gonna be action?"
"Yeah. You didn't drag me up here to, ah, solidify our close friendship. So what is it?"
A broad smile spread over Manning's face. "You sharp, Clay. They told me you was a smart mother, and it's true. Ain't it, Sid?"
Amalfi said unenthusiastically, "Yeah, Dick, he's a sharp one, all right."
"Yeah, we do have a little job for you tonight," Manning continued. "You know Nicky Benning?"
"What about him?"
"We're taking him down," said Manning.
Fulton snorted. "Benning? With what army? Fucking guy runs half the dope in Harlem and all of it in the South Bronx. There's fifteen layers of operation between him and the street. Nobody's even seen him on the street for years. How the fuck you gonna get close to Benning?"
"Easy," said Manning. He took a sip from his glass and lit a cigarette, enjoying the pause and the attention it generated. "Brother Benning is in the hospital. Seems his ulcer bust day before yesterday. Must be a tense business running all that skag through town. So he's in a private room at Roosevelt under a phony name. No guards. It's a easy hit."
Fulton said, "How did you find out about it?"
Manning grinned. "I got a little bird, tells me stuff. So-you wanted some action. You in on this, or what?"
"I'm in," said Fulton. "What, you figure I go in alone?"
"Uh-uh, we don't work alone," said Manning. "Sid'll go with you."
"Yeah, OK," said Fulton carefully. "You staying?"
"No, I'll go out with you. I got some business uptown. Lemme get my jacket."
Manning went into the bedroom. Fulton stood up. The mirrored wall dimly reflected the inside of the bedroom. Fulton saw Manning take a pale sport coat and a shoulder holster from a closet. He put on the shoulder holster and took an automatic pistol from a bureau drawer and stuck it in the holster. Then he took a small revolver from the same drawer and, propping his foot up on the bed, placed it in an ankle holster strapped to his right leg. He put his jacket on and checked himself in a long mirror. As he emerged, Fulton turned quickly away from the mirror and noticed Amalfi staring at him. Amalfi looked peaked and gray. There was a twitch in one eye. Fulton had a good idea why he was nervous.
Roosevelt Hospital, on Ninth and 59th, was only ten minutes from Manning's apartment. Fulton and Amalfi parked Amalfi's old car near the emergency entrance. Amalfi handed Fulton a brass key. "This'll open the fire door from the outside. He's in room 523."
"I gotta walk up five flights?"
"Unless you want to go up the elevator with a bunch of witnesses. The room is between the fire stairs and the nurse's station. You should be in and out in three minutes. Wrap the gun in the pillow."
"Good advice, Sid," said Fulton. "I can tell you're the brains of the outfit. You gonna stay here?"
"Yeah, it's a one-man deal."
Fulton nodded and got out of the car. He found the fire door, opened it with no problem, and walked quickly up to the fifth floor. Nicky Benning was where he was supposed to be, draped with various tubes, sleeping, unguarded.
Fulton went back to the fire stairs and waited on the landing for a few minutes. Then he went back to the hallway and took the elevator down to the ground floor. He went through the emergency room and paused in the shadows by the doorway. He could see Amalfi's car clearly. As Fulton had expected, Amalfi was no longer in it.
As he walked back to the fire door, Fulton wondered how they planned to do it. They couldn't just shoot him in the back, not a detective lieutenant. It would have to be a confrontation. They would get the drop on him and set it up. A couple in the chest and then his gun pressed into his own dead hand and a shot fired. Sorry, but I had no choice. I caught him red-handed after he killed Benning, he shot at me and I dropped him. It might have worked, Fulton thought, with a realization that chilled him. Karp would bitch, but he couldn't do much without the cooperation of the police. And of course the investigation would be handled by guess-who. Even Denton couldn't do much, without destroying himself. The other brass would go along with it, if the killings stopped and Manning and Amalfi left the country. To protect the department.
Slowly he inserted the key in the lock with his left hand. He pulled and cocked his.38 Air-weight. There were two good places for an ambush. One was up on the fifth floor, to the left of the fire door. The other was in the little blind corridor to the right of the first flight of fire stairs. Fulton didn't figure Amalfi for a man who would walk up five flights unless he absolutely had to.
He took a deep breath, snapped the lock, flung the door open, and leapt in, crouching, his pistol pointing rigidly down the little corridor. It pointed straight at Amalfi, who stood there flatfooted and amazed, with a flat pint of vodka halfway to his lips, his gun in its holster. The bottle dropped and shattered, filling the landing with an appropriately medical smell.
"Uhhh, no!" Amalfi croaked. His face sagged in terror. Fulton darted forward, spun the unresisting man around, shoved his face up against the concrete wall, and patted him down. He pulled out and placed in his own pockets Amalfi's gun, his handcuffs, and a nasty little blackjack. As his fingers searched the small of Amalfi's back, he stopped abruptly and cursed.
"You're wearing a fucking wire!" he shouted. The sound echoed like an accusation from heaven in the stone vault of the stairway. He grabbed Amalfi's jacket and whipped him around again so that they were face-to-face.
"Talk!" Fulton ordered. "What's going on?"
"Don't kill me! I got money-"
"I'm not going to kill you, asshole. Who're you working for? Internal Affairs?"
Something clicked in Amalfi's mind then. An "aha" from some hitherto untapped reserve of insight, brought forward by fear of death. For the first time in the weeks since his life had gone in the toilet, since he had heard Fulton's tape, since Hrcany and the shoofly had visited him, he was thinking clearly. He breathed deeply and relaxed. "Yeah," he said. "You too?"
"No, but close," said Fulton. "They turned you, did they?"
"Yeah."
"Who are they after? They got you and Manning already."
"They want who Manning… who we're doing it for."
"You mean Choo Willis?"
"Not just him. Fane."
"The congressman? He's in on this?"
"Yeah. He's deep in. Willis works for him. He owns the Club Mecca. There're other heavies involved but, ah, we don't have anything definite on them yet. Manning knows the whole story, but he keeps it close."
Fulton uncocked his pistol and was silent for a while. He made no move to give Amalfi back his gun. "How the fuck did this all get started?" he asked.
Amalfi shrugged. "One thing led to another. Me and Dick was chasing this skell across the roof one night. We cornered him and he shot at us and we wasted him. He had a pile of cash on him and we split it up like we always did. Dick took a little coke off him too. I never did that, but Dick always could move dope. Then we were talking about what a pain in the ass it was gonna be, shooting this shithead, and all the investigation and the fucking paperwork, and Dick said, 'You know, if we was
smart, we wouldn't be chasing these assholes across the roof. We could ace them at our convenience and get paid a shitload of money for it.' That was the start. Then we started doing jobs. Dick did the actual… you know, the work. I never did any of that."
"But you took the money."
Amalfi nodded. "Yeah, I took the money. Shit, man, they're dirtballs, what the hell, right?"
"Wrong. I don't know what deal you cut with Internal Affairs, but I'm going to let that slide for now. Just do what they tell you. But whatever goes down, it's got to go down fast. Tomorrow or the next day Manning is gonna find out I didn't ace Benning and the shit's gonna hit the fan. By the way, what did you intend to do, laying for me here?"
Amalfi said, "They, ah, wanted me to bring you in. Put the squeeze on you. Get a wire on you too. They figured you took out Tecumseh."
Fulton smiled without amusement and shook his head. "Can't trust nobody nowadays. Look, tell those assholes I'm the good guys. If they don't believe you, tell them to go to Chief Denton. We were trying to keep the lid on this, but it's blown now. Asses'll be frying like bacon downtown when this gets out."
Fulton opened the door. Amalfi said, "Hey, how about giving me my stuff back?" He tried to meet Fulton's contemptuous gaze and couldn't.
Fulton said, "I'll toss them under your car," and slammed the door behind him. Marlene had put nearly fifty hours of work into answering the motions in People v. Meissner. It all went up in smoke in less than three minutes. When the case was called, Nolan shuffled the papers before him, cleared his throat, adjusted his reading glasses, and said, "On reviewing the defense motion to dismiss, I find that the presentation of five individual cases of alleged rape to the grand jury was in fact prejudicial. The alleged rapes are separate and distinct crimes and cannot be used as evidence for predisposition to this particular homicide. Thus, the People's attempt to demonstrate a common scheme, pattern, or design cannot be sustained. As there is insufficient other evidence to support the indictment for homicide, that indictment is dismissed. The People may make a separate submission to the grand jury in this case, if additional evidence sufficient to support an indictment of homicide can be obtained."
Marlene was not surprised by this judgment. Nolan had telegraphed it clearly enough by his acceptance of Polaner's initial motion. No more would she have been surprised by the death of a relative long in decline; but, like such an awaited death, the loss hurt her deeply nonetheless. The greater pain, however, was attendant on what she now had to do: call up the women involved and tell them that their tormentor really had slipped the clutches of the law.
She put this duty off until the end of the day. She wanted to call them at home rather than at work, a little considerate touch, and all she could offer. It was dreadful nevertheless. Screams. Crying. Accusations of incompetence. Curses.
From Caputo there was a cold and quiet acceptance that was more chilling than any shriek. Caputo was now a defendant herself, on an aggravated assault charge brought by Meissner. It occurred to Marlene that she might be planning to finish the job. She said, "JoAnne, believe me, he's not going to get off. Somehow, we'll get him. We'll go over the evidence, hit the bricks again…"
Marlene barely believed this herself and Caputo was open in her disdain. "Sure, Marlene," she said. "That'll be great. Call me when it happens." She hung up.
There followed five minutes of blank time. Marlene tried to think of some reason for ever moving out of her chair again, and failed. She would stay there like Miss Havisham at the wedding feast, while spiders wove their webs in her hair and her clothes rotted. No, actually, she was going to get married and have a baby, preferably in that order. So she had to move. She tapped "Yellow Rose of Texas" on her teeth with the back of a Bic pen while the seconds ticked off on her little desk clock.
When the phone rang it jerked Marlene to attention like a shocked frog. The voice on the phone was muffled and accompanied by the sounds of chatter and music, as if the man was calling from a pay phone in a noisy lounge.
"Hey, how you doing?" it said.
"Who is this?" she asked.
"Who do you think?"
Her belly trembled. "Meissner?"
A laugh. "That would be telling," said the man. "Let's say I'm a friend of the court. Let's say I'm just a guy sitting in a bar checking out the foxes."
"You filthy little shit-"
"Uh-oh, you're sounding like a sore loser, Marlene. You ought to learn to take your lumps like a man. Face it, you were outclassed, baby. You didn't have a chance in hell of getting a conviction with that bullshit case. And do you know why?"
Marlene resisted the impulse to slam the phone down. Something in the gloating tone made her keep listening. She had heard it often enough, from criminals more interested in impressing with their cleverness than protecting their skins. That cast of mind was the prosecutor's best friend.
"No, why?" she said evenly.
"Oh, she's interested. She thinks maybe he'll make a damaging admission. No fucking way, babe. I'm not going to, and even if you get this on tape, there's no way you could ID my voice in this noise. Am I right?"
"I guess so," said Marlene. "Looks like you thought of everything."
"Yeah, I did. So, you want to know why you lost? I'll tell you. It's the system. It's designed to catch assholes. Hey, it's run by assholes. You know it's true. Nobody with anything on the ball ever gets caught. You think you'll ever touch the guys who are raking in millions-drugs, whores, stocks, real estate, contracts? No way. So, if somebody wanted to just, say, figure out the system, so he could get a little pussy the way he likes it, the system can't touch him. It only takes about forty minutes of real thought on the part of anyone with serious brains."
"Nevertheless, we caught you," she said.
"A minor flaw in the plan. It will be corrected, never fear. And don't bother trying to figure it out, either, you pathetic cunt. It's far too complex for your puny mentality. I suggest you confine yourself to nigger sneak thieves-they're just your speed."
He hung up. Marlene lit a cigarette and watched the smoke rise in a corkscrew spire. After a while her hand stopped trembling and the smoke rose straight through the close air of the little office. Something had happened during the conversation; something had changed in her mind, although she could not say exactly what it was. Remarkably, she felt better, even chipper. The defeat now stung less because she realized that it was only temporary. In some deep way he was vulnerable, or she could make him so. He wasn't as smart as he thought he was; if he were, he wouldn't have called her. She would have him, after all, somehow, and in a way no error could reverse. She grabbed her bag and went out, looking for Karp.
FIFTEEN
"I can't believe it!" Karp exclaimed when Marlene told him.
"Believe it," said Marlene, picking listlessly at her almond chicken. They were eating Chinese out of white cardboard boxes in Karp's office. The building was largely deserted at this hour, except for the arraignment courts and the operation of the complaint room on the fourth floor.
"Nolan was bound and determined to let him go, the fucker. I guess your bigwig friends wouldn't do anything about that."
Karp shrugged. "Who the fuck knows? I'm playing out of my league there, to be real honest. I mean, what could I say? Call Reedy and tell him to roll his tame judge? I don't even know that Reedy has a squeeze on Nolan."
"What did he say? Reedy, I mean."
"I told him that I thought Nolan was throwing the case because he had a hard-on for me because I had set the hounds on him because of the Booth thing. And I asked him what he thought."
"And?"
Karp smiled. "Well, it's sort of funny. He kind of hemmed and hawed and said that Nolan was a guy a lot a people gave stock tips to. Reedy knew for a fact that Nolan had picked up some stock on a deal that Reedy had made a pile on, but he wasn't sure who exactly had passed the tip along. He said Fane made a habit of doing that, passing stuff to pols and judges. So that could be it. Nothing we could pr
ove, though."
"And this Reedy is Mr. Clean?"
"I wouldn't go that far," said Karp. He ate some beef with oyster sauce and added, "But I can't help liking the guy. He's at least out-front that he's a sharpster. He's funny. And, I don't know, he's nice to me, at least. You know, weeks go by and nobody bureau chief and above gives me the time of day unless I wrench it out of them. Not to mention fucking Bloom and his gang. It gets old, you know?"
"Poor Butchie," said Marlene half-mockingly.
"Yeah, poor Butchie. You think I shouldn't hang out with him either, don't you?"
"Hey, I didn't say a word…"
"Yeah, but you gave me that look. Same as Guma. Karp's going white-shoe, the fucking sky is falling. Face it-what do you think I have to look forward to if I keep butting heads with the D.A.? Sooner or later he'll get me, and then where'll I be? Not to mention our little bundle of joy. Yeah, I admit it, sue me! It'd be damn nice to have a little clout for a change."
"Nothing wrong with being ambitious, Butch," said Marlene quietly. "I'm not sure me or the baby has much to do with it, though. And as you said yourself, it's not exactly your league."
"Yeah?" Karp snapped. "Well, maybe it's time for a transfer. Is there any more fried rice?"
They ate in silence for a few minutes, and then Marlene spoke, pointedly changing the subject. "The worst thing about it is, Meissner's still out there. He's gonna start again too. He as much as said so."
Karp put down his carton. "He said so? When?"
"Oh, yeah, I didn't tell you. He called me after the hearing. He didn't actually say it was him, but it was him."
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