Enemy Within

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  But it got worse. On arriving at the courthouse he was summoned to the DA’s office. Keegan was at his desk, flanked by Fuller. The DA’s face was dark with anger. Fuller’s bore its usual bland look, but it seemed to Karp to be a little too self-contained, as if the man were holding back an expression more pleased, even triumphant. Through his mind there flashed the thought that they’d found out about the homicide report, and that this was curtains. He sat down, opened his ledger, and asked, “What’s up?”

  “Wait,” said Keegan in a dead voice. Karp noticed that the tip of Keegan’s prop cigar was crushed as if he had pounded it on the table. A tape recorder was on his desk, and his fingers danced close to it, as if eager to mash PLAY. Hrcany walked in. Whatever the problem was, Hrcany clearly did not know about it. He was his ordinary cocky self. He pulled a chair away from the conference table and sat.

  “Somebody die?” he asked.

  “Listen to this!” snapped the DA, and started the tape.

  It was scratchy and muffled, but the words were perfectly clear, as was the identity of the speaker. The screaming voice was silent at last, and Keegan stopped the tape.

  “Where in hell did you get that?” Hrcany demanded.

  “It came up through the mail room in an interoffice pouch, with a note saying copies had been sent to the networks and the papers. How could you have been so stupid, Roland? On top of what’s been going on,”—Keegan flung up his hands in disgust—“it’s a total disaster.”

  “Hey, I lost my temper in a goddamn elevator, with no one but staff around. Is that a crime now?”

  “He still doesn’t get it,” said Fuller.

  Hrcany sprang to his feet. “Oh, go fuck yourself, you mealymouthed little putz!”

  “Sit down, Roland, goddammit!” After a frightening pause, when for an instant it seemed to Karp that Roland would not, that he would spring across the intervening distance and tear Fuller to pieces, the man slumped back into his chair.

  “I’d like to know who the fuck recorded that tape,” Hrcany snarled. “There were six people in that elevator car—me, Butch, Pincus, a cop named Bradley, Meghan Lacy, and another assistant . . . Christ, I bet it was Lacy, that little bitch!”

  “It wasn’t Lacy,” said Karp tiredly. “Lacy came to me later to complain about it. I talked her out of writing you up.”

  “So who was it? You?” The glitter of paranoia flicked on in Hrcany’s blue eyes.

  “Of course it wasn’t me, Roland, and I hardly think it was Dave Pincus. Did you know the other guy . . . Peter something?”

  “No, I thought you did.”

  “Right, and I thought he was a pal of Dave’s or Meghan’s from the office. He was wearing a lawyer suit, and he had the top edge of a plastic ID card showing in his breast pocket. A ringer.”

  “What? You think I was set up?”

  “I don’t know. The guy might’ve just hung around hoping to pick up something rich. It was pretty confused, as you recall. He must’ve had a mini-recorder in his pocket and turned it on when you started your rant.”

  “Listen to me, now!” the DA broke in, rapping hard on his desk. “I don’t give a rat’s ass how it happened. It happened, Roland, and it’s on you. And I don’t want to hear any horseshit about what’s a crime and what’s free speech. We’ve had cabinet officers dismissed in this country for telling a dirty joke. People have had their political careers wrecked for a chance remark, and let me tell you, buster, what’s on that tape is no chance remark. It’s sick! I have had twelve phone calls from the press this morning, asking me what action I’m going to take. I’ve put them off because I wanted to talk to you first.”

  Karp watched the DA’s face form itself into a mash of righteous hypocrisy. “Look, Roland, I want you to know this isn’t about the election or politics. It’s simply unacceptable behavior, I mean the indication of attitudes that we simply cannot tolerate in a public organization like this. I think you need help, and I suggest you find some. And I think we should make this painful situation as brief as we possibly can, so . . . let’s make it immediate, as of close of business today.”

  “You’re firing me?” Hrcany was stunned. He turned and looked at Karp openmouthed, as if to say, this is some kind of joke, right?

  “Is this really necessary, Jack?” Karp offered. “A leave of absence . . .”

  “Dammit, Butch, I canned you for a lot less. I was able to hide you for a while—what you did, it could’ve been an accident. You got no history in that area, unlike Roland unfortunately, and people forget. But not this.”

  Roland was staring at Keegan. From where he sat, Karp could see a vein bulging dangerously in the man’s temple. “You’re firing me? After eighteen years? For this shit?”

  “You can resign,” said Keegan in a dull voice.

  “Fucking right I resign, and fuck the bunch of you!”

  Hrcany got up and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  There was a silence, which Karp broke by saying, “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

  “I have no choice. There’s going to be a firestorm tonight and tomorrow . . . you saw the way the press is . . .”

  Karp wasn’t listening. “This whole thing sucks. It stinks of political expediency.”

  “Oh?” Keegan’s voice rose. “The last time I checked, this was a political office, and let me tell you something, boyo: when you do the shit-work, and you kiss the fannies necessary to run for a political office, then you can pontificate to me about what the hell is necessary to run one.” Keegan had turned dark pink in the face and was now jabbing in Karp’s direction with his damaged cigar.

  “You want my resignation, too, Jack? You can have it.”

  “Oh, pipe down! Don’t get more noble on me than I can stomach! I don’t want your resignation. I want you to take up where Roland left off, clean out this mess.”

  “Mess?” Karp goggled.

  “Yeah, dammit! This mess in homicide. Benson, Marshak, the cop killing, what’s-his-name, this Lomax thing, the bum slasher. It’s wrecking us. I need you to fix it.”

  “What, you want me to take over homicide?”

  “Right, homicide.”

  “You’re making me bureau chief?”

  Was that a little cloud that passed over the big pink face? Karp could usually read the DA pretty well, and he thought the man was burning a little too much coal in the sincerity engine. Karp snapped a quick look at Fuller. Fuller met his gaze levelly, but could not help showing a little tightness around the eyes, a lick of the lips, like a lizard practicing a go at a beetle. They were up to something. Karp felt his belly hollow out. There was no trust here. Had there ever been any? It didn’t matter.

  Keegan said, “Not officially. You can pick anyone you want as deputy, let him deal with the routine stuff. I want you to handle the high-profile cases. Get us out of this right, and we’ll see about making it permanent.” The DA brought a big politician’s grin up from his collection of smiles. “Hell, it’s what you always wanted, getting back there. You know you’ve been mooning after it like a damn kid in a toy store for the last five years. It used to drive Roland crazy.”

  Which was true, and so it took a good deal of resolve for Karp to say, “I need to think about it. For starters, I need to talk to my wife.”

  He went back to his office and sat for a while, feeling faintly nauseated. He had thought that by this time he had become utterly void of personal ambition, and it shocked him badly to find that it was not true. He wanted homicide badly, and the knowledge that Keegan knew that and was using the promise of a permanent appointment thereto as a manipulative tool did not entirely still his lust for the job. They wanted to keep him on the reservation until after the election, to saddle him with the political messes they had made, after which . . . who knew? The irony, of course, was that this leak had made the mess far worse, although building political pressure had been an essential part of his plan. But he had not expected this
turn, he had really not expected Roland to ruin himself and leave Karp with the great soggy tar baby of homicide. He had imagined that he could stand off more, a gray eminence on staff, skillfully tweaking the system. Staff people did it all the time, leaking and lying—it was practically in the job description. But if he took homicide now, he’d be right in the center of it, having to fix what he himself had broken, with the prize he shamefully lusted for dangling from the hands of the DA and his nasty little . . .

  Karp picked up the phone and pushed the speed button for Marlene’s private line. It rang a long time before someone, not Marlene, picked it up, a man in fact, whose voice was loud and seemed slurred. There were peculiar noises in the background, thumping music, many voices, punctuated by shouts and whistles. The man said that it was crazy in there, but he’d try to find her. A clunk as the receiver was tossed down.

  Shortly, he heard his wife’s voice.

  “What’s going on? It sounds like a party.”

  “It is a party. We started drinking champoo this morning. You should come over and drink some. You could see distinguished corporate security personnel dancing on the desks in various states of undress. There is someone’s tie hanging from my desk lamp. I expect panties to follow.”

  “This is about Perry?”

  “Oh, Perry! Foo on Perry! He is rescued. We is rescued by his rescue. Perry is old news. The IPO went off today. Opened at eight, went to sixty and a quarter, and is hovering at fifty-five and a half. Fifty-five and a half. Fifty fucking five. And a half.”

  “Is that good or bad for the Jews?” Karp asked. She was clearly drunk, and he felt vexed about it because what he needed now was the calm, sensible, no-bullshit Marlene to succor him and support him and say, sure, take a job that involves no home life to speak of and eighteen-hour days, and I will pick up the emotional slack for you, darling . . .

  “Oh, definitely good, especially those married to Osborne principals who have one point two million options at eight. Listen, Butchie, we’re all going out to eat and carouse the night away. Could you do the boys and all?”

  “Sure,” in a flat voice.

  “You’re so mahvelous. Lovie love. See you later. Bye.”

  Karp put down the phone. Into his mind floated an aphorism his mother had often used—the worst thing in life is not getting your heart’s desire; the second worst thing is getting it. He had missed her, really missed her ever since he was a child and cancer had closed her eyes for the last time, but he felt an unbearable pang of loss just now, the kind that makes you want to wail “Maaaaaa!”

  The next thing that floated up unbidden was a bit of wondrous math: 1.2 million at 55 equals beaucoup, beaucoup buckerooskis. His mind skidded away from it. A ridiculous figure anyway, not real money even, some kind of accounting game. And too bad it had happened today, because he really wanted to talk this through with Marlene. Or did he? Hell, she got to do what she wanted, staying out however long the job took. Why couldn’t he? Karp was not at all prone to self-pitying resentment, but he was not immune to it either. He felt a space opening between himself and the woman, and maybe part of what was prying it open was the fantasy money. Into that space rushed thoughts about being back at homicide, about having a real job again, the one job he was born to do. He walked the few steps to Keegan’s office and told the DA that, yeah, he’d do it. If it could be fixed, he would fix it.

  9

  THE NEXT WEEK OR SO PASSED IN SOMETHING OF A DAZE FOR MARLENE. Everyone in the office down to the secretaries had gone a little batty. They had set up a television set in the coffee room tuned to a business channel, and there was always a little knot of people around it, cheering and groaning with the movement of OSBN on the Nasdaq. People were not used to having their net worth rise or fall by several thousand dollars in an afternoon, not to speak of the few in the company for whom the daily wiggle was measured in millions.

  Of all Marlene’s colleagues, none had embraced the new situation with more simple delight than Oleg Sirmenkov.

  “What do you think of Boxter by Porsche, Marlene?” he asked her one morning. “Is good car, yes?” He sat on the edge of her desk and flipped his new gold Dunhill on and off.

  “A good car, yes. Get a red one. Is what we call a pussy car, Oleg.”

  He looked dismayed. “What? Is not strong enough the engine, you mean?”

  “No, it means beautiful, young girls will come over to you when you drive it, and ignore that you are old and decrepit, and wish for a ride.”

  “Am not so old and decrepit yet. I can still go to the field with youngsters.”

  “As in Kosovo.”

  “Exactly so. And a good thing. Maybe we would not be rich as we are now if Perry and his friends are dead.”

  “True enough. It was really amazing how you knew just how to find them. I can’t get over it.”

  Sirmenkov shrugged modestly. “We were lucky. Plus, good preparation, good contacts, good operatives.” He laughed. “Unlimited bribery as well. But, now, tell me, what are you going to buy? You have so much more than I do, is crime.”

  “I haven’t bought anything. I thought you had to wait six months before selling any stock.”

  “What? They don’t tell you? No, of course, they tell—you was right there next to me.”

  “I guess I wasn’t listening.”

  “You are so foolish sometime, Marlene, I do not believe you. Is margin account. Margin! See the little man, Mr. Amory. He has set up accounts for all of us.”

  Indeed, as Marlene discovered via a call and a brief visit, Osborne had arranged for the broker to provide margin accounts secured with stock. Marlene went out at midday, cabbed downtown, had a nice chat with the Toad, who explained that a bank would lend Marlene spending money on the value of her stock. Typically, stock value rose more quickly than interest, so the loan could be financed by selling off small blocks from time to time. What if the stock declined? Marlene wanted to know, and was met with an expression of pity, as for someone worrying whether the earth would ever collide with the moon. Thus assured, she was handed off to Ms. Lipopo, at the private department of Manhattan Trust, and introduced to the pleasures of high-end private banking. No little glass cubicle, exposed to the gaze of the peasantry waiting for tellers; instead, a dark-paneled office, with Edwardian touches and a Kirghiz on the floor. Marlene wondered if they had extruded Ms. Lipopo especially for her, she looked so new and shiny, a slim, golden, thirtyish person of jumbled ethnic antecedents, precisely suitable for personally banking a one-eyed, burnt-out liberal matron. If, Marlene mused, Marlene had been an Irish brickie who had hit the lottery, would that Ms. Lipopo have had a beer gut and a skein of dirty jokes?

  The young woman caused Marlene to sign a large number of forms (which, though a lawyer herself, she read only negligently, for who could not trust Ms. Lipopo?) and served coffee and petits fours on fine porcelain. After the signings, Ms. L. turned to her computer terminal, elegant fingers poised. “How much would you want to start with? The limit is fifty percent of market value, but you may want to set up with a lesser amount just for immediate use. Ten percent?”

  “That sounds right,” said Marlene from Queens, suppressing the “duh.”

  “At today’s prices, let’s say five-five.” Ms. Lipopo smiled, showing white teeth and lovely pink gums. Everyone was being so nice to Marlene recently. Could it be the money?

  “Five-five meaning . . . ?”

  “Five point five million.” Another charming smile. Ms. Lipopo loved her work.

  “Oh, well, yeah, just for my immediate needs,” said Marlene, a fine sweat popping out on forehead and upper lip. Shortly thereafter, she left with a nice checkbook bound in genuine black morocco, a little portfolio (ditto) containing a sheaf of forms and densely printed publications, and a credit/debit card of a peculiar dull metallic-gray color, which was apparently the loveliest and most prestigious color a credit card could ever be. No toaster, no mug with the bank logo, but you couldn’t have everything, she tho
ught. Or, thinking again, in my case you could, me now being so rich that . . . the metaphor machine stumbled here. More cold sweat. This was stupid. It’s only money. Okay, a lot of money, but still . . .

  She passed a bank, an ATM lobby. Drawn by a mysterious force, like an earthling under the control of body snatchers, she found herself bellying up to the device, slipping the new card into the slot. My immediate needs, she thought, and punched in five hundred. The little door whined, and there were twenty-five twenties, actual money. She snatched up the wad and looked around, as if she were ripping someone off.

  This was nuts. She hailed a cab on Broadway, and on the ride uptown she tried to think of anything but the money, which was like the old saw about not thinking about a purple rhinoceros and, besides, she had never been much good at controlling her thoughts. Not a mental-discipline type, her, not like her daughter, apparently, or her husband, which was where the daughter must have picked it up, along with her other Karp-like characteristics, such as a tendency to be judgmental, a little self-righteous maybe, a bit hard on old Mom or wifey, as the case might be. Which might change with the new money, might it not? Money was supposed to grease the wheels, make things easier. Why people wanted it, right? Why they killed and whored for it, or killed themselves. Don’t think about it, then. Clear the decks. Think about . . . what? Husband and family. What husband? Never around anymore, and when around difficult, irritable. Doesn’t talk about work like he used to, a bad sign, he’s worried about something, keeping something stashed deep away, what could it be? Another woman? Butch? Of course, the wife is always the last to know. Plus, he goes into this crazy job situation without a prior consult, violation of prime marital directive, not good. Lucy also never home, consorting with that guy, good-looking enough, thin and wiry, beautiful blue eyes: like mother, like daughter, in that respect. Sex? Ridic! But probably be good for her . . . no, what am I thinking? Guy’s nearly thirty, she’s a baby, practically, although the stories you hear about private-school girls nowadays, blow jobs galore at the junior prom. Still, time for the kid to drop that religious stuff, get on with real life, like I did, and look at me—one eye and fifty-five million bucks, ha! She’ll probably want me to give it to the poor, or the Church. Maybe I will, some, just to show her I really am generous. Butch is a miser, but I’m not. He hasn’t said a word about the IPO either, not even “Good for you, girl”; like he doesn’t want to think about it. Or maybe I’ll endow a chair at Smith, which is the only way my daughter is going to get in there. The Marlene Ciampi Professorship for the Study of Religious Hysteria in Language Geniuses. Or I could get away. They’d all be better off. Buy an island. Buy a town in Italy. Take the boys. No, not Zak, Zak needs a man, ninety-two pounds in his socks and most of that testosterone. Would Giancarlo come? Maybe. We could have a warped relationship. He could collect porcelains and incunabula and look after his crazy mother. Eccentric. Poor are crazy, rich eccentric. I could have a string of horses, but I hate horses. Cars. I love cars. A Ferrari for starters. And dogs. Hundreds of dogs, vast kennels, yes, the dog lady growing old in her palazzo with hundreds of dogs . . . No! Don’t think about the money! Money would change things, not really change. I’m the same as I was before. We all are.