Karp looked at the faces: Anselmo avid, smiling like a kid at the circus; Hrcany pretending forbearance, willing to go along as long as no one made him responsible for a weak case, and perfectly willing to see Anselmo carry this freight; and Guma? Was the jerk actually asleep or just pretending the most elaborate boredom? Under the shelter of the conference table Karp’s cap toe reached out and gave Guma one in the ankle. The monkey eyes opened, the floppy mouth yawned, showing more bridgework than anyone wanted to see.
Hrcany said, “Now that you mention it, Frank, Guma has some thoughts on that. Ray?”
“Yeah, Frank,” said Guma pleasantly, “my thoughts are that you try to squeeze Moletti, you might get some of that scungilli he scarfed down at the party there, but nothing else.”
“Why?” snapped Anselmo. “Because of the sacred code of omerta? They don’t do that shit anymore, Guma. They sing just like anyone else when you push them.”
Guma looked up at the ceiling as if he thought the answer to this question might be inscribed there, and when he responded it was in the sort of voice a kindergarten teacher might use to explain that D came after C. “Actually, Frank, I wasn’t thinking of any high-tone Mafia stuff like that. I was thinking about Marco. You know what they call Marco Moletti on the street? No, don’t look in the file, Frank, I’ll tell you. If they sort of like him, they call him Slo Mo. If they’re annoyed at him, like if the pizza they sent him out for is cold, they call him Marky Moron. He’s a gofer, Frank. He’s also real honest, because he’s too dumb to steal and he knows it, which is why the guys sometimes leave stuff with him, cash, like your bag of money, or hot property. He’s got his niche, you could say, and he’s happy in it. But to put it mildly, Frank, he ain’t a player. So anyone who thinks that Marky knows fuck-all about what goes on in the Bollanos is stupid. You want to squeeze something, squeeze the hubcap on Eddie Catalano’s Lincoln, you’ll get more out of it. And anybody who thinks that Marky Moron would get tagged to whack a capo regime is. . words fail me. Felony stupid? Besides all that, in my opinion, you’re doing great.”
Anselmo shot to his feet and flung his papers to the floor. “Ah, come on, Butch, what the hell!”
“Sit down, Frank,” said Karp. “Guma?”
“I apologize, Frank,” said Guma instantly, in monotone.
“All right, now that we’ve all had our fun,” said Karp, “let me remind you why we’re here. Eddie Catalano was killed the day before he was scheduled to appear pursuant to a subpoena before a federal grand jury investigating Mob involvement in local businesses. This has greatly vexed our colleague on the other side of the square. The U.S. attorney believes that Mr. Catalano was slain to prevent his testimony-”
“Horseshit,” said Guma.
“We’re aware of your opinion on that subject, Guma,” Karp snapped, “but would you put a goddamn cork in it just for now? Thank you. And since the U.S. attorney has been kept from his goal of, as he so elegantly puts it, ‘breaking the Mob in New York,’ he has devoted his time and talent to breaking our boss’s balls instead. Why is Jack Keegan not pursuing this obvious gangland slaying with more alacrity and success? Why have we not seen the Mafia scumbags dragged into court? How come his crusade is stopped in its tracks? Is it that maybe Jack Keegan’s not up to the job? And so forth, as you know. Now, in order to get Tommy Colombo off our ass, we need to show movement on this goddamn murder. Either we have to have a plausible defendant behind bars, or, failing that, we have to find out why the scumbag got killed. Roland, what are the cops doing besides sniffing around this Moletti character?”
Hrcany rolled his massive shoulders in a shrug. Not as massive as they used to be, Karp observed, but still meaty. The eighteen-inch collar of his shirt was loose on his neck.
“Well, Butch,” he said, “you know how it is-they fall in love with a perp, it’s forever, unless they dig up something new. I got enough for an arrest warrant and an indictment. When he’s in the can, who knows? A pal of his could drop a dime-Marky didn’t do it, I heard it was X. Or he could talk in jail. Maybe he knows from nothing, like Guma said, but still, he’s around those guys. Even waiters pick up stuff. And then one of the regular jailhouse snitches could grab it. I don’t know-”
“Roland, cut the horseshit,” said Karp. “Don’t give me warrants and indictments. We wanted to, you know damn well we could arrest and indict the cardinal archbishop for this one. What I’m interested in is, do you believe that this putz is a legitimate suspect? Did he fucking do the crime?”
Hrcany looked down for a moment as if gathering himself and then met Karp’s gaze. “Since you ask, I don’t and he didn’t. Guma’s right. He’s a retard.”
“Then forget him!” Karp ordered, and then, to nearly everyone’s surprise, he turned to Guma. “Ray, what really happened?” he asked, almost casually. Frank Anselmo’s smile became noticeably more false.
“Oh, they brought in somebody,” Guma answered confidently, as if giving the correct time. “Probably a pair of guys. They picked him up in the girlfriend’s lobby, hustled him out to his car, tossed him in the trunk, and drove to the scene of in two cars. Then they stuck him in the driver’s seat and did him so it would look like he got popped by a buddy in the backseat. All these guys watched The Godfather fifty times, so they know how it’s supposed to go down. The clock’s a nice touch, and it ties it to somebody who might need an alibi.”
“Like Pigetti?” asked Karp.
“Oh, either Joey was involved, or somebody wanted to make it look like Joey was involved. If he did do it, though, the important thing is, did he clear it through the don? My guess is no, he didn’t. It’s hard to think why Big Sally would want to take out Eddie Cat.” He looked at Anselmo. “See, Little Sal doesn’t have any friends to speak of. Eddie was Little Sal’s baby-sitter. This is well-known. Used to be Charlie Tuna, then Eddie got the job when Charlie went upstate. Little Sal needs a lot of watching. He gets testy when he doesn’t get his way, and it interferes with business. So this is perfect for the don. He got one of his capos tight with his kid, the heir, keeping him in line, but also the kid is watching Eddie, of course. Neither of them can make a move against him without the other knowing. And he’s got his other capo right there in his pocket, Pigetti. Anyway, whoever did it, Pigetti, Little Sal, the don, or some combination thereof, it’s a sure bet it’s a family thing, got nothing to do with the federal grand jury. Eddie Cat would go to jail if he had to, but not into a witness program, which anyone who knew the guy would tell you in a second.”
“So who did the deed, Guma? You probably already have a name for us.” Anselmo spoke sarcastically, but Guma took the question on, knitting his brows as if trying to think of an actual name.
“Not a Sicilian, Frank. No Sicilian would hit a made guy and a capo in his own family without an order from his don, and if he was from another family, not unless he wanted to start a major war, which we got no evidence at all is what’s involved here. So who? Well, if Murder Incorporated was still in business, this is the kind of stuff they used to contract out to the Jewish fellas, but I don’t think Jews are into whacking anymore.”
“Only whacking off,” said Karp. “You’re suggesting that Pigetti would reach out to one of our fine non-Sicilian ethnic groups?”