“Then we run through the kitchen. There’s another screw there an’ he goes for his piece. Victor and me we both blast him with the foam inna face, same like before. Willie knocks his piece outta his hand with the stick an’ we run past him out to the foyer. The alarm’s ringin’, everybody’s yellin’ like a muthafucka, two more screws jump us. Me an’ Victor bust our way through and get out the door. Then two cars of pigs pull up an’ grab us.”
Goldstein stopped and Karp looked a sharp question at Pagano, who said, “Wait, the best is yet to come.”
Dooley lost it at this point, and bellowed at Goldstein, “You little shit! You beat up three guards, trying to escape, and you have the fucking nerve to press charges? You wish!”
“Hold on, Dooley,” Karp said. “Let’s hear the whole story first. Well, is that it, Mister Goldstein? You tried to escape, pounded on some guards, and picked up some lumps in return?”
“No, that ain’t all,” said Goldstein indignantly. “It’s the next day we’re complainin’ about. The next day!”
“What are you talking about?” Karp asked, more alert now.
“The next day. Two guards came into our cell and beat the living shit outta us. They handcuffed me and Victor and kicked us around the floor.” He pointed to his bandage. “They kicked my fuckin’ eye out, man.”
There was a moment of silence. Dooley cursed. “Those goddam assholes,” he said. Pagano added, “Ocha has three cracked ribs and a broken jaw, Martinez has a cracked vertebra, and Goldstein, as you see, has lost his eye.” He looked at Karp. “Well, Counselor, you going to take the case?”
Karp took a deep breath. “What do you think, Pagano, I’m going to bury this shit?” He turned to Dooley. “Hal, I’m going to write up the guards involved for felonious assault. Go up to the Drug Center and look around. Talk to the guards. See what kind of cover-up they’ve got going. Tom, I’ll get Goldstein’s story down on paper and signed and then get the statements of the others in the next couple of days, alright? Good. See you guys, I’m in court in about twenty seconds.”
Karp worked for the remainder of the afternoon with the knowledge that this might be one of his last days in the criminal court system. A grin kept breaking out on his face, so it was hard to maintain the correct prosecutorial mien, which was grim and full of righteous indignation. His last case involved Dickie Waver, an exhibitionist, a graying pleasant-faced little man who had been arrested twenty times before-and probably would be many times again-who enjoyed being arrested almost as much as he enjoyed showing his penis to schoolgirls. Another little psychological service of the criminal court system. The defendant pleaded guilty and was fined. Bang. Justice triumphed. But soon, soon, without Butch Karp.
He went back to his office, dumped his stuff. The phone rang. It was Lannie Kimple, secretary to Doyle Cheeseborough, the chief of the Criminal Courts Bureau and Karp’s immediate (and, he prayed, soon to be former) boss. Lannie was a thin, thirtyish lady who wore horn-rimmed glasses, and translucent blouses over plain slips. She wanted to marry a lawyer and wore a tiny gold cross around her neck to show her sincerity. “Butch, the boss wants to see you-now.”
“I’ve got something I’ve got to do. How late will he be there?”
“Uh-uh, he said now, and he’s all bent out of shape about something.”
“What else is new? Tell him I’ll be there in about five minutes.”
“Five minutes ain’t now, Butch.”
“For Crissakes, Lannie, I’m going to pee first, alright?”
There was a silence on the line; then Lannie said, “Five minutes,” and hung up.
True to his word, Karp went to the men’s room, relieved himself, then washed his hands and face. There were no paper towels; there rarely were. Karp dried himself with his pocket handkerchief, then smoothed his hair into place in front of the mirror with a damp hand. He examined the reflected face. He went through a repertoire of expressions. Stern-eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, lips compressed; sterner-eyes staring intensely, brows rolling in knots, jaw tight, lower lip bent under, tense, chin protruding; sternest-(maximum-time-bad-mutha-put-your-ass-in-jail-for-a-thousand-years) eyes popping from sockets, nostrils flared, lips in a snarl, teeth bared and grinding. “Is this the face of a HOMICIDE DA? said Karp, the words whistling through his clenched teeth, “ IS IT? IS IT? YOU BET YOUR ASS IT IS! You’ll talk, Rocky, you’ll talk. Your pal ratted on you, Rocky, it’s all over …” Then, a switch to Sincere-eyes large and almost brimming, face relaxed, big shit-eating smile. “Hi,” he said, in a passable imitation of Liberace, “my name is Karp. I’m with the Homicide Bureau. I’d just like to ask you a few questions. But first, are you comfortable? Can I get you anything? Cigarette? Sandwich? Coffee? A hit of smack? A piece of ass?”
Karp stopped suddenly with a jolt of panic. What if there was somebody in one of the booths listening to all this? He checked. All empty. He returned to the mirror, tightened his tie, put his official face on and left for the Criminal Court Bureau Chiefs Office.
This was not going to be pleasant, thought Karp. Doyle Cheeseborough was a twenty-nine-year veteran of the DA’s office. His tenure had given him dyspepsia, piles, and a rampaging intolerance for anyone who disagreed with him, or for anyone who differed from him in any aspect of philosophy, personal taste, or physical appearance. This intolerance included virtually all of the human race, but it was especially focused on minorities, Jews, tall people, and anybody at 10 °Centre Street who appeared to be having a good time.
Karp entered Cheeseborough’s outer office and nodded to Lannie Kimple.
“What happened, did you fall in?” she asked.
“No, it took me a while to coil it up. Cut the shit, Kimple, what’s this about?”
“I don’t know, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t care. I am out of here in two weeks.”
“Oh, when did this happen?”
“I gave him my notice today. I’m going over to work for Judge Calabrese in Appeals.”
“Good for you. You get a better class of people over there.”
She regarded him coldly. “I’ll say. It wouldn’t be hard either. You’d better go in.”
Cheeseborough was sitting behind a massive wooden desk as Karp entered. As usual, he made the visitor wait while he shuffled papers. He had a round head perched on a round body, with skinny arms and legs and white, papery skin. He was nearly bald, but kept a patch of graying hair combed up over his dome, which, by day’s end, was usually pointing straight up, specked with dandruff. Because of this appearance and his personality, he was universally known around 10 °Centre Street as the Mad Onion.
Karp was not invited to sit down. Eventually, the Onion looked up, took in Karp’s unpleasant height with his small and malevolent blue eyes, and said, “Who do you think you are?”
“What do you mean?”
Color began to rise in the Onion’s papery cheeks. “You know damn well what I mean. All of you. Who do you think you are, seducing my secretary? She’s leaving. Quitting, and she was just learning where everything was. I won’t have it!”
“Um … Mister Cheeseborough, have you spoken to Miss Kimple about this?”
“Of course I’ve spoken with Miss Kimple. She won’t say anything. Oh, no! She’s leaving for ‘personal reasons.’ My Aunt Fanny! One of you seduced her and then you dumped her, she’s probably knocked up in the bargain, and that’s why she’s leaving.” The Onion was on a roll now, waggling his roots about and filling the air above his head with tiny white flakes. “And I’ll tell you something else. One of you seduced my last secretary, too. She left. Oh, you think I don’t know what goes on. I’ve seen you all making goo-goo eyes at her, and filthy remarks.” He glared at Karp and clenched his tiny fists.
“Mister Cheeseborough, when you say ‘you,’ to whom are you referring? Me, personally, or some larger group?”