“What was that all about?”
Karp and Joe Lerner were loading their paper plates with delicatessen. “What was what all about, Joe?”
“I got big ears, Butch. What is the boss going to let you know?”
“Oh, nothing much. We were just discussing his political plans. Hey, is there any pastrami on that side?”
“Yeah, here’s a pastrami with Swiss cheese. So tell me, when did you get to be Phil Garrahy’s political adviser?”
Karp looked up and met Lerner’s gaze. The older man looked worried.
“Oh, crap, Joe. I just told him that everybody in the office wanted him to stay DA and … uh …”
“And what?”
“And I said I would organize the ADAs to hit the streets and campaign for him.”
Lerner’s chicken salad sandwich halted halfway to his mouth, which hung open for a long moment and then snapped shut in a grim line.
“Goddamn, Butch, why in hell did you want to do something like that?”
“Because nobody else wanted to. Our great boss, Jack Conlin, was feeding him a line of bullshit about how nobody wanted him, and how he couldn’t win, et cetera. I just told him the truth.”
“Oh, you did, did you? Well, good for you. But let me tell you something you might not have thought of in your pursuit of truth. Let’s say Garrahy runs. If he runs, he wins, we all know that. That gives us at best four more years of the half-assed leadership we’ve got now. At worst … ah shit, Butch, look at the man! He’s a walking corpse. You think he’s going to last four years? And when he goes, the governor gets to appoint his replacement, which means sure as hell we’re going to get some Republican dickhead in there, instead of Jack Conlin, who whatever you think about him, at least knows his way around a fucking courtroom.”
“Conlin can’t fill Garrahy’s shoes.”
“Did I say he could? Do you know anybody who could? But Jack’s the best we got, and you might have taken away his chance to get the office and maybe grow in it. Fill his shoes! We’ll be lucky to get somebody fit to kiss his shoes. Wake up, Butch! It’s Nineteen Seventy-one and there aren’t any heroes anymore. Why the hell didn’t you come to me and talk about it instead of weaseling around like this?”
“I wasn’t weaseling! I’m going to go down and see Jack and tell him what I did.”
“Oh, that’s sweet of you. Hey, Jack, I just put twenty-five years of your life in the shit can-just thought you’d like to know.”
“Dammit, Joe, I figured you of all people would understand. I mean Jack lied to him. He lied!”
“So he lied. In his place, I would have done exactly the same thing. What do you think we’re running here, a convent? God, Butch, you’re a damn fine lawyer and you’ve got-you had-a hell of a career in front of you, but you sure can be an insufferable, self-righteous prick!”
Lerner turned on his heel and strode away. Karp put his plate down. He wasn’t hungry and he had a cold feeling in his belly. He thought, Joe’s full of shit. I did the right thing. Then he walked out of the party and down the stairs to see Jack Conlin.
Chapter 12
“Mister Bloom, please. Chip Wharton here. Thank you. Sandy? I’ve got some good news for you. The old man is definitely going to run. Of course I’m sure. Yeah, Conlin must have gone through the roof. No, Sandy, I can assure you, there’s absolutely no possibility that he’ll survive until the end of this next term. If I had any doubts about that, I wouldn’t have urged you not to run, and I wouldn’t have pushed him to run. No, Conlin won’t do a thing, I guarantee, he’ll be out of here in a month. Look, you just work on the governor and his people and I’ll nail down things around here. Karp? Don’t make me laugh! He’s a nobody, a Boy Scout. Yeah, it’s ironic alright. Yeah, it might be a nice gesture if you called Phil and offered him your warm support. Thanks, Sandy. And, Sandy? Just sit tight, I’ll be in touch.”
“Susan, it’s me. I just wanted to call you and let you know. Remember I told you about the primary and what I was doing? Yeah, well, I’m sitting here in the Hilton, election headquarters, it’s a madhouse. I think we’re going to win big, twenty-five, thirty points. Well, yeah, it’s no big surprise, but still … he probably wouldn’t have run it if wasn’t for me and the rest of the gang in the office, so I guess I feel personally responsible, you know? Susan, it was incredible, I mean just about every attorney in the office, the secretaries, the whole staff practically, out on the street, getting signatures for the petition, and then getting the election committee set up, then back on the streets, putting up posters, talking to groups. I still can’t believe it-Garrahy let me run the whole thing. God, I’ve got so much to tell you.
“Anyway, I’ve been running off my feet the past three weeks and it looks like we did it, and, well, the reason I called is, I thought I’d take a couple of weeks off and fly out, and, I thought we could go up the coast to Monterey and stay at that place on the beach we used to go to. You don’t? Why not? I don’t understand, what kind of plans? You’re what? What do you mean you’re seeing somebody? What the fuck does that mean? A relationship! You mean you’re fucking somebody! You’re goddam right I wouldn’t understand.
“Listen, this is bullshit, Susan. I’m flying out there tonight … don’t tell me you’re leaving, uh-uh, baby, we’re going to have this right out, you, me and your bozo, whoever he is. What? It’s not a he? What are you, kidding me? Susan, this is sick. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. OK, OK, I’ll listen, go ahead, tell me.
“Great, Susan, what can I say? You told your parents? No, why should I? No, I realize you don’t want to hurt me, it just takes a little getting used to, you know? No, I’m fine, really. Listen, I got to do some thinking, so, ah, I’ll see you, whenever, right? Right. Good-bye, Susan.”
Karp hung up the pay phone. He walked down the hallway in a daze and went into the Hilton Hotel ballroom that served as primary-night headquarters for the Garrahy campaign. People were clapping and cheering, which probably meant that Vierick had conceded, which meant Garrahy had the Democratic nomination, which meant that unless he was found naked in the Bryant Park public toilet with a thirteen-year-old Republican male prostitute, he had another term as DA locked up.
People surrounded Karp and clapped him on the back and said nice things. An elderly man was pumping his hand; vaguely Karp recognized him as Garrahy’s campaign manager. Karp felt a smile appear on his face spontaneously, like the twitching of a dead frog’s leg or the rictus of recent death. The cheering increased. Garrahy had entered the room. The old man stood before a microphone and made a short speech. Karp couldn’t focus his mind on the words. He felt as if his head was about to explode. He couldn’t catch his breath. Something slammed into his shoulder, rocking him. He turned toward the blow and saw Guma, pop-eyed, sweating, wearing a huge tricorn hat made of a Garrahy poster. The picture of Garrahy contrasted weirdly with the actual face below it, which looked depraved.
“Butchie baby! We did it! L’chaim!” He took a deep drink from a plastic cup full of Scotch and ice. “Hey, where’s your drink. Hey, get a drink for my man here!” A plastic cup was pressed into Karp’s hand.
Karp said, “Guma, my wife is a lesbian.”
“No shit? Will she let you watch?”
“Guma! I’m not kidding. This is serious.”
“What serious, it’s California. OK, it’s serious. Your wife is a dyke. My wife is an asshole. We both got problems. Luckily our problems are easily solved by two easily available items, booze, one, and two, pussy.”