"A personal friend?"
Karp gave her a look. "A dope dealer. Or 'drug lord,' as they now get called in the papers." He showed her the front page. The photograph was of the type familiar to Daily News readers for five decades: cops standing around appearing hapless, a shrouded form on the ground, black splotches on the white covering, an arm sticking out, palm up, rivulets of what you knew was blood, looking like shiny tar.
"You're right, 'drug lord slain, this makes eight,'" read Marlene from the huge black letters of the headline. "The same guys doing it, you think?"
Karp shrugged. "I don't know. Clay thinks so. I'd like to talk to him about it, if he would ever get back to me. What I'm worried about is his excellency the district attorney. This is the kind of crap Bloom lives for. Guaranteed he'll have a fucking press conference this morning and promise to set up a special unit to bring the perps to justice. Bloom loves special units."
"And he'll put you in charge?"
"No, dear, he won't put me in charge. Bloom doesn't put me in charge. He'll put some crony of his in charge and I'll get to do all the work and get axed if something goes wrong."
Marlene assumed a sympathetic expression. "Poor Butch! Maybe when you grow up you can be D.A. and do all the work and get all the credit."
Karp snorted and stared away south down the length of Broadway, as if sizing up the run to a pole vault. Marlene caught the look and said firmly, "I'm taking the subway. Momma needs a sit-down."
"C'mon, kid, it's a nice day. And the subway's supposed to be dangerous."
"Walking with you is dangerous. You go twenty miles an hour reading the paper and you think walk signs are for wimps."
"OK, candy ass, suit yourself. I'm walking. Here's the Times. I'll see you downtown." He squeezed her shoulder and kissed her lightly on her head, and turned and sped away. Arriving at the office, Karp found it was as he had feared. Connie Trask lifted her chin skyward as he came into the bureau office. "He wants to see you," she said, holding out a short stack of yellow phone slips.
"The TV guys were going up in the elevator when I came in," she continued. Karp grunted and turned toward his office. "Say, Butch, how come we never get to be on the TV? I'd like to be on the TV once."
"Stick around, Connie," said Karp over his shoulder. "You could be the one who gets to find my dead body."
He slammed into his office, put down what he was carrying, hung up his suit jacket, sat down behind his desk, pulled two toasted bagels (one butter, one cream cheese) and a container of coffee out of a brown bag, and began his day.
First the phone messages. Bloom's office, defendant's lawyer, ditto, ditto, ditto-they all could wait. Nothing from Clay Fulton: a pain in the ass, that. He checked the schedule of appointments Trask had typed up for him. It was clear that a meeting with Bloom was in the offing, and, if precedent held, it would be a nice long one.
Everything was going to have to be shoved around, people were going to have to be marshaled to fill the court dates and appointments he would miss, and of course their own appearances and appointments would have to be shifted around too. Bloom didn't get much affection or respect from his troops, but he was at least able to stir the ants' nest around in this way. Karp suspected it was one of the things he enjoyed most about the job.
He sighed and called Bloom's office, was put on hold for a considerable period to teach him his place, and then his reluctant ear filled with the district attorney's mellow, fruity voice.
"Hello, Butch! How's the guy?"
How's-the-guy was new. Bloom was trying to incorporate a snappier Nelson Rockefeller-type lingo into his front, and this was the latest.
Ignoring it, Karp said flatly, "I heard you wanted to talk to me."
"Yeah, yeah-terrible thing these killings. I was on the Morning Show today about it. Did you catch it?"
"No, I didn't," said Karp in the same tone. "Was that it?"
"Was what it?" asked Bloom, puzzled.
"Was that what you wanted to talk to me about? Whether I saw you on TV?"
"What? No, of course not! I told the media I was making these drug-lord killings my top priority." A pause for effect: "You know about the big breakthrough we've had in the case. I announced that too."
Karp felt his face grow warm. "Oh? What breakthrough was that?"
Even over the phone, Karp could hear the tone of relish with which Bloom informed him that the killer of Larue Clarry had been arrested the evening before last and was now in the custody of the police. "I guess you didn't get the word," Bloom concluded.
"No, I guess I didn't. I should watch more TV, so I'll know what's going on in the D.A.'s office."
This was ignored and Bloom went on: "I'm organizing a task force on these drug-lord murders. Blue ribbon all the way. We're going to use this breakthrough to blow the whole mess open."
"Un-huh. When's the meeting?"
"Call my girl," snapped the man of action, and hung up.
Karp called, and learned that the meeting was scheduled for ten o'clock, less than an hour away. Karp then buzzed Connie Trask and told her to get busy shifting people around, canceling and rescheduling, and also told her to get Roland Hrcany for him as soon as possible.
Ten minutes later, Hrcany appeared at Karp's door, heralded by two glass-rattling knocks. Roland Hrcany was a man of average height, but was so heavily developed in his neck, chest, and shoulders that he appeared squat. He had a face that at first glance seemed unlikely to belong to a lawyer, or even a highschool graduate. It was ruddy, hawk-nosed, heavy around the brows and jaw. The eyes were vivid blue and small. His hair was white-blond and worn swept back and collar-length, in the manner of professional wrestlers. His eyebrows and lashes were similarly pale and nearly invisible, which only added to his disturbing appearance.
"Sit down, Roland," said Karp. "I think I have a treat for you."
"Yeah?" Hrcany grinned, showing long yellowish teeth. "You're gonna let me have a crack at Marlene before you tie the knot?"
"You know, Roland," said Karp mildly, "it's remarks like that make you unpopular around the office. We were going to work on your popularity, remember?"
Hrcany laughed and leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head and flexing his football-size biceps. "So what's this about?" he asked.
"The dope-pusher killings. Apparently we have an arrest."
"Let me guess. A gentleman of the Afro-American persuasion with a yellow sheet from here to Canarsie?"
"I don't know, Roland. It could be an Episcopalian minister's wife. Or a Hungarian. I just found out about it ten minutes ago from our maximum leader."
"A Hungarian wouldn't have gotten caught," answered Hrcany. "So what's in it for me?"
Karp said, "Bloom is organizing what he calls a blue-ribbon task force to coordinate the work on the whole set of killings. Needless to say, a crock of shit, but I need somebody I can count on to hold their hands and make sure they don't fuck things up."
Hrcany stood up and straightened the already wrinkleless belt line of his white shirt. Smiling, he said, "Well, Butch, it's been a pleasure, as always, but I got to run-I'm having a thin glass tube inserted in my penis and I don't want to be late."
"Roland, don't give me a hard time," said Karp wearily.
"Hey," said Hrcany, pointing a stiff finger at Karp. "I'm not giving you a hard time. I ask only the same. Butch, this is Roland-I'm not a hand-holder, I'm an ass-kicker. Whyn't you ask V.T. to do it, he's the big-time diplomat."
In a patient voice Karp explained, "Because V.T. is not a homicide prosecutor and you are, and you are the best I got in that line of work, and this is a multiple homicide case. Not only that, but if I recall, the last time V.T. got some exposure I heard all kinds of whining from certain parties about how nobody ever paid any attention to them, and how V.T. got all the goodies-"