Resolved (27 page)

“So you had sex with your wife.”

“Yeah, what is that, a federal crime?”

“No, but I guarantee you that's the source of the semen sample. Jesus, Paulie, talk about dumb!”

But his head is shaking, lock to lock. “Uh-huh, no, no way, uhuh…”

“Face it, Paulie—”

“No, and here's why: Even if she wanted to shaft me, how the fuck is she gonna support herself, dress, feed the kids, unless I'm there cutting and selling meat six days a week? She makes shit at that little gallery job she got. It's just not in her interest to see me making license plates upstate.”

“Unless Hiram Fong pays her two point two million for your building.”

“Where the fuck did you get that?”

“From my own little girl, who got it from the lips of a Cantonese person who shall remain nameless, but who works for one of Fong's business rivals. Everyone seems to know that Fong is assembling a big block of property around your street. The smart money says it's new housing for the huddled masses of Asia. He's been making out like a bandit since downtown business collapsed after Nine Eleven. Anyway, you don't want to sell, but if you're in the slams and you can't pay child support and she goes to court on it, you won't have a choice. Unless you think that Slow Joe and your mom can run the place without you.”

“Nah, no way.” He dismisses the notion with a wave of his hand, takes a deeper drink of wine. “I can't fucking believe this. So what's the story with this girl? She's got to be in it, too. Somebody got to her?”

“For sure. It turns out that Hiram is mobbed up in his own Chinese way, so it was either money or muscle, maybe both. Okay,” here she claps her hands once, sharply. “Now that we know where to look, I've got a better chance of unraveling this. Paulie, don't look so glum, this is good for us.”

“Yeah, right. Christ, the mother of my children! And for what? So she can stand around in black clothes and drink shitty wine with a lot of phony baloneys? I ought to break her neck.”

“I don't want to hear talk like that, Paulie. We're going to put her in jail, you'll have to be satisfied with that.”

“Jail? She could go to jail? Jeez, that'd be awful! What'll I tell the kids?”

She rolls her eyes to the tin ceiling, pats his hand, slips from the booth, thinks, Husbands!

She says, “Paulie, I'll be in touch. And keep your mouth shut about any of this. We don't want to tip off the bad guys.”

Dully: “Yeah, uh-huh.”

“I mean it, man! Especially Karen.”

T
HAT
F
RIDAY
, R
ANEY TOOK THE
9:00
A
.
M.
U.S. A
IR FLIGHT
from La Guardia to Syracuse and by 11:00 he was in a rented Taurus with the AC on high, driving through the seared fields of central New York State toward Auburn Prison. In his eighteen years on the job, Raney had been to several state prisons, and when he arrived he found this one a typical maximum-security joint, ugly, noisy, stinking of that characteristically nasty male primate-and-disinfectant smell you got only in monkey houses and men's prisons. As always, Raney wondered how, having once been in a place like this, any sane human being could ever contemplate doing anything that would have even the tiniest chance of bringing him back to one. Yet he knew that something like two thirds of the people here had been in the slams before, and often many times before. The criminal mind: a deep mystery.

They took his gun and sent him to the admin block, where he sat in the cheaply paneled but heavily air-conditioned office of Ewell V. Molson, the deputy warden for administration. Molson struck Raney as the sort of geek who might conceivably have written on an application once that he wanted to go into corrections because he was good with people. He regarded Raney and the world through small black eyes, like coffee beans, and wanted more small talk than Raney did. After this was clearly exhausted, he tapped a thick file on his desk. “This Felix Tighe. Not one of our big successes. Didn't adjust, a bunch of disciplinaries. Poor impulse control—hell, not unusual here—resistance to authority, a fighter…”

“I'm not thinking about hiring him,” Raney could not resist saying.

Molson decided that this was a joke and curved his thin mouth up at the corners for a half second. “No. Anyway, he got shanked in a fight, a little race riot in the yard. He was an Aryan Nation kind of guy. Killed a guard in that fight, too.”

“Really? I didn't know that.”

“Well, we didn't exactly call the networks, and since he died right after, we kind of let it slide. According to our medical records, the stab wound became infected, he went into septic shock, and passed away.” He paused. “I shouldn't say this, but small loss to the world. Anyway, to get back to the reason for your visit, there's no doubt that he's dead. He was autopsied and cremated right here in Auburn.”

“Cremated? I thought his body was shipped to his cousin in New York.”

“Nope. According to these records, a container of ashes was shipped.”

“Can I have a copy of that file?”

Warden Molson was accommodating as to copies. He was similarly accommodating in setting up interviews with the staff of the infirmary. Shortly, therefore, Raney found himself in a cramped office that stank of rubbing alcohol and iodine, talking to a cadaverous man who was apparently the medical director of the institution. This interview took a while, because Dr. McMartin spoke very slowly, and sometimes lost the drift of what he was saying. Raney believed the man was a stone junkie, like ten percent of American physicians, but blowing the whistle on the creep was not any part of his business. McMartin confirmed the official version—stabbing, infection, failure to respond to the antibiotics, septicemia, death. He had signed off on the autopsy.

“You didn't do it yourself, Doctor?”

“No, I meant I supervised, ah, supervised the autopsy as per…protocol, of course. But, ah, I was assisted by…my assistant there.”

“Named?”

“Outside, down the hall.” A languid wave of the hand. “I'm afraid I have a lot to do, seeing patients, so if that's all…”

Raney thanked the man and went down the hall from the medical director's office. There, in a wide space in the corridor he found a tiny cubbyhole with a young man in it. This person, lard-colored, crop-headed, pimply and tattooed, had a short-sleeved set of green scrubs on, with a nametag that read
T
.
AMES
, and a frightened look in his wet blue eyes.

Ames was obviously expecting him. He also confirmed the official report. The information that Felix's body had been shipped to New York was clearly wrong. Where did the detective hear that? Someone called the prison on the phone? That explained it. The copies of the records sent to the front office often had mistakes. The filing was done by prisoners, and they didn't really much care where they stuck the forms. Nope, Felix had died, Ames had watched him die, had arranged for the cremation, and sent the ashes parcel post to, let's see here, a Mr. Bruce Newton, in New York City…

Raney knew the man was lying but had no way to nail him with it just then. He wasn't even a cop up here. His eyes had wandered while Ames went through his routine and had been seized by the contents of a bookshelf raised above Ames's tiny desk. There were some medical and first-aid books, a
Physician's Desk Reference,
some thick manuals for medical equipment, a prison regulation handbook, and some other volumes.

“You a reader, Ames?” Raney asked, standing to peer at the titles of these.

Ames followed his eyes to the shelf. “Sure. I got a lot of time on my hands.” A false, scared smile.

“That's pretty high-toned stuff you got here. Fanon, Lenin, looks like some French guys—hey, there's even one in Arabic script. You read Arabic, too?”

“No, that's something…ah, we had a Arab guy here a while ago, he must have left that.”

“Yeah? He still in the joint?”

“No, he paroled out.”

“And he left his book. Well, well.” Raney jotted down all the titles and laboriously copied the intricate calligraphy on the spine of the Arabic volume. He left the prison feeling both frustrated and excited.

 

Lucy was a block and a half away when she saw the man try to kidnap her brother Giancarlo, at the junction of Crosby and Howard streets. It was a pretty good place for a daylight snatch. The area is almost entirely industrial, with scant street-level foot traffic, and what traffic there is consists largely of Asian people who would rather not get involved with the authorities, as their immigration papers are not what they should be. A Ford van, dirt-colored and battered, had been drawn up to the curb, with its side door slung open, and a large man was trying to haul the boy into it. Giancarlo had dropped his accordion case and it had popped open, spilling the instrument on the pavement like a dead snail. Both brothers were howling, this noise accompanied by barks from Blue, the guide dog.

Then it was all over. Lucy was just starting to run, a shout was just forming in her own throat, when she saw the kidnapper's white T-shirt turn scarlet around the big knife that Zak plunged into the small of the man's back. The man dropped his grip on Giancarlo and did a hideous little pirouette with his hand behind his back, reaching in vain for the black grip of the knife. In the next second, Giancarlo kicked the man in the groin and Blue clamped excited jaws around the back of the man's right knee. He fell like a tree onto the bed of his van, screaming something. The driver gunned the engine with a roar and a cloud of exhaust, and the van took off north on Crosby, with the man's legs dangling from the open door and, for a few yards at least, the dog hanging from a leg. The van passed Lucy too quickly for her to get the plates.

She ran up to her brother and clamped on the hug of steel, then held him at arm's length for inspection. His shirt was torn, but he seemed all right. “My box!” he said, and she had to let him inspect the button accordion with his hands. While he was so engaged, she grabbed the other brother's arm. “Did you recognize that guy?”

“I don't know. I recognized the driver, though. He's a Latino guy I've seen around listening to G.C. play.”

“I've spotted a guy like that, too. Big, shaved head, little beard, gold chains, Latino-looking. I thought he was following me,” she said.

“I saw that one too, I think.” He looked away nervously, then at his sneakers. “Luce, you're gonna tell the 'rents about this, right?”

“Well,
duh,
yeah I am. Aren't you?”

“Hell, no! We'll be grounded for life. They'll never let us play on the street anymore. And if Dad finds out I was carrying a knife, he'll go ballistic.”

“When did you start carrying?”

“After…” Zak gestured to his brother, lowered his voice, “you know, when he got hurt. It's a good thing I had it, right? And it's gone, too. It was a Bucklite Goliath, sixty-three bucks.”

Giancarlo was packing away his accordion, and added, “He's right, Luce. Our lives will be totally over if you tell. Also, what'll they do if they know? Call the cops, the cops'll do zero. They're not going to put a twenty-four seven on us, so what's the point? Mom'll grab us up and take us out to the island, where we'll waste away in boredom. And my career is just getting hot. A guy the other day invited me to an open mike in the East Village, and an Irish guy was here the other day and he said I was gonna be as good as Johnny Connolly. You should find out who these guys are. I mean, why did they pick me?”

“I
should find out? What am I, Wonder Woman?”

“Yes,” said the twins. “Puh-leeeeze, Lucy?”

“Oh, shut up and don't be ridiculous!” she snapped. “Of course we have to tell them.”

 

“You asked me to find out why the boss was so happy,” said Murrow.

“Yes,” said Karp distractedly. That had been a while ago, he recalled, before this trial had eaten up his working life. Why was it important to know that? He couldn't quite think of it. He was running through autopsy reports for perhaps the twelfth time, trying to find the one thing he really wanted to recall, the thing that would impeach Frank Nixon and Eric Gerber on the witness stand. First bullet, entry right flank, exit right back, damage done: superficial, not mortal; second bullet, upper left arm, damage done: not mortal…he looked up. “And did you?”

“Possibly. Judge Patrick F. Toomey has retired from the federal bench.”

“Uh-huh. Well, so long, Pat. This is what's got Jack Keegan singing bird songs? Why, did he think Toomey was a bad judge?”

“I have no idea, but it does create a vacancy in the Southern District of New York.”

“And…what? You think Jack thinks he's got a chance?”

“An excellent chance, I'd say. A practically preemptive chance.”

“I don't see why. It's a presidential appointment, and the president, the last I heard, unless they had another coup d'état, is a Republican.”

Murrow gave him a peculiar look. “You really don't understand how this works, do you?”

Karp said, a little sharply, “Don't patronize me, Murrow—you got something to fucking say, just spit it out.”

Murrow took a deep breath. “Yes, the president is a Republican, but both U.S. senators from the state are not Republicans. In fact, they are both famously liberal Democrats. Which means, the president is not going to get what he really wants, an anti-abortion, progun, pro-death penalty fascist Republican. There's no way in hell those two senators are going to pass on that kind of candidate, and as I'm sure you know, regardless of party, U.S. senators have essentially veto power over judicial nominees from their states. So the administration is thinking, Why not go with a Democrat? But it would have to be a very special kind of Democrat. It would have to be an Irishman first of all, because it's an Irish seat on the court that's going to be vacant. Obviously, you'd also want unimpeachable legal credentials, tough on crime, and if not pro-death, then at least neutral on it, and most of all, anti-abortion. Big time. Can you think of anyone we know with all that going for him?”

Karp could. “This is actually going to happen?”

“I hear it's practically a done deal. The beauty part for the White House is that it manages to shove a bamboo splinter under one of Hillary's red nails. She has to explain to her liberal witch constituency why she's backing a man with that kind of record, whose wife, by the way, is cochair of New York Right to Life.”

“And if she doesn't go for it?”

“Then she can run for re-election next time without even the small part of the Irish vote that she had last time, and without the help of the regular party. Jack's paid his party dues, he deserves it, and the old bulls'll never forgive her if she fucks him on this one. Oh, it's rare. It's nearly as good as Clarence Thomas as a fuck-you message.”

“Holy shit,” said Karp.

“Yeah.” He studied his boss briefly, a bemused smile on his lips, as if standing before a museum exhibit about a lost civilization. “Tell me, no offense, but you really don't get all of this, do you?”

“It's not that I don't
get
it, Murrow. It's not like it's particle physics. I don't spend any time thinking about it, is all.”

“No, I guess not. But assuming what I just said is true, you do realize that it means the DA is up for grabs. Have you given
that
any thought?”

“What do you mean?”