Act of Revenge (27 page)

A pause on the line. “The Scarpis tend to be stand-up fellas, Butch, I don't know if—”

“Uh-uh, you misunderstand me, Goom. What I'm interested in is off the record, a sidebar. I need to know how they picked our Chinese guy for the hit on Eddie Cat. I mean, do you believe that they just grabbed one of their dope dealers and pressured him to whack a
capo regime
?”

“So you want the background on Willie, nothing you're going to use in court?”

“Deep background. I also want to know how come it was just now that the wife left Little Sal. And how he knew where she was. And between you and me, if he plays nice on that, when it comes to it, we won't drop the courthouse on Gino.”

“I'll bring him some cannoli,” said Guma.

Karp hung up and, sighing, began work on one of his most tedious jobs, which was his monthly inspection of the various manning charts that attempted to ensure that whenever the criminal justice system required a representative of the People, a live and presumably competent human body would occupy a particular volume of space at a particular instant of time. This was difficult enough during three seasons of the years, but it was well-nigh impossible in summer, when people, including those who worked as ADAs, wished to take vacations. These charts were prepared by a team of trolls down on the fourth floor, but Karp had to look them over to ensure that the hardest workers were not being screwed and that the absolute power of judges to hold court when they pleased (or not, as was more common) did not become too onerous, and also that the various legal constraints on judicial delay were not being violated. He hacked away at this for an hour or so, making notes on a yellow legal pad. He reached the last page of the pad and reached for a new one from the stack on the side of his desk. The top sheet of the one on top had been scribbled on, so he ripped it off, crumpled it, and was about to shoot the paper ball into the waste can that stood on top of a bookcase at the far end of the room, as was his wont, when he paused and uncrumpled the paper. It was, in fact, the sheet that Mr. Lie had been doodling on during his interview. Doodles, yes, and what looked like Chinese characters. He smoothed the sheet out, folded it, put it in his shirt pocket, and then tried to resume work on the charts, but after a few minutes he tossed his pencil against the wall, grabbed the phone and called home.

Lucy answered, as he had hoped.

“How was the lab?” he asked.

“Labbish. What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong. I'm bored. Want to go out somewhere?”

“Like where?”

“Where you choose.”

“There's a Chinese calligraphy exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum.”

“Perfect,” said Karp with, to his credit, barely an inward groan. “You can impress me with your brilliance.”

“Can Mary come?”

“No, she can't.”

“Why not?”

“Because you're my darling and I want to spend a couple of hours alone with you before you get married.” There was silence in response to this. Karp continued, “Is your guy around?”

“Tran? He's in and out.”

“Tell him he's got the afternoon off. I'm sending a heavily armed policeman to pick you up. Be ready in fifteen minutes.”

Karp rang off and pushed a speed-dial button, connecting him with Ed Morris, his driver.

“You need to pick up a witness for me, Ed,” said Karp, and gave an address.

“That's your place,” said Morris.

“Right. My daughter.”

“Uh-oh. Will I need backup?”

“Alert the tacticals just in case.”

In the unmarked, driving uptown, Lucy asked grumpily, “Isn't this corruption? Taking your kid out in a cop car?”

“Not in the least,” said Karp. “After this we're going to go to the hospital to see your mother, who is a witness in a major crime. As are you. Believe me, this is official; right, Ed?”

“Extremely.” He goosed the car's siren, moving a cab slightly out of their way. “See?”

“Then why are we going to the Met?”

“To see the Chinese stuff, and you're entitled to police protection while we do it. Afterward, if you're not satisfied, it's your right as a citizen to lodge a complaint against the two of us. Meanwhile, let me see you smile. Go ahead, it won't break your face.”

Lucy managed a thin one, with which the dad had to be content, but somewhat later, in the Asian gallery, the girl's mood lifted. They walked together down the halls of lit glass cases containing scrolls of calligraphy, Lucy occasionally stopping to translate a poem or stopping to stare, transfixed, at one of the cases. Karp spent his time staring not at the meaningless squiggles on brown silk but at his daughter, thinking about paternal love, and fate, and genetics, and about how he, being who he was, should have been landed with this particular child.

After an hour of this, he found her looking back at him. “You hate this, don't you?”

“Hate is too strong a word. But I'll admit that to me it compares unfavorably to an afternoon at Yankee Stadium, Ron Guidry against Roger Clemens.”

She laughed. “We could do that, too. But it was
really
nice of you to make the sacrifice. I'm really glad I got to see this.”

“My pleasure. Want to see more, or go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat?”

“Eat. I'm calligraphied out.”

Seated in the cavernous eatery in the museum's basement, the two chatted amiably about Lucy's experiences at Columbia, the scientists who worked with her, and what they were discovering, about the doings of her friends, movies she wanted to see, her reading, her recent work at the Chinese school, exactly as if she were a regular kid, and he a regular dad. The avoidance of certain topics was hardly any strain, and it did both of their hearts good. Mention of the Chinese school triggered something in his mind, and it niggled at him until, just as they were about to leave, he recalled the yellow sheet in his pocket. He pulled it forth and spread it out in front of his daughter.

She looked at it and frowned. “Terrible characters. Very badly formed. Where is this from?”

“Someone left it in my office. Can you read them?”

“Uh-huh. This is
liang
. It means a roof beam. This is
jí,
which means rank, but it's pronounced
kàp
in Cantonese.”

“What does it mean in Cantonese?”

“The same thing, but around Chinatown it's also us. I mean, it's the way our family name comes out. It sounds the same and it's an auspicious character. This one I don't know, this one,
yù,
I know from restaurants, it's ‘clam,' these two mean ‘each other,' I don't know this one, don't know, don't know, this is ‘gain' and this is
lì,
‘profits.' ” She frowned at the line of characters, then her face brightened. “Oh, I get it! It's a saying:
yù bùng xiang zheng yú weng dé lì.
Okay, down lower, this here is
yú,
which means fool or foolish . . .”

“Wait a second, I thought it meant clam.”

“No, Daddy,
yù
means clam;
yú
means fool. Can't you hear the difference?”

“Nope. What does the saying mean?”

“Oh, something like, when the snipe and the clam wrestle, the fisherman benefits.”

“Ah, so,” said Karp.

She gave him an interested look, then returned to the page. “All this scraggly stuff I can't make out. This at the bottom is . . . oh!”

“What?”

She was blushing. “It's sort of, like, nasty.”

“I'll forgive you. What does it say?”

“Literally? Prick hairs sautéed with Chinese chives.”

“Good God!” said Karp, laughing. “What's
that
all about?”

“It's Hong Kong slang,” Lucy explained, laughing, too. “It means, like, a total mess you can't get out of.”

“Do you know what Stendahl said was the worst thing about being jailed?” Tran asked.

From her bed Marlene replied grumpily, “No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me.”

“You are correct. He said that it was that one could not avoid unwelcome visitors. Do you feel so?”

“No. I welcome all visitors, except those that wish to probe and manipulate my body. Those I detest. The others are useful for ridding myself of accumulated frustration through a display of ill temper. If I am here long enough, I will have no friends left.”

“On the contrary, my dear: any friend who was liable to be put off by rudeness and ill temper has long since abandoned you.”

Marlene threw a pillow at him, which he caught, and returned tenderly to its place behind her turbaned head. She said, “This is driving me crazy. I have all these people depending on me, the clients . . . God knows what's happening to them.”

“So far, nothing, I can assure you. I, rather than God, have been keeping track of them all while you lie at your ease like a duchess. Nothing has been let slip in the past three days.”

“What? How have you done that?”

“Operatives have been hired and assigned, schedules have been made, checks have been issued. The world goes on quite well without you, Marie-Hélène. You are perfectly dispensable.”

“I am astounded. I had no idea you were such a genius at organization.”

The man who had planned the 1968 Tet offensive in Tay Ninh province accepted the compliment with a sweet smile, saying nothing. Marlene glanced at the room's door, for the third time in as many minutes, a concerned look blooming on her face.

“And what about Lucy?” she asked.

“I would say she seems well, despite the burden she carries,” said Tran after a moment's consideration. “She is pinched by always having me with her when she is not at home. She spends much of her time at the laboratory, and at home Mary Ma visits her often. Today, I am happy to say, she is off with her father. I would like to see her light again, as she was, but that will not happen until this business is resolved, or until she tells what she knows.”

“They still haven't caught those bastards?”

“No, only the one I interviewed. The Vo are elusive. I have my own inquiries out. But even if the Vo are taken off the board, Leung will still have an interest.”

“Leung set up the kidnap?”

“Without question. I was able to overhear a conversation between Leung and Mr. Yee, the leader of the Hap Tai business association. He told Yee that the Italians had killed the Sings.”

“Do you believe that, Tran?”

“Perhaps. But even if true, Leung was involved as an emissary or master of ceremonies, even if he did not pull the trigger. Then they spoke of Lucy and how she might compromise the silence of the Chen family in this matter. Leung is clearly very concerned to remain free of any taint of this assassination. Afterward, he made a phone call which, as I surmise now, could only have been to the Vo. But there are many other bastards for hire besides the Vo. Leung seems to have disappeared, by the way.”

“And this means . . . ?”

“Who can tell? Perhaps he went back to Hong Kong, where he belongs. Perhaps . . .”

This thought was lost as a rapid knock sounded on the door, and it opened to reveal Sophie Leontoff in a wheelchair, with Abe Lapidus behind her, pushing.

Cries of amazement, commiserations, imprecations (Marlene, dolling, what are you, nuts?), introductions. When the old lady learned that Tran not only spoke French but had been a resident in Paris, she began to rattle away in that language with Tran, leaving Marlene to listen with one ear, while explaining choice bits to the bemused Abe.

“Sophie told me about that kid of yours with the languages—amazing, just unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head.

Marlene acknowledged this and added, “It's funny, we were here last time talking about Jerry Fein, and now I'm in the hospital myself because of his daughter.” She explained what had happened the other day at the shelter. “Small world, huh?”

“Yeah, that's some story. But I got news for you, honey: it's smaller than you think. Jerry Fein was also Morris Leontoff's attorney, may he rest in peace. You didn't know this? Of course, how could you? Sophie, you remember Jerry Fein?”

Sophie interrupted a description of what used to go on at a certain joint in Montparnasse, served up for comparison with Tran's description of same (not too different) and said, “Of course I remember Jerry Fein. He jumped off the Empire State, I should forget that?”

“I mean before, when he worked for Morris.”

“Of course. Him and Ceil. We were at the beach together, also—years. What a nice man, so good-looking. And such a dresser! A tragedy he should go kill himself like that! How come you're asking?”

“Marlene has his daughter for a client,” said Abe. “That
momser
she married attacked her, and Marlene got in the way.”

“That girl,” said Sophie darkly, and a look passed from her to Abe, which Marlene saw, and which popped her curiosity up a gear.

“What about her?” Marlene asked.

“Nothing,” replied Sophie, falsely bright. “A beautiful girl. All the boys were after her, at the beach, at school. She went to Erasmus. She was the queen of the, what is this, the dance . . . ?”

“The prom,” supplied Marlene.

“Right, the prom queen. Gorgeous. Jerry was so proud of her . . .” Another of those looks. What was going on here? Marlene took a plunge.

“Aunt Sophie, why do you think Jerry Fein killed himself?”

But too great a plunge, it seemed. “Oh, listen, dolling, why do you want to talk about sad old stuff? Talk about the happy. I had too much sad old stuff, dolling, believe me.”

There was a moment of embarrassed silence, and then Tran, bless his heart, launched into an innocent question about old Paris, and the French chatter cranked up again.