“I detest my gifts!”
“Allow me to doubt that,” Tran said dryly. “In fact, not only do you treasure your gifts but, greedy little thing that you are, you desire those that belong to others. Those of your beautiful mother, for example. How many times have I seen you look at your reflection and recoil, appalled. The envy is, I assure you, quite palpable.”
Lucy felt hot bars spring onto her cheeks. “You are disgusting,” she snarled, and burst again into tears.
After an interval of silence he said, more gently, “My dear, in the end you are still only a little girl, and greatly loved. Much may be forgiven you.”
She fell against his hard chest, sobbing. “It’s the guilt, Uncle. I can’t stand it!”
“Ah, as to that: I know very little of guilt. It strikes me as a useless emotion, since it does the bearer no good and yet does nothing for the person about whom one feels guilty. Shame, on the other hand, is of some value. It can be easily discharged by humble apology and by sincere rededication to one’s duty.”
This hung in the air for a long moment, during which Lucy stopped weeping, uttered a long, shuddering sigh, wiped her face, blew her nose, drew away, and straightened her back. She said, “I am sorry, Uncle Tran, that I was stupid, and threatened you with the police. I never would have done such a thing. I ask you to forgive me.”
“You are forgiven,” said Tran. “Now, perhaps we may go and visit your mother.”
Karp sat and watched Marlene breathe for a few minutes, assuring himself that she was merely resting, and then he slipped out and went to a pay phone, where he made several calls, one to a court clerk, one to Roland Hrcany, one to the captain of the Ninth Precinct, and one to Clay Fulton. For Marlene was still officially a prisoner in custody, who, when stricken, should have by rights been placed in the prison ward at Bellevue, a concern not noted for its expertise in brain surgery, but those who have deep connections in the criminal justice system often receive special treatment, and Karp, who ordinarily did not approve of special treatment, felt only the faintest blush of shame as he called in chips and arranged it for his wife. Records were jiggered, papers were misplaced. Marlene Ciampi was made to vanish for a time from the cognizance of the law.
Karp walked out of the hospital and hung around in the balmy evening on the corner of 16th and First Avenue for a quarter of an hour until a dark Chevrolet Caprice rolled up to the curb and he got in.
“How is she?” asked Clay Fulton, switching off the engine and the lights.
“Pretty good, considering,” answered Karp. “Thanks for coming.”
“You had a rough one, Stretch,” Fulton said. “What can I do?”
“For starters, listen,” Karp replied, and he related the theory about the recent troubles of the Bollano family he had outlined earlier to Keegan.
“And. .?” was Fulton’s comments when Karp finished.
“What, you don’t think that’s suspicious, the whole top of the order getting knocked out that way?”
“It happens all the time. Some of the other goombahs figured Big Sally’s day was over, the kid is a loser, the capos are snapping at each other, the outfit was ripe for takeover.”
“And the Chinese connection, Willie Lie?”
Fulton laughed. “Yeah, Willie. Willie is a card, all right. No flies on Willie.”
“How do you figure the connection?”
“Here’s how it plays. Pigetti sees the Bollanos are fucked and they’re drawing all kinds of heat. He makes a deal with another family, the Gambinos, the Luchese, who knows? To the effect, I’ll take care of our guys in a way that will never get back to you, and when I end up on top, you’ll accept it. Go ahead, Joe, good luck, they say. Joe gets the Chinese fella to whack Eddie Cat. That’s one down. Then he’s got to get rid of the Chinese fella, but he misses, and Willie gets spooked and runs to the law, and Joe gets the shaft. The best-laid plans.”
“What about Little Sal, and his wife running off just at the right time?”
Fulton shrugged. “Fuck him, the little shithead is crazy. We knew that already. If not that, then something else.”
“You think it’s all in my head?” Karp asked.
“No, I think what’s in your head is you’re worried about the kid and this Chinatown business and about Marlene. Jesus, Butch! Your kid gets kidnapped and beat up, your wife’s in a gunfight and almost dies from a kick in the head. You expect to be thinking clearly?”
Karp thought about this. He thought he was thinking clearly, but, of course, one always did, even in the throes of mania. This is why one needed sensible pals. He made a silly, shuddering sound and rubbed his face vigorously. Fulton chuckled and laid a heavy arm over Karp’s shoulder.
“Listen to your Uncle Clay, Stretch. Just focus on taking care of your crazy lady and that kid. I’ll take care of the bad guys.”
“How is that going, by the way?”
“Fair, so far. Nothing on Willie, but we picked up one of the Vo boys at Kings County, face all beat to shit. We’ll need Lucy to look at a lineup when the guy’s back in shape. As far as the other three bad boys, we’re looking, but. . you know how it is. Asians: we don’t speak the language, they don’t talk to cops. These Viet boys travel around a lot, too. Show up in Bridgeport, pull a home invasion, next week they’re in Richmond knocking over a jewelry store. I got them out on the wire. We’ll see.”
Karp popped the door and got out. All of a sudden he felt deeply tired, wobbly in the knees, his head dull, eyes grainy. He leaned in at the window.
“Okay, Clay, thanks. Keep in touch.”
The car drove off. Karp walked back to the entrance and met his daughter coming out, accompanied by Tran.
“You all right now?” Karp asked, caressing her hair.
“Yes, I think so. I saw Mom. And I apologized. Tran’s taking me home.”
An objection hung on Karp’s tongue. He’d get a police escort, he was about to say, and then thought better of it, realizing that he had unexpectedly become someone who sends his little girl home with some kind of weird Asian professional assassin or whatever Tran was, not what he had started out as at all, or even imagined. He looked Tran in the face-carved ivory, it looked like in the orange glow of the lights of the avenue. He held out his hand. After an instant’s hesitation, Tran took it.
“Thanks for what you did for Lucy. I appreciate it,” Karp said.
“No sweat,” said Tran.
Chapter 12
On the Monday after the events at the East Village Women’s Shelter, Karp called Roland Hrcany.
“Doing anything for the next hour or so?”
“Why?”
“Tommy Colombo’s holding a press conference in ten minutes. He’s got his federal grand jury indictments. I want to hear what he’s going to do about the Pigetti business.”
They walked across Foley Square to the Federal Building and went to the press room on the eighth floor. They got in without difficulty, using their D.A. identification, and stood at the back of the room behind the TV cameras. Inside the miniature auditorium was the usual bedlam-cursing of technicians, the sounds of marshaling and testing media gear, the low, dull roar of the jackal press. Roland was smiles, Karp glum. He hated this, while Roland had the politician’s instinct: he understood that in the present age it was not what you were that counted but how you appeared, which was controlled by the fifty or so ladies and gentlemen seated and standing in the hot, bright room.
Nine-thirty came. Karp checked his watch irritably. Colombo was making them wait, just like the president. Roland was trading wisecracks with a couple of print guys. Karp heard him say, “Ah, the lovely and talented!” and turned to see Gloria Eng approaching, trailed by her crew. She gave Roland a professional dismissive smile and focused on Karp.