“Issues, yeah. I didn’t mean to get your boy all bent out of shape, but we were a little concerned. A subpoena? Why not a call? Or a visit? You look out your window, you could wave at my office.”
“Well, the problem with that approach, Butch, is your guy showed up on surveillance saying some pretty disturbing things to a pretty bad wise guy. We thought it was best to keep the whole thing formal for now. You understand, given the sensitivity-”
“What wise guy was that, Norton?”
“Gino Scarpi. We have them taped in the prison ward at Bellevue.”
“Oh, for crying out loud, Peabody! Ray was interviewing Scarpi at my direct request.”
“That’s interesting. It was clear from our tape that he had no recording device on him. Was there one in the room?”
“No, because he wasn’t there to gather evidence. He was there to gather intelligence. It’s not the same thing.”
A pause. “Don’t you think it’s irregular to send an assistant district attorney to talk to a Mob gunman? Don’t you have investigators for that?”
“Yes, of course, but so what? He wasn’t sneaking off to conspire with a criminal, for God’s sake. He was interviewing a prisoner at my direction. And for this he becomes subject to a subpoena? What is wrong with you guys?”
“You should see the tapes, Butch, before you go off half cocked. They look bad, real bad. Your boy sounds like he’s a fully paid-up Mafiosi. He even says it out of his own mouth.”
“Oh, Peabody, that is such horseshit!”
“Hey. I’m trying to be constructive, here. I tell you what: come over, we’ll run the tape for you, and then look at me with a straight face and tell me you don’t have a problem with it.”
“I’ll be right there,” said Karp.
Marlene’s next appointment was her lunch with Abe Lapidus, which had been scheduled for a restaurant in the Village, but on the way back from the Island Marlene decided that she was not up to facing stares in so public a place on her first day out, and so she called Lapidus from her car phone to cancel and he, sensing the problem, said, “Don’t be ridiculous! You’ll come up to our place. We got food, we got drinks, and later, if you want, you can visit Sophie.” To this she readily agreed; she was accustomed to making light of her physical beauty, as a good feminist ought, but in fact, although she had learned over the years to deal with the missing eye, she found that the loss of hair and the marred face had proved too much for mere ideology. She didn’t like being repulsive, and she was not going to expose herself to its consequences if she could help it, at least not before age seventy.
The apartment of Abe and Selma Lapidus was furnished in what Marlene always thought of as bad good taste: that is, they had paid a decorator to give them whatever look was fashionable at the moment, although in this case successive waves of fashion were in evidence, like tidemarks on a beach. The wall-to-wall was pale beige, the couch was Duncan Phyfe in pale blue silk, the coffee table was thick glass and chrome, the chairs were designish Scandinavian in teak and leather, the breakfront was massive mahogany from the current plutocratic era, and it was full of bits of pre-Columbiana and African fetish work to exhibit the right political sympathies with the oppressed. The wall art was expensive investment-grade abstract, plus one bright rya from the sixties decor, and a couple of original oils, pasty sad clowns by, Marlene would have bet a million, the chatelaine herself. The room was spotless, and smelled of Pledge and rug shampoo.
“Selma will be out,” Abe had confided over the phone. “We won’t be disturbed.”
Nor were they. Abe served tuna fish salad on croissants, which they ate around the coffee table, with a big bottle of San Peligrino to wash it down, drunk out of cut-glass tumblers almost too heavy to lift to the mouth. A silent brown woman in a white uniform drifted in and served and quickly vanished.
They small-talked during the meal, and when the servant had removed the plates, Marlene got out her notebook. Before many minutes had passed, it was clear to her that Abe Lapidus liked to talk, that he regarded her as a captive audience, and that he considered himself free to ramble on about whatever interested him, something, she suspected, that was fairly rare in his life with Selma. He spun anecdotes of the New York bar of thirty years before, political perceptions, contacts with the famous of that era, general appreciations of the urban scene then and now, comparisons of same, to the detriment of the current era, and around and around the old barn until he was ready to discharge a useful nugget.
“I’m rambling,” he confessed. “You wanted to know about Jerry Fein, and I’m rambling.”
“That’s okay,” said Marlene. “Take your time.”
He peered at her, tilting his head back to catch her image in his bifocals, and shook his head and tut-tutted. “What a shame! All your hair! And those bruises! That little son of a bitch, they should throw the key away, that. .” He drew a breath. “Always, he was like that, a vicious, brutal piece of dirt. I don’t know how many times Jerry pulled him out of trouble, starting from young, thirteen, fourteen. But what do you expect from that family?”
“You mean that they were gangsters, Mafia?”
“Oh, Mafia, schmafia! Darling, believe me, it doesn’t matter what side of the law, it’s the character I’m talking about. I knew Meyer Lansky quite well, and he was always a perfect gentleman. Lucky Luciano the same. Murderers, dope pushers, but also gentlemen. Can you understand that?”
Marlene could. “I know people like that,” she said.
“Right. And there are distinguished citizens, businessmen, attorneys, never even dropped a piece of paper on the sidewalk, I wouldn’t trust them alone with my daughter for five minutes. This one, the little Bollano, was a momser from the cradle, and the father was worse. If Jerry Fein had lived to see his daughter married to that piece of scum, he would have killed himself.”
They both froze for an instant at this, and both then let out a burst of embarrassed laughter.
Abe took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. “My God in heaven, some things are so tragic the only thing you can do is laugh.”
“Yeah, about that: Why did Vivian Fein marry Sal Bollano? Any ideas?”
“Oh, well, you know, I only knew Jerry as a colleague, I wasn’t intimate with the family. It’s possible Sophie would have some thoughts on that, if you can get her to talk about it. She and Ceil were close for some years.”
“Ceil is the mother?”
“Yes, and I believe she’s still in their old house in Brooklyn. You think you’ll talk to her? I hear she’s not so good.”
“If she’ll talk to me. Vivian doesn’t want me to.”
“Ah, Vivian, what a shame, what a shame! Oy! A gorgeous girl, and he worshiped her, Jerry. For her sweet sixteen party he took over the Versailles ballroom, everything the best, fountains flowing with champagne, Lester Lanin orchestra, must have been five hundred people. Let me tell you, darling, if a bomb had gone off at that party, it would have wiped out organized crime in New York, and half of law enforcement. Jerry knew everyone, on both sides, and if you treated him with respect, he treated you with respect, he didn’t care from what you made your money.”
“Did he have any enemies that you know of?”
The man made a sour pickle face. “Enemies? What are you talking enemies? He was an attorney. He wasn’t in politics, he didn’t have the kind of practice where he would screw people. He represented defendants in court, that’s what he did. If some of them were gangsters, then some of them were gangsters, big deal, the law says bad people are entitled to representation, too. This is not a life that makes enemies.” He paused and looked at her more sharply. “So, how come you’re asking ‘enemies’?”