It was thereafter not hard for Marlene to get this young man to inform her that the office diary of Mehmet Ersoy was in the hands of Mr. Ahmet Djelal. Mr. Djelal was with the economic section, the young man told Marlene, but when he said the name, he averted his eyes in a manner that suggested to Marlene that whoever Djelal was, he was not the man to see about the General Agreement on Trade and Tariffs.
Undismayed by this setback, Marlene asked if the mission kept a telephone log, adding that Mr. Kilic was particularly anxious that Marlene have a look at it. The young man seemed delighted to provide her with this document, which Marlene rapidly scanned, taking notes in shorthand.
When she returned to Kilic’s office, she found the diplomat and Harry Bello deeply involved in a discussion of the table of organization of the Turkish mission. Kilic was smiling and seemed willing to carry on all day about who reported to whom on what issues. Harry brought the conversation to an abrupt halt as soon as he saw Marlene come in.
“I think that’s enough for now, sir; you’ve been very helpful,” he said, closing his notebook and standing. The diplomat rose too, smiling and bobbing his head, uttering polite phrases. Harry paused and seemed to think of some detail. “Oh, one other thing. Mr. Kilic, can you think of any reason why Mr. Ersoy should have had nearly a million dollars in U.S. currency in a personal safe-deposit box?”
An indeterminate look passed over the diplomat’s bland face. They waited several beats in uncomfortable silence before he spoke.
“Ah, that. An embarrassment. I had not thought that this would have a bearing on the prosecution of the criminals. Surely, it is not necessary to have this exposed to the public view?”
“That depends on what the money represented,” said Bello. “But you say you knew about it?”
“Ah, yes. One of Mr. Ersoy’s tasks was cultural … shall we say, retrieval. Türkiye is the repository of much ancient treasure, as I’m sure you know. Unfortunately, now and in the past, some of our patrimony is diverted by smugglers and thieves. Much of this comes to New York, for the art market here. My government finds it convenient to repatriate these treasures quietly and without the notice of the law. A payment is made in cash, the object is returned under diplomatic seal.” He paused and tapped his mustache. “I tell you this to avoid any shadow of impropriety falling on poor Mehmet, and so that the way will be clear to punish the terrorists responsible. My government, and perhaps your government as well, would appreciate it if these dealings would remain confidential.”
Marlene said, “If, as you say, this money has no connection with the shooting, there’s no reason for it to come out.”
After that, in a flurry of pleasantries and bows, they left. In the lobby of the Secretariat, Marlene clutched Harry’s arm and said, “Harry, Harry-you can talk! It’s a miracle! I brought out the big guns for you, Harry-my rosary with the transparent plastic beads filled with water from Lourdes. And it worked.”
The corners of Bello’s mouth lifted a fraction of an inch-paralytic hilarity. He said, “So?”
Back to the gnomic. Marlene realized that Bello could slip into the persona of a skilled and articulate interviewer the way he could melt into a doorway during a tail job. It was part of the equipment.
“I got a look at the phone logs. He spent a lot of time on the horn with this Ahmet Djelal, the one who has his diary.”
“Security chief. It figures. The art.”
“Yeah. Another thing, the last couple weeks of his life he made about a dozen real long outside calls to the same number.”
Bello took out his notebook and wrote down the number Marlene gave him. He went to a phone booth in the lobby and dialed the reverse directory service the phone company makes available for the police.
“Who was it?” asked Marlene when Bello returned.
Bello read from his notebook. “Somebody named Sarkis Kerbussyan.”
10
Karp came floating up out of the pentathol fog, out of the dream he always had when he was anesthetized, the one with the little room full of dead people in it, people he knew, his mother, his grandparents, and victims of murder. They were whispering the secrets of the dead, and however hard he strained his dream ears, he could never quite make them out.
He opened his eyes. A white shape swam into view, and resolved itself into Marlene’s face. Karp tried to speak, croaked, and touched his lips. Marlene passed him a plastic cup with a bent straw attached. He drank and said, “I survived.”
“Of course you survived, you big silly. How does your knee feel?”
Karp looked down at the massive plaster log lying on the bed where his leg used to be. “I don’t know-it feels different.” A thought struck him. “My God, I have an artificial organ.”
“This disturbs you?”
“It’s better than being crippled, assuming I’m actually not crippled. Did you see Hudson, the bastard?”
“Yeah, we conversed. He said it went fine, and provided you don’t abuse it and come to physical therapy like you’re supposed to-which he doubts you’ll do, by the way-you shouldn’t have any trouble.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hudson.” He relaxed back on the pillows, and they chatted about Lucy and about inconsequentials for a while. Karp’s head slowly cleared. He said briskly, “So, what’s up in the big world? Did you see Roland?”
“Yeah, I made his month with that information about Ersoy’s loot. He was practically cackling.”
“Let him cackle. It’s still a frame job. Anything on the connection with Kerbussyan?”
“No. Hey, it’s been one day, okay? I plan on getting with V.T. to see if there’s a money trail connecting the two of them. Maybe Kerbussyan got hold of ripped-off Turkish art treasures and the Turk was buying it back.”
The Turk. The conversation with Guma still plucked at Karp’s mind. Turks and Armenians. Funny money. A gang of wise guys that specialized in taking things from airports. And the Alphabet City women. The pattern wouldn’t emerge, and maybe there wasn’t one at all. Maybe he and Marlene had been doing this too long, so that the need of the mind to make sense of the random and unpredictable violence of the City was producing hallucinations of meaning.
“What about the sex maniac?” he asked.
“Harry’s going to take me around there tonight, show me the guys.”
“They have cops for that, Marlene,” he rumbled. “Heavily armed and trained cops.”
“I don’t want to hear this, Butch.”
He said a curse under his breath, reached for the water cup, found he couldn’t twist his body far enough around to reach it, and fell back, frustrated and angry.
“I hate this,” he said as she passed him the cup. He held her hand, running his thumb across the warm meat of her palm. “And I’m horny.”
“That’s good news,” said Marlene. “A complete recovery can be expected. Does the door lock?”
“You’re not serious.”
She got up from the bed and discovered that while the door didn’t lock, the hallway outside was deserted. She went back to the bed and pulled the curtains around it.
“Actually,” she said, wriggling out of her panties, “I should be wearing a white nurse’s uniform for the absolute height of lubricity. Do you mind? You know how I am about weird places to do it. And having you helpless there is more than I can stand. I’m gushing.”
“Be gentle with me,” said Karp.
“The big one, long hair and the sideburns,” said Harry Bello. “Vincent Boguluso. Calls himself Vinnie the Guinea. The skinny one with the pizza face is Eric Ritter. Monkey Ritter. The one with the headband and the red beard is Duane Womrath.”
“What, no cute nickname?” asked Marlene. They were sitting in Harry’s Plymouth on 5th Street, where they had a good view of the three men sitting on the stoop of 525, drinking malt liquor out of quart bottles. A steamy night on 5th Street off A, people out on all the stoops, young men and girls doing the paseo, the street full of cars, their stereos blasting Latin, little boys racing up and down with toy guns, screaming, other boys, a little older, with real guns, moving envelopes of dope.