"Nowhere. This is something else." He stuffed the ticket in his sweatshirt pocket and said, "So-Petrossi. We gonna win?"
"You have to ask? It's a lock. By the way, any progress on this drug-lord business?"
Karp stiffened, but kept his voice casual. "Not much, I guess. Schick handles the day-to-day. Why?"
Hrcany looked sharply at his companion for a second, then turned his attention back to the rush-hour traffic. "Oh, I've been hearing stuff."
"Who from?"
"Oh, around the hallways. Cops bullshitting. You know. Word is they're looking at a cop for the shooter."
Karp looked at him sharply.
"Yeah, I figured you'd be interested. Number one on the charts is your buddy Fulton."
Karp looked away. Hrcany continued. "So what do you think? You know the guy. Could he be bent?"
"Anybody could be bent, Roland. But it's a big jump between 'could-be' and bringing a case."
"But you have your doubts."
"Yeah, I've got to say I do. He's been acting funny. He's been hanging with some dirty people. And he was seen running from the scene of an attempted murder of a witness in the case."
Hrcany said, "It's a funny business. Considering the scumbags he's knocking off, maybe they should give him a medal. Some of the cops I talk to think that."
"How about you, Roland? You think that too?"
Hrcany paused significantly before answering. "There are days… but let's face it- what we're doing isn't having much of an effect. A little police terror might calm things down."
"Just like Hungary, huh?"
Hrcany flushed, and snapped angrily, "That's not the fucking same thing at all!"
"No, I guess not, from our point of view. Maybe they feel different up in Harlem. In any case, there's enough people on the lookout so that if it is Fulton, they'll eventually nail him. A real shame too-he probably cracked up from the strain. It'll be a hell of case to try, though."
"Yeah. Are you sure that kid Schick is up to it?"
"He'll learn," answered Karp dismissively. "Meanwhile, I'm more concerned if he can pull the ball to right field."
As it turned out, Peter Schick did pull the ball for a single and a nice double, scoring once. But the Bullets lost the game, 10-7, to a team that had as members a surprising number of Dominican hotshots, purported paralegals, but, to the disgruntled Bullets, patently clients and other semipro ringers.
Karp went one for four and missed an easy out at first base. He was not playing with anything near his usual concentration, and the reason for the lapse was sitting in a dusty tan sedan parked up on the grass verge of the access road. When the game was over, Karp slipped away from the noisy crowd of players clustered around the beer cooler and walked over to the car.
"Thanks," said Karp to Dugman, who was sitting in the car's front seat. "I'll bring him right back."
Dugman said, "Go with the man, Tecumseh."
Tecumseh Booth got out of the back seat and stood blinking on the grass. "What is this?" he said, looking back at Dugman as if the cop were his own momma.
"Man just want to talk with you, man," said the detective. "Don't worry, we gonna stay right here."
Karp walked Booth along the verge until they came to a pedestrian path, at which they turned and walked north for a distance in the direction of Sheep Meadow. Karp sat down on a bench placed before a pile of glacial boulders and motioned Booth to sit as well.
"I hear you had a narrow escape," said Karp conversationally.
"Who are you?" demanded Booth.
"My name's Karp. I'm with the D.A."
"I don't need to talk to no D.A. I got a case-dismissed."
"OK, suit yourself." Karp leaned back and breathed deeply. The air was cool and scented with mown grass and orange rind.
"Sure is a nice day," Karp observed. "You should enjoy it. It's probably going to be your last." He turned and looked Booth full in the face. Booth wore his usual stubborn passive mask, but there was something twitchy around the eyes. Being shot at, with the prospect of more shooting to come, will do that.
"See, the problem we got here is, you're no good to me anymore as a witness," Karp resumed. "You got off, as you point out, and you won't testify against whoever got Clarry, because you're a stand-up guy. I need a cooperative witness.
"Now, what do you get for being a stand-up guy? You saw what happened. They tried to kill you. And they're going to keep on trying."
There was no reaction. Booth continued to stare mutely at him. This wasn't working.
"The penny hasn't dropped yet," said Karp, more urgently. "You're still thinking this is just another job-you drive for some guys knocking over a liquor store, and the cops catch you and you keep your mouth shut. That's natural. We understand that. But you're in a whole different game now. There's big guys involved, very big guys-cops too. Look, you see those ants down there?"
Karp moved his foot to indicate a swarm of the insects mining some strewn Cracker Jack. "They've got a code too. They stick together. Maybe there's another kind of ant tries to move in on their turf, they gang up on them. Who knows, maybe they make deals. Maybe there are stand-up ants and rat ants. Whatever. But what you're into is this!"
Karp brought his sneaker down sharply, with a savage twist, crushing the ants and their food into a damp smear. A couple of the surviving ants went scurrying off in different directions. Booth was watching the demonstration with interest.
"The ones running are the smart ants, Tecumseh," Karp said softly. "They know when they're licked and they get small real fast. OK, I don't want to waste your last day on earth, so I'm going to make it short. One of two things is going to happen right here and now.
"One is, I'm going to ask you what you know about these killings and you're going to keep quiet and I'm going to get up and walk back to that car and we're going to drive away. That's it-sayonara, Tecumseh.
"You figure the odds. Think you can get out of town on your own? Think you can get out of the park? Want to bet we're not being watched right now?"
Booth was not able to suppress an involuntary searching movement of his head. The trees and bushes rustled and crackled in a way that suddenly seemed menacing. It was not like the warm security of a police station or an interrogation room. Booth felt hideously exposed. His breath came shorter and Karp pressed on.
"On the other hand, you could talk, and I'd give you this."
Karp took an airline-ticket folder out of the belly pocket of his sweatshirt and handed it to Booth.
Booth looked at it as if it were a crossword puzzle in Amharic. "What's this about?" he asked.
"It's an open ticket to L.A. in a fake name," said Karp. "You answer a few questions, and then we both go back to the car and the detectives drive you to La Guardia. They'll give you some cash and kiss you good-bye. You're on the next flight to L.A. with two hundred dollars in your pocket. A new life. Or maybe I should say the only life you're likely to have."
Booth took the ticket out of the folder and read it slowly, paging through the counterfoils, as if it were a letter from an old friend, full of sage advice. Booth tried to think it through, to figure the angles, but he was unused to thought. Other people made the plans. He just drove and kept his mouth shut. Hesitantly, and in a near-whisper, he said, "I just tell you? No court? I don't sign no papers?"
"Just me, and right now. And you're gone."
Booth released a long, soft sigh, like the last breath of an old, sick man. "Yeah, what the fuck," he said. "Whatever you want."
Twenty-five minutes later, Karp sat on the bench and watched Tecumseh Booth walk rapidly away down the leafy path. Two minutes after that he heard a car door slam and the sound of a car accelerating. For a while he sat quietly in the breezy silence. Then in a loud voice, he said, "Home-free all!"
Steps crunched on ground litter behind him, and Clay Fulton came out from behind the boulders, brushing grit off his suit coat and trousers. He had a small Nagra tape machine hanging from a shoulder strap and a gun microphone in his hand.