you don’t care much for Carlson.”
“Got no use for a pretty face in a suit. No real instincts for the job, but he knows how to get votes. Likes to play ‘Show
and Tell’ with us boys in the press, pumps himself up at press conferences with his little victories over crime so he can
run all the sooner for governor, or president, or God.”
“And?”
“He keeps lettin’ the cat out of the bag, givin’ away his best points so the other side has a real good chance to get ready.”
“Even Scarpetti?”
“Especially Scarpetti. Think of the publicity Carlson’s office has been gettin’ on this case. Crimebuster Extraordinary. And
while he’s been showin’ off for his adorin’ future electorate and shootin’ off his mouth like a little cap pistol, Scarpetti’s
shysters been takin’ detailed notes. There’s a rumor they’ve got big ears planted, even inside the D.A.’s office. If Scarpetti
and his lieutenants walk, we’ll owe it all to our illustrious D.A. and his loose lips.”
“How strong’s the case?”
“As strong as five years of tough undercover work can make it. I won’t say it’s airtight, but if nobody fucks up in the D.A.’s
office and Carlson doesn’t sell the evidence on Montague Street like nickel apples, Alberto and his associates are all gonna
fry up in Ossining.”
“What do you know about Carlson himself?”
“In terms of what?”
“Background, family, education. Stuff like that.”
He leaned back, reached into the open file drawer behind him and pulled out a fat folder. “His file’s right here. Been workin’
on a piece for next week.” He flipped through the pages until he settled on one. “Harvard man, like his father. The father
owns a couple of banks here in Brooklyn, another in Manhattan. Real robust type, the father. Boxes, works out with weights.
Hunts elephants. Likes to hobnob with the kingmakers up in Albany. The mother does a lot of charity work in Manhattan, runs
a soup kitchen when she isn’t communing spiritually with the ghosts of the D.A.R. Ma and Pa Carlson are right up to their
Nordic, steely-blue eyeballs in noblesse oblige.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“Only one brother, killed in the war. Secret mission. His plane blew up with him in it. Carlson himself made captain, but
he was strictly a paper pusher stateside.”
“Girlfriends?”
“Well, he likes to be seen with the ladies, anyway. Me, I think it’s all political. The guy’s too much in love with himself.
Gets a boner every time he sees his picture in the paper. Probably doesn’t need broads except for show.”
“Boyfriends?”
“Now there’s a headline beggin’ for a story. You know somethin’ I don’t?”
“Just asking.”
“If he has, he’s real discreet. That affliction’s a career killer.”
“How about a guy named Jorgenson? Tall, splotchy skin, unkempt red hair?”
“Naah. Who’s he?”
“I don’t know yet.” I stood up. He tossed the folder casually on his desk and gave me a reporter’s look.
“What’s your angle on this?” he asked.
“I don’t know if I have one.”
“And if one develops?”
I smiled. “I’ll come and see you, Scoop.”
CHAPTER
20
F ulton Joe’s was hyperactive at noon. There wasn’t an empty table in the place, and the waiters were sweating like it was the
middle of July. Busy was the way I wanted it. Safety in a crowd, for Carlson as much as for me. I wanted to rile him, but
not to spook him, and the distinction is very fine.
I had a table away from the window, but with a clear view of Fulton Street. Even if he used the Pierrepont Street entrance,
I’d still see him before he could see me. Not that an escape route was all that important. If I had this figured right, he’d
be coming without the boys in blue, without anybody. His briefcase was on the floor next to me, my winter coat draped over
it.
I ordered the hamburger roast with mushroom sauce, string beans, mashed
“Got no use for a pretty face in a suit. No real instincts for the job, but he knows how to get votes. Likes to play ‘Show
and Tell’ with us boys in the press, pumps himself up at press conferences with his little victories over crime so he can
run all the sooner for governor, or president, or God.”
“And?”
“He keeps lettin’ the cat out of the bag, givin’ away his best points so the other side has a real good chance to get ready.”
“Even Scarpetti?”
“Especially Scarpetti. Think of the publicity Carlson’s office has been gettin’ on this case. Crimebuster Extraordinary. And
while he’s been showin’ off for his adorin’ future electorate and shootin’ off his mouth like a little cap pistol, Scarpetti’s
shysters been takin’ detailed notes. There’s a rumor they’ve got big ears planted, even inside the D.A.’s office. If Scarpetti
and his lieutenants walk, we’ll owe it all to our illustrious D.A. and his loose lips.”
“How strong’s the case?”
“As strong as five years of tough undercover work can make it. I won’t say it’s airtight, but if nobody fucks up in the D.A.’s
office and Carlson doesn’t sell the evidence on Montague Street like nickel apples, Alberto and his associates are all gonna
fry up in Ossining.”
“What do you know about Carlson himself?”
“In terms of what?”
“Background, family, education. Stuff like that.”
He leaned back, reached into the open file drawer behind him and pulled out a fat folder. “His file’s right here. Been workin’
on a piece for next week.” He flipped through the pages until he settled on one. “Harvard man, like his father. The father
owns a couple of banks here in Brooklyn, another in Manhattan. Real robust type, the father. Boxes, works out with weights.
Hunts elephants. Likes to hobnob with the kingmakers up in Albany. The mother does a lot of charity work in Manhattan, runs
a soup kitchen when she isn’t communing spiritually with the ghosts of the D.A.R. Ma and Pa Carlson are right up to their
Nordic, steely-blue eyeballs in noblesse oblige.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“Only one brother, killed in the war. Secret mission. His plane blew up with him in it. Carlson himself made captain, but
he was strictly a paper pusher stateside.”
“Girlfriends?”
“Well, he likes to be seen with the ladies, anyway. Me, I think it’s all political. The guy’s too much in love with himself.
Gets a boner every time he sees his picture in the paper. Probably doesn’t need broads except for show.”
“Boyfriends?”
“Now there’s a headline beggin’ for a story. You know somethin’ I don’t?”
“Just asking.”
“If he has, he’s real discreet. That affliction’s a career killer.”
“How about a guy named Jorgenson? Tall, splotchy skin, unkempt red hair?”
“Naah. Who’s he?”
“I don’t know yet.” I stood up. He tossed the folder casually on his desk and gave me a reporter’s look.
“What’s your angle on this?” he asked.
“I don’t know if I have one.”
“And if one develops?”
I smiled. “I’ll come and see you, Scoop.”
CHAPTER
20
F ulton Joe’s was hyperactive at noon. There wasn’t an empty table in the place, and the waiters were sweating like it was the
middle of July. Busy was the way I wanted it. Safety in a crowd, for Carlson as much as for me. I wanted to rile him, but
not to spook him, and the distinction is very fine.
I had a table away from the window, but with a clear view of Fulton Street. Even if he used the Pierrepont Street entrance,
I’d still see him before he could see me. Not that an escape route was all that important. If I had this figured right, he’d
be coming without the boys in blue, without anybody. His briefcase was on the floor next to me, my winter coat draped over
it.
I ordered the hamburger roast with mushroom sauce, string beans, mashed
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