No Lesser Plea by Robert K. Tanenbaum Page A

“I can’t figure out why Garrahy keeps him right there in his office. The fucker is scared shitless of courtrooms, one, and two, he’s an incredible schmuck. A schmuck from Schmuckland.” He kissed his pinched fingers in a gesture of connoisseurship.
    “True,” said V.T., “but Conrad has attached himself to the boss’s pet project, which is one way that weasels get on in the world. Deep in Francis P. Garrahy’s Irish-Catholic soul is an abhorrence of public pornography. In the old days, when he was coming up, you couldn’t see pussy until you were married. In fact, where Garrahy came from, you couldn’t see it even after you were married. Now he has to look at snatch every time he goes in to buy cigars.
    “Conrad observes this and sells his all-out campaign against smut to the DA. Now he’s got a private office next to Garrahy’s and an army of twerps just like him to drag two-bit magazine publishers into court for five grand fines, like we have space on the calendars for that shit. No, Conrad is going places. He knows how to exploit the foibles of great men.”
    “Bullshit. He’s an empty suit,” said Karp.
    “As a prosecutor? No question. But Conrad isn’t interested in being a prosecutor and putting asses in jail. He’s interested in power. You know, Butch, there are two kinds of people in the world: people who are interested in doing real things—growing gardens, or inventing, or trying cases—and people who are interested in making other people jump through hoops. Conrad is one of those. And they’re hard to stop because while the rest of us are learning how to do the things we want to do, they’re spending all their time collecting power. Watch the guys who volunteer to do the secretarial and bureaucratic bullshit that nobody else wants to do. They usually wind up running the show.”
    “Let ’em,” said Karp. “As long as they leave me alone.”
    “Ah, but that’s just the point. They can’t leave you alone. Anything real—passion, excellence, skill—is a reproach to them. It’s a source of satisfaction that they can’t control. They have to destroy it. Look at Stalin and Trotsky. Trotsky ran the Russian Revolution almost single-handed. Stalin was the Communist Party’s administrative boss. Look who won. And I’ll tell you something else. Conrad’s got you targeted, Butch. He mooches around me a lot because he thinks my old man has pull, which he does, and the little piss-ant doesn’t miss an occasion to put you down.”
    “Fuck him, he can’t touch me.”
    Guma broke in. “Hey, what is all this Trotsky bullshit? This is supposed to be a party. Hey, Margo!” He gestured to the waitress, who came out from behind the bar and over to their table. She was a good-looking woman of about twenty-five, plump, with heavy eye makeup and a blond streak in her dark hair.
    She pulled out her pad and smiled. “How are you all tonight? Ready to order?”
    Guma said, “No, we’re still waiting for someone. But bring us a bottle of Barolo, the Fontanafredda. And the big antipasto, for nibbles.”
    She scratched on her pad. “OK. Hey, Ray, classes are starting in two weeks.” She flashed a smile at Guma, who got red in the face and looked away with a sickly grin.
    “Going back to law school, Goom?” V.T. asked.
    “No, I am,” said Margo. “Well, paralegal anyway. Ray says he can get me a job.”
    “Oh, really?” said Karp. “You’re a helluva guy, Guma.”
    “Yeah, he sure is,” said Margo, the light of love, or at least opportunism, gleaming in her eyes. “I’ll go get your wine.”
    She left. Guma said, “OK, guys …”
    “Very tacky, Mad Dog, very tacky,” said Newbury.
    “Yeah, Goom, is that the same technique you used on Kimple? Maybe you promised her a job in Villa Cella,” Karp said.
    “Hey, what the fuck. She’s a bright kid, why shouldn’t I encourage her?” Guma protested.
    “To quote you, Goom, ‘It’s not her mind I want, it’s her body.’ Tell the