Guma, just tell me one thing: most guys only got one cock to worry about. How come I got to concern myself with yours?"
Guma said, "C'mon, Butch, that's not fair."
"No, you're right. My apologies. I'll calm down in about a fucking week!"
"So I'm off the case?"
"Yeah, Goom, go play with the burglars."
"Who you gonna give it to? Be a shame to blow it at this late date."
Karp gritted his teeth and took a long, slow breath. He patted Guma softly on the shoulder. "Goom," he said, "you're… a one of a kind. Don't worry, I'll think of something."
Two hours later, his mood in no way improved, Karp was sitting in front of a gigantic desk in a gigantic office on the fourteenth floor of police headquarters. Across the desk was a smallish man wearing a neat blue suit and hard blue eyes, who looked enough like Karl Malden to use his American Express card. The man's name was William Denton, and he was the chief of detectives of the New York City Police Department.
Karp got right to the point. Denton was not big on pleasantries in any case, and Karp had no stomach for them this afternoon.
"Clay Fulton," said Karp. "I'd like to know what he's doing."
"Why don't you ask him?"
Karp paused and swallowed. He had worked with Denton closely over the years, and trusted him-so far. On the other hand, Denton was a cop, and one of the half-dozen most powerful men in the city's criminal justice system. Karp was, in contrast, a bureau chief in what was but one of the five independent prosecutors' offices operating in New York. There was just the one police department, and although legally the police were supposedly there to serve the district attorney, the reality was more complex.
There was no way he could pressure Denton. He had used up all his chips just getting an immediate appointment with the C. of D. Karp determined now to lay out his problem as squarely as he could, and if Denton wanted to tell him to get lost, that was it.
"Well, Chief," Karp replied, "I have tried that. The problem is that my buddy Clay, who I have worked with on and off for nearly ten years, and who has always impressed me as the straightest shooter around, has apparently traded in his personality on a new model, something out of the KGB stockroom.
"These dope-pusher homicides. He comes in, tells me you're going to let him coordinate them as one big case. Fine. I don't hear from him for a couple of weeks. I call him, I don't get called back. Fine, too. He's busy, it's going slow-I can understand that.
"Then I hear, like by accident, he's arrested somebody in connection with the Garry thing. The guy is squirreled away in some pen, no contact with me, no charge even. Not fine, Chief. I go to a meeting this morning with some heavy hitters, the D.A. wants a task force to coordinate the operations on these hits with the cops and the community. There's two cops there, playing hard ball for no reason I can see, and when I ask why Clay isn't there, everybody looks at me like I just farted. Then everybody starts acting like Clay Fulton is in the tank on this, and I'm the only one in town who hasn't got the message. Also not fine.
"So I put it to you, out front, what the hell is going on?"
Denton did not answer immediately. He looked at Karp for a long moment, and then picked up a yellow pencil from his desk and stared at it, held between his two hands, as if it were an oracle, as he rocked gently back and forth in his chair.
At last he spoke. "What if I said you're going to have to trust me on this one?"
"I'd trust you. If I ever thought I couldn't trust you, I'd move to Ramapo, New Jersey, and do divorces and real-estate closings. But that's not the point. Something's moving, out of Bloom's office. Maybe it's just typical smoke and mirrors, but I doubt it. The guys in that room-Reedy, Fane's guy-don't show up for a private meeting unless they have a serious interest in an issue. They might be on a platform or cut a ribbon for any kind of bullshit, but when they
Guma said, "C'mon, Butch, that's not fair."
"No, you're right. My apologies. I'll calm down in about a fucking week!"
"So I'm off the case?"
"Yeah, Goom, go play with the burglars."
"Who you gonna give it to? Be a shame to blow it at this late date."
Karp gritted his teeth and took a long, slow breath. He patted Guma softly on the shoulder. "Goom," he said, "you're… a one of a kind. Don't worry, I'll think of something."
Two hours later, his mood in no way improved, Karp was sitting in front of a gigantic desk in a gigantic office on the fourteenth floor of police headquarters. Across the desk was a smallish man wearing a neat blue suit and hard blue eyes, who looked enough like Karl Malden to use his American Express card. The man's name was William Denton, and he was the chief of detectives of the New York City Police Department.
Karp got right to the point. Denton was not big on pleasantries in any case, and Karp had no stomach for them this afternoon.
"Clay Fulton," said Karp. "I'd like to know what he's doing."
"Why don't you ask him?"
Karp paused and swallowed. He had worked with Denton closely over the years, and trusted him-so far. On the other hand, Denton was a cop, and one of the half-dozen most powerful men in the city's criminal justice system. Karp was, in contrast, a bureau chief in what was but one of the five independent prosecutors' offices operating in New York. There was just the one police department, and although legally the police were supposedly there to serve the district attorney, the reality was more complex.
There was no way he could pressure Denton. He had used up all his chips just getting an immediate appointment with the C. of D. Karp determined now to lay out his problem as squarely as he could, and if Denton wanted to tell him to get lost, that was it.
"Well, Chief," Karp replied, "I have tried that. The problem is that my buddy Clay, who I have worked with on and off for nearly ten years, and who has always impressed me as the straightest shooter around, has apparently traded in his personality on a new model, something out of the KGB stockroom.
"These dope-pusher homicides. He comes in, tells me you're going to let him coordinate them as one big case. Fine. I don't hear from him for a couple of weeks. I call him, I don't get called back. Fine, too. He's busy, it's going slow-I can understand that.
"Then I hear, like by accident, he's arrested somebody in connection with the Garry thing. The guy is squirreled away in some pen, no contact with me, no charge even. Not fine, Chief. I go to a meeting this morning with some heavy hitters, the D.A. wants a task force to coordinate the operations on these hits with the cops and the community. There's two cops there, playing hard ball for no reason I can see, and when I ask why Clay isn't there, everybody looks at me like I just farted. Then everybody starts acting like Clay Fulton is in the tank on this, and I'm the only one in town who hasn't got the message. Also not fine.
"So I put it to you, out front, what the hell is going on?"
Denton did not answer immediately. He looked at Karp for a long moment, and then picked up a yellow pencil from his desk and stared at it, held between his two hands, as if it were an oracle, as he rocked gently back and forth in his chair.
At last he spoke. "What if I said you're going to have to trust me on this one?"
"I'd trust you. If I ever thought I couldn't trust you, I'd move to Ramapo, New Jersey, and do divorces and real-estate closings. But that's not the point. Something's moving, out of Bloom's office. Maybe it's just typical smoke and mirrors, but I doubt it. The guys in that room-Reedy, Fane's guy-don't show up for a private meeting unless they have a serious interest in an issue. They might be on a platform or cut a ribbon for any kind of bullshit, but when they
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