Butch Karp: Act Of Revenge Part 21

Eitenberg had a light voice, one that seemed only recently to have changed, and he spoke very carefully, with more than the usual number of ahs and ums.

After the briefest pleasantries, Karp said, "Yeah, Mr. Eitenberg, just checking out this subpoena you issued to one of our a.s.sistants, Mr. Raymond Guma. Do you recall that one?" Eitenberg did. "Well, here's the thing, Mr. Eitenberg, as a rule, we in the criminal justice business, being the good guys and all, we try to avoid this sort of thing, throwing subpoenas at one another. I mean, just as an example, if one of your fine federal law enforcement officers inadvertently violated the laws of New York state, we would not expect to find them in shackles walking the perp walk the next morning. No, a couple of phone calls, a friendly meeting or two, we'd straighten it all out. Unless there's some particular reason why Mr. Colombo doesn't want to go that way." Silence on the line.

"Is there?" Karp asked. Ums and mumbles, and Mr. Eitenberg would like to consult with his management.

Fifteen minutes later, that management called, in the person of Norton Peabody, the head of the organized crime division, a man Karp knew to say h.e.l.lo to, and by reputation. b.u.t.toned down and intense was the rep. More pleasantries, after which Peabody said, "Doug Eitenberg tells me you have some issues on this subpoena we sent out to Raymond Guma."

"Issues, yeah. I didn't mean to get your boy all bent out of shape, but we were a little concerned. A subpoena? Why not a call? Or a visit? You look out your window, you could wave at my office."

"Well, the problem with that approach, Butch, is your guy showed up on surveillance saying some pretty disturbing things to a pretty bad wise guy. We thought it was best to keep the whole thing formal for now. You understand, given the sensitivity-"

"What wise guy was that, Norton?"

"Gino Scarpi. We have them taped in the prison ward at Bellevue."

"Oh, for crying out loud, Peabody! Ray was interviewing Scarpi at my direct request."

"That's interesting. It was clear from our tape that he had no recording device on him. Was there one in the room?"

"No, because he wasn't there to gather evidence. He was there to gather intelligence. It's not the same thing."

A pause. "Don't you think it's irregular to send an a.s.sistant district attorney to talk to a Mob gunman? Don't you have investigators for that?"

"Yes, of course, but so what? He wasn't sneaking off to conspire with a criminal, for G.o.d's sake. He was interviewing a prisoner at my direction. And for this he becomes subject to a subpoena? What is wrong with you guys?"

"You should see the tapes, Butch, before you go off half c.o.c.ked. They look bad, real bad. Your boy sounds like he's a fully paid-up Mafiosi. He even says it out of his own mouth."

"Oh, Peabody, that is such horses.h.i.+t!"

"Hey. I'm trying to be constructive, here. I tell you what: come over, we'll run the tape for you, and then look at me with a straight face and tell me you don't have a problem with it."

"I'll be right there," said Karp.

Marlene's next appointment was her lunch with Abe Lapidus, which had been scheduled for a restaurant in the Village, but on the way back from the Island Marlene decided that she was not up to facing stares in so public a place on her first day out, and so she called Lapidus from her car phone to cancel and he, sensing the problem, said, "Don't be ridiculous! You'll come up to our place. We got food, we got drinks, and later, if you want, you can visit Sophie." To this she readily agreed; she was accustomed to making light of her physical beauty, as a good feminist ought, but in fact, although she had learned over the years to deal with the missing eye, she found that the loss of hair and the marred face had proved too much for mere ideology. She didn't like being repulsive, and she was not going to expose herself to its consequences if she could help it, at least not before age seventy.

The apartment of Abe and Selma Lapidus was furnished in what Marlene always thought of as bad good taste: that is, they had paid a decorator to give them whatever look was fas.h.i.+onable at the moment, although in this case successive waves of fas.h.i.+on were in evidence, like tidemarks on a beach. The wall-to-wall was pale beige, the couch was Duncan Phyfe in pale blue silk, the coffee table was thick gla.s.s and chrome, the chairs were designish Scandinavian in teak and leather, the breakfront was ma.s.sive mahogany from the current plutocratic era, and it was full of bits of pre-Columbiana and African fetish work to exhibit the right political sympathies with the oppressed. The wall art was expensive investment-grade abstract, plus one bright rya from the sixties decor, and a couple of original oils, pasty sad clowns by, Marlene would have bet a million, the chatelaine herself. The room was spotless, and smelled of Pledge and rug shampoo.

"Selma will be out," Abe had confided over the phone. "We won't be disturbed."

Nor were they. Abe served tuna fish salad on croissants, which they ate around the coffee table, with a big bottle of San Peligrino to wash it down, drunk out of cut-gla.s.s tumblers almost too heavy to lift to the mouth. A silent brown woman in a white uniform drifted in and served and quickly vanished.

They small-talked during the meal, and when the servant had removed the plates, Marlene got out her notebook. Before many minutes had pa.s.sed, it was clear to her that Abe Lapidus liked to talk, that he regarded her as a captive audience, and that he considered himself free to ramble on about whatever interested him, something, she suspected, that was fairly rare in his life with Selma. He spun anecdotes of the New York bar of thirty years before, political perceptions, contacts with the famous of that era, general appreciations of the urban scene then and now, comparisons of same, to the detriment of the current era, and around and around the old barn until he was ready to discharge a useful nugget.

"I'm rambling," he confessed. "You wanted to know about Jerry Fein, and I'm rambling."

"That's okay," said Marlene. "Take your time."

He peered at her, tilting his head back to catch her image in his bifocals, and shook his head and tut-tutted. "What a shame! All your hair! And those bruises! That little son of a b.i.t.c.h, they should throw the key away, that . . ." He drew a breath. "Always, he was like that, a vicious, brutal piece of dirt. I don't know how many times Jerry pulled him out of trouble, starting from young, thirteen, fourteen. But what do you expect from that family?"

"You mean that they were gangsters, Mafia?"

"Oh, Mafia, schmafia! Darling, believe me, it doesn't matter what side of the law, it's the character I'm talking about. I knew Meyer Lansky quite well, and he was always a perfect gentleman. Lucky Luciano the same. Murderers, dope pushers, but also gentlemen. Can you understand that?"

Marlene could. "I know people like that," she said.

"Right. And there are distinguished citizens, businessmen, attorneys, never even dropped a piece of paper on the sidewalk, I wouldn't trust them alone with my daughter for five minutes. This one, the little Bollano, was a momser from the cradle, and the father was worse. If Jerry Fein had lived to see his daughter married to that piece of sc.u.m, he would have killed himself."

They both froze for an instant at this, and both then let out a burst of embarra.s.sed laughter.

Abe took off his gla.s.ses and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. "My G.o.d in heaven, some things are so tragic the only thing you can do is laugh."

"Yeah, about that: Why did Vivian Fein marry Sal Bollano? Any ideas?"

"Oh, well, you know, I only knew Jerry as a colleague, I wasn't intimate with the family. It's possible Sophie would have some thoughts on that, if you can get her to talk about it. She and Ceil were close for some years."

"Ceil is the mother?"

"Yes, and I believe she's still in their old house in Brooklyn. You think you'll talk to her? I hear she's not so good."

"If she'll talk to me. Vivian doesn't want me to."

"Ah, Vivian, what a shame, what a shame! Oy! A gorgeous girl, and he wors.h.i.+ped her, Jerry. For her sweet sixteen party he took over the Versailles ballroom, everything the best, fountains flowing with champagne, Lester Lanin orchestra, must have been five hundred people. Let me tell you, darling, if a bomb had gone off at that party, it would have wiped out organized crime in New York, and half of law enforcement. Jerry knew everyone, on both sides, and if you treated him with respect, he treated you with respect, he didn't care from what you made your money."

"Did he have any enemies that you know of?"

The man made a sour pickle face. "Enemies? What are you talking enemies? He was an attorney. He wasn't in politics, he didn't have the kind of practice where he would screw people. He represented defendants in court, that's what he did. If some of them were gangsters, then some of them were gangsters, big deal, the law says bad people are ent.i.tled to representation, too. This is not a life that makes enemies." He paused and looked at her more sharply. "So, how come you're asking 'enemies'?"

"The cop who investigated his suicide thinks there was something not right about it."

"Who, that what's-his-name, the big n.a.z.i?"

"Mulhausen. No, he's dead. His partner, Doherty." She offered a summary of what she had learned from the former detective.

Lapidus waved a hand dismissively. "Ah, don't get me started on the cops. They do a perfunctory investigation, and then this guy gets a guilty conscience twenty-five years later. Phooey!"

"You think they were bent?"

"Think? No, they were all Abe Lincolns. Don't be ridiculous, the fifties? In New York? Sal Bollano had a bigger payroll in some precincts than the police department."

"Just a minute, Abe. You're suggesting that Sal Bollano had Fein killed and bribed the cops not to look so hard?"

"No, I'm suggesting look at the facts you just told me. One, no note. A man who loved his family? He wouldn't try to explain, say he loved them one last time? I can't believe it. Two, his appointment book was chock full for weeks after the death. A man makes dozens of appointments he knows he'll never keep because he's going to kill himself? Nah!"

"Were you interviewed by the police at the time?"

"Me? Nah, I told you, we weren't that close. But they did people I knew, and it was naturally, such a thing, a subject of discussion around the courthouse. No one could believe it, no one!"

"Except Panofsky."

"Aha!" Abe raised a finger in the air, as if he had discovered something. "Smart girl. Except Panofsky."

"But eventually everyone went along with the suicide finding, n.o.body objected."

Abe sighed. "Darling, the family accepts it, the law partner accepts it, what can you do? We all figured there was stuff, disgraceful things, we didn't know about. You know, back then some people wouldn't say the word 'cancer.' This other business, what you see on the talk shows, people wouldn't even confess to their closest friends."

"But his secretary didn't accept it, did she?"

"Oh, well, that was different, the poor woman! See, that was Jerry again, he would make people love him. Charming, even if you would have lunch with him, a casual thing, you would go away thinking what a guy! And to tell the absolute truth, you would think you were closer to him than you really were. Anyway, Jerry took in this kid, s.h.i.+rley, just out of high school, a nice girl, plain but nice, very efficient. She was with him years, never married, devoted, totally, you know? And, you know how it is, that kind of thing, she thought the sun shone out of his tuchas. So it was a killer for her when he died, she couldn't understand it. And she would go around with the appointment book, showing it to everyone, to prove that he couldn't have done what they all said he did, jump like that. Panofsky, the momser, threw her out right after the funeral. He didn't have the b.a.l.l.s to do it himself even, is what I heard, he got Jimmy n.o.bile to do it."

"Who?"

"n.o.bile. They called him the office manager, but he was a, what they call a gofer, he did a little investigation work, collections, like that. If he's still alive, he'd know a thing or two."

"Any ideas on where to look for him?"

Abe shrugged. "No, no idea. You know, after I said to you, I mean there in the hospital, I could help you on this, I got to thinking, Who really knows the story? And it occurred to me, the people who know if there even is a story, they're either dead or they probably won't talk. Panofsky-"

"What's the book on him? I don't like that he was the only one who thought Fein was despondent."

Abe leaned back and rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't get me started on Heshy Panofsky! What can I say? You know the man from the bench. You know what he looks like, how he acts?"

"You mean arrogant?"

"Yeah, not unusual among judges, but Heshy was arrogant when he was a p.i.s.sy little shyster with a walk-up office on Joralemon Street in Brooklyn. There was some family connection, in-laws or something, I don't know what, but in the early fifties it must have been, Jerry took him into the firm. And he found out-and you know, this was a litigating firm, pardon the expression, b.a.l.l.s of bra.s.s, sue their a.s.s, that kind-anyway, Jerry found out that Heshy was from hunger in the courtroom. It was all front with Heshy. It came time to put it on the line, he shut down. So, and this shows you what a decent guy Jerry was, he still kept him on. Him and Bernie Kusher took the court work, and Heshy became the fixer."

"What kind of fixer?"

"Oh, you know-traffic tickets, drunk driving, getting a contractor's license. He knew all the pols, all Tammany back then. The machine. Heshy moved a lot of fat brown envelopes around town, and a lot of the money wasn't so clean, if you catch my drift."

"Panofsky supplied Mob cash to politicians?"

Abe smiled. "You didn't hear it from me, darling. Which is why it was so ironic and so fishy that when somebody finally got caught moving one of those fat envelopes, it was Jerry and not Panofsky. Makes you think, don't it?"

"Panofsky framed Jerry?"

"Go and prove it."

"Jesus! How did he ever get to be a judge?"

Another smile, this one more patronizing. "Darling, listen to what you're saying. I told you he had the politicians by the you-know-whats. What, you think you get to be a judge because of your legal brilliance?"

"I stand corrected. Okay, forget Panofsky for now, who else besides this n.o.bile would know something?"

"Well, that's like I say, the problem. Mulhausen the cop, but he's dead. The judge in the tampering case, Mohr, and the prosecutor, Currie, also both dead. Bernie Kusher, who knows? Probably dead already-"

"Tell me about Bernie. He was the third partner, right?"

"Right, Bernie Kusher, the third partner. He defended Jerry in the tampering case, or he would've if Jerry hadn't copped out. Another character. Bright, tough, a d.a.m.n good lawyer. Very close to Jerry, very close: they went to Columbia Law together, started their practice together. I didn't know him well, but the pair of them were devastating in a courtroom. They won a lot of big cases back in the fifties. Sophie socialized with them more, the Feins and Bernie. He was divorced, I seem to recall. You could ask her. I don't have to tell you Panofsky hated him; they were poison together."

After that they talked desultorily about the tampering case, for Abe Lapidus recalled only the broad outlines of the plot, which centered upon the famous zippered bank envelope full of cash (the envelope itself amply stamped with Fein's prints) and a note typed on Fein's office typewriter, indicating that a vote for acquittal in the Gravellotti case would earn double what was inside.

Abe began to maunder again, supplying unwanted details about some peripheral courtroom figures.

"Oh, h.e.l.l, Abe," Marlene broke in with heat. "You're telling me everything but what I want to know. Why didn't Jerry fight the thing? Why did he cop on it?"

Abe poured out some water, rattled the ice cubes, took a long drink. He gave her an odd look, compounded of a.s.sessment, affection, cynically exhausted humor.

"You're a smart cookie, Marlene. That's the big one. We all wondered about that too. Why did one of the sharpest courtroom jockeys around go into the tank when his own tuchas was on the line?" Another long pause.

"And? And?"

Lapidus chuckled dryly. "You remember the old Lamplighter? It was a saloon on Baxter. A courtroom hangout. It shut down."

"Yeah, in the early seventies. What about it?"

"This was the evening after Jerry pleaded. Bernie was there in the Lamplighter. He was falling down drunk, which we never saw before, believe me. All of us were what you would call hard drinkers in those days." He tapped his gla.s.s with a fingernail. "They didn't move much Italian seltzer in the Lamplighter. You drank scotch. Or martinis. But controlled. You got out of hand, they'd call a cab and stick you in it. Anyway, Bernie was there, buying rounds for anyone who'd yell, 'f.u.c.k you, Panofsky!' And pouring Chivas down as fast as they could set it up, all the time raving about Heshy. How he wasn't going to let Heshy get away with it, he'd confess, he wasn't going to let his pal take the fall, cursing out Heshy and also Frank Currie . . ."

"He was the D.A. in the case?"

"Yeah. Not an ornament to the profession, if you want to know. Bernie was saying things like, 'I'll confess, and Frank Currie can kiss my a.s.s!' People were looking at each other, you know, like when there's an embarra.s.sing drunk. But trying to ignore it. The man was bellowing. And then Jerry walks in and goes right over to him. I figure Pete Demaris, who was behind the bar at the time, must've called him. They did stuff like that in the Lamplighter all the time. It was a club, like. So Jerry goes up to him and puts an arm around him and tries to lead him out, but Bernie won't go, he's holding onto the edge of the bar. He's saying things like, no, no, Jerry, you're not taking the fall for me, I'll confess, and Jerry, angry, telling him to shut the f.u.c.k up, excuse my French. Everybody pretending it wasn't happening, but ears flapping like Dumbo. And then Pete came around the bar, this was a real bulvan, if you know what that is, and he just tucked Bernie under his arm and they all walked out and stuffed Bernie into a cab and Jerry got in, too." He took another drink.

"So . . . what are you saying? That it was Bernie bribed the juror?"

"Oh, no. That was definitely Panofsky. I told you, he was the fixer. No, just when they were dragging him out the door, Bernie yelled something like, 'I did it!' and then some names-Mintzer, De Salerno, Maddux, and some others. Well, he was raving, so no one paid any attention. Later, they remembered."

"You've lost me, Abe."

"Yeah, it's complicated. I'm amazed I can remember it myself. They were names of trusts. The firm didn't have much of a trust business, mostly local guys who made a pile in the forties, wanted to protect their families. Maybe thirty million total. Bernie was in charge of the trust operation."

"And he was looting them."

"Looting is strong. He was doing floats, kiting checks, stripping a little interest. He never touched the principle. But definitely stuff that would not stand up to an audit. Heshy found out about it, needless to say. Not much got past Heshy. So, Heshy sets up the frame on Jerry, who practically laughs in their face when they indict him. He's gonna cram it up Currie's you-know-what. Now, Currie, like I mentioned, is a piece of work. He's desperate to get Bollano, he's got political ambitions, wants to be Tom Dewey number two fighting the mobsters. No ethics to speak of. He figures he squeezes Fein with this bribing a juror charge, it'll be like . . . what're those things the kids break and all the toys fall out? Mexican . . . ?"

"A piata. But what about client privilege? Jerry was their lawyer."

"Hey, I said the guy was a nogoodnik. Fein knows all about the Bollanos, and Currie figures he's facing ruin, disbarment, he'll open up and spill goodies all around. He don't have to do it in the open. Crack the Bollano mob like that piata. But Fein wouldn't play that game, no, he's ready to go to trial. Then Currie finds out about Bernie and the trusts, you can guess how. Now, from here it's speculation. I don't know any of this. You want to hear it?"

"Desperately."

He laughed. "Okay, cookie. Let's say Currie calls up Fein. We got the goods on your partner, he's going down unless you play ball. Jerry thinks fast. He says, here's the deal-I cop to misdemeanor tampering, you lay off Bernie, and don't schtup me with the bar. Currie says, what about the Bollanos? Nothing doing, says Fein, you don't like it, I'll see you in court, and Bernie can take his chances. So Currie, who's no dummy, he thinks, one way I got a good collar on a Mob jury tampering, the other way I got to go up against Jerry Fein and Bernie Kusher with a weak case, I could lose my a.s.s. And what do I care about technical violations of the trust regs? No juice there. So they deal. But afterward Currie does put it to him with the bar, and Jerry gets the shaft. Besides the rest of it, Currie was a mean, vindictive son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"That's some story," said Marlene, "but it makes sense. Currie's dead, you said?"

"Yeah, Garrahy, the D.A., canned him when Bernie took off."

"Bernie took off where?"

"Oh, after Jerry died, he really did loot the trusts. Lifted over a million and disappeared. That's why I say that the people who were in the Lamplighter that night recalled the names. It was a big scandal, especially when it came out that Currie knew about the trust irregularities and did nothing as part of the deal with Fein. Bernie put that in a postcard he wrote from Papua or some South Pacific place-wrote it right to Garrahy. You know what Garrahy was like, what he'd do if he found out one of his people was blackmailing a lawyer by suppressing evidence of a crime. Fried Currie's shorts for him and gave him the boot. The man keeled over a couple of years after that. Heart. Bernie disappeared completely, lost in the Pacific."