Act of Revenge (19 page)

“Any idea why?”

“Um, he says he doesn't trust the police, but that you
have a reputation as a man of honor. That's almost a direct
quote.”

“Well, that's flattering,” said Karp, “and
I'll admit you've got me interested. Tell me one thing: What's
the source of Mr. Lie's knowledge of the crime?”

A pause. “That's something I think we'll need to
discuss face to face, Butch. Let me just say that my client has convinced me that
his knowledge is comprehensive and authentic.”

Karp suddenly recalled Guma's remark about all of the fine ethnic
groups available as a supply of hit persons, and said, “Uh-huh. Bill, is
there any chance that your guy is a participant in the crime in
question?”

Another laugh, shorter and sharper. “Oh, I think when you meet
him, you'll see why that's funny. But as far as any substantive
information is concerned—”

“Yeah, right, you need to discuss it face to face. Okay, he wants
to see me, I guess you know where the courthouse is. Why don't we say four
today?”

William Fogel was a broad, well-set-up man somewhat older than Karp,
with fine yellow hair improved by an expensive hairpiece and a broad, friendly,
ruddy face. He was wearing a double-breasted gray pinstripe, a yellow silk tie
decorated with little scales of justice, and a gold Rolex set with diamond chips. He
would have looked well in a courtroom, except that Bill Fogel had arranged his
career so that he never had to go anywhere near a courtroom. His firm had guys who
did that, in the rare cases when the Fogels of the bar did not arrange a mutally
agreeable settlement.

His client would hardly have made half a Fogel. He sat on the edge of
his chair like a child in the principal's office, an Asian man, thin,
bone-faced, with the short-sided rooster-crest haircut of the recent immigrant. He
wore a cheap white shirt buttoned to the neck, dark pants, and black loafers. They
were sitting around the round table in Karp's office, and each of them had a
yellow pad in front of them. Karp thought it significant that Lie was taking notes,
too. They had covered the preliminary introductions, and Karp now said, “Let
me first say what we're about here. I'll take the lead because
it's fair to say that I have the most experience with matters of this
nature.” He glanced at Fogel, who gave him a grateful smile, and at Lie, who
returned a noncommittal stare. “My only concern right now is to make it
possible for Mr. Lie to convey whatever testimony he has in a way that will serve
justice. No record is being made of the conversation we're about to have, and
at this point we can take it as being off the record. Agreeable?” They both
nodded, and Karp was interested to see Fogel glance toward Lie before he gave his
nod.

“That being the case, Mr. Lie, let's hear what you have to
say.”

Lie addressed his yellow pad, eyes downcast. “I come here, New
York, in 1980. From Hong Kong. I very poor at this time. I—”

Karp said, “Excuse me, Mr. Lie, are you a legal
immigrant?”

“No, smuggled. Mexico, Houston, Seattle, here. So, 1980, I poor,
I have no job, no family, so start in gang. White Dragon gang. Very big gang in
Chinatown. I work protect gambling, massage girls, fight other gangs, also what you
call, get money from storekeeper,
lei shi
. .
.”

“Lucky money,” said Karp. “Extortion.”

“Yes, extortion.” He said the word carefully, as if it was
one he really wanted to remember. Fogel gave Karp a curious look but said
nothing.

“So I work this way, some year, then, what we call big brother in
tong, make me
dai ma
, big horse, boss, yes? Of other
gang people. I have territory, some streets, I make sure all money collected, other
gang stay out.”

“Excuse me,” said Karp, “this is how you earn your
livelihood, Mr. Lie? You have no other employment?”

“Yes, livelihood is all this what I am saying,” Lie said,
and resumed. “So one my streets, Elizabeth Street, north of Canal Street, one
end Chinese people, other end Italian people. So I meet Italian people, they say
wise guys, Mafia guys. But we, they not do business, we stay separate all the time,
separate, so I am surprised, one day, Italian man come to me, say, want to make some
money? So I go have drink with him. So he say to me—”

“Just a second, Mr. Lie—this man, what was his
name?”

“Ah, name Scarpi. Gino Scarpi. So he say, you want to work for us
distribute product in Chinatown? This surprise me, because, ah, most times Chinese
man is selling product to Italian. Bulk shipping.”

“This is drugs you're referring to?”

“Yes, drugs. So I say to him, okay. I don't tell big
brother in tong, I figure, work for myself, you know? And we do business, Asian
heroin, very pure. This is for year, year and a half, all going good, no problem.
Then one month ago, something like that, Scarpi say to me, Willie, you know where I
can get shooter, I have job for shooter. So, you know, I must laugh because, I say
to him, why you need me, huh? You
Mob
! You don't
have shooters? He say, yeah, we got, but can't use them, he don't say
why not. Hundred thousand dollar, he say, you pay shooter. So, I say know guys, I
give them a call, but no more, I don't set it up, he must set it up. Scarpi.
He don't like that. He say, I pay you money, you do job. I say no thanks, I
say, what you think, this Chinese restaurant?”

To Karp's surprise Lie giggled then. “You understand? I
not crazy man, I
gangster
, but
Chinese
gangster, not want shoot some Italian, get killed that way. So I
go away. Two day later, at night, car comes, two men tell me, get in. So I go. Take
me to apartment house, go up back way. Fancy apartment. There is Scarpi, there is
another man, they say, this Joe Pigetti, big boss, I never meet him before. Pigetti
say, once we ask you nice, now we don't ask, we
tell
you, you get shooter, you take out Eddie Catalano. So what could I
do, I say, yes, boss. Then he say got to happen a special night, a special time,
nine of June, around three in morning. This two days later now. So I say, yes, boss.
So two days, I get boys for this, tell them it must be so, it must be this way.
Don't use my own boys, get Viet boy, I know this shooter, he kill like it
nothing, crush of fly, also another boy to help him. So they do it. Scarpi give me
envelope, I give to them, I don't touch, don't count. Don't
want it. They take it, I don't get no complaint. That's all.”
He looked blankly out at them, as if he had just told a joke without a punch
line.

“Mr. Lie,” said Karp, “how come you're here?
I mean, why did you call a lawyer and come in here with this story?”

“Is not story, is true!”

“Yes, of course, but what was the reason that
made
you want to tell this true story to me?”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I scared they try to kill me, you know shut me
up. So I tell, ah, Mr. Fogel this story, maybe I get some, what you call, witness
protection.” He looked over at Fogel, whose smooth face was professionally
neutral, with perhaps a hint of discomfort around the eyes.

“That's an interesting story, Mr. Lie. Would you be able
to provide corroboration?”

Fogel said, “Mr. Lie, what he means is he needs something to back
up your story, some other witness, some—”

A look of what seemed like impatience seemed to flash from Lie to the
lawyer, and he said, “I know what is corroboration. Yes, I have this. I have
boys who did job, names, places you find them, and, have gun they used. They use,
they give it to me to get rid of, but I don't do it. So, yes. But I must have
immunity. Transactional immunity.”

Karp shot an inquiring glance at Fogel, but the man seemed bemused by
his client's statement.

“Well, Mr. Lie,” said Karp, “as your lawyer may
have informed you, all witnesses before New York state grand juries receive
automatic transactional immunity. That is, a witness is immune from prosecution
connected to any transaction arising from anything covered in his testimony, a very
broad immunity.”

“Yes, is what I want,” said Lie.

“Right, I understand that, Mr. Lie. But here's my problem.
I don't know you, I don't know who you are or what you've done.
Until you've made a formal statement and provided us with the means to
corroborate it, I can't actually guarantee you anything.”

Lie shook his head. “Is not good, not for me. Look, I admit I am
gangster, I admit I sell drugs, I set up murder. When you have this all signed, you
can say, Mr. Lie, you talk, you testify or you go to jail.”

Karp pushed his chair back and said, “Bill, I'm going to
step outside for a few minutes, and in that time I'd like you to explain to
your client how a proffer works and how we're really not interested in
pulling any fast ones on him.” He stood up. “While I'm out,
would anyone like a soft drink? We have Coke and Diet Coke and Sprite, I
think.” Fogel declined; Lie asked for a Coke.

Karp went into the outer office and used the phone to call the desk man
at the D.A. squad, the small group of police officers assigned permanently to the
district attorney's office for various cop-type chores, and said,
“Mel, get on to CATCH and find out if there's a record on a mutt named
Willie Lie, el-eye, or el-eye-ee, Asian male, age about thirty, five-five, around
one-forty. Also, get a couple of the guys posted outside the courthouse. The
mutt's in my office now, and when he leaves I want him followed. He's
wearing a white shirt, dark pants, loafers. And tell Captain Fulton to call me as
soon as he can. I may need full surveillance on this character. Got
that?”

The officer said he had. “Is that it?”

“No, send a CSU tech up here in about fifteen. I'll have
something for him.”

Karp hung up and went to the coffee room behind the secretary's
office and, after killing five minutes with a newspaper he found in the trash can,
he took a couple of Cokes from the refrigerator, wrapped them both in paper napkins,
and went back into his office.

“Any progress?” Karp asked, handing a can to Lie, who
picked it up, popped it, and took a swig. It was clear to Karp that lawyer and
client were at odds. Lie had a cast to his face that made him look a lot less like a
Chinese waiter and a lot more like what he said he was. Fogel looked confused and
out of his depth, no surprise there.

“Butch, I'm afraid we're at something of an
impasse. Mr. Lie is not willing to proffer more than a version of what he has
already related unless he is guaranteed protection and full transactional
immunity.”

“Well, then, Bill, I'm afraid I can't deal. No
offense intended to your client, but somebody could walk in off the street, say he
just shot the mayor and say that your grandmother set up the hit, and ask me to let
him skate on it in return for his testimony against granny.”

“That's not a relevant analogy, Butch,” Fogel
objected. “Mr. Lie had a very minor role in the Catalano killing. He's
giving you a major organized-crime figure.”

“He's giving me nothing but smoke, Bill. I need the
shooters, the weapon, and a detailed account of how it was ordered, paid for, and
carried out. With that, and after due investigation to see if the story checks out,
I would be glad to place your client before the grand jury with the routine
transactional immunity. Alternatively, I can offer him use immunity on his
testimony, and offer him protection as a material witness. But other than that . .
.” He opened his hands palm up, the gesture of helplessness.

Lie placed his Coke back on the table and rose. “Now this over.
Now we go to see United States attorney.” He waited to see what effect this
would have on Karp, and Karp was surprised that a Chinese gangster, a relative
newcomer, had grasped the fact of rivalry between two prosecutorial organizations
enough to expect that there might be such an effect. He did not think a malpractice
lawyer like Fogel had the balls to play that high-stakes game. There was more to Mr.
Lie than was first apparent, it seemed, and it seemed to Karp that he, rather than
Fogel, was calling the shots.

Karp smiled and gestured in the direction of the federal building, and
they left. Shortly thereafter, the crime-scene-unit tech, a small, dark man in
civilian clothes, came in and took away Mr. Lie's Coke can, carefully
ensconced in a plastic bag. Then it was time for Karp's four-thirty meeting
with the administrative judge's staff, and when that was done he fielded some
phone calls, and did not break free until nearly six.

There was a message waiting from the D.A. squad desk man. Karp called
him back and received the news that Willie Lie had no criminal record, no
driver's license, no Social Security number.

“This guy an illegal?” the man asked.

“He says. I got the lab guys working on pulling some prints he
left here.”

“That could help if he has a sheet in another state and the
locals bothered forwarding them to the NCIS. Meanwhile, you got a
nobody.”

Not a nobody, Karp thought. A somebody, and a dangerous one at that. For
in the last moment of the meeting, when Bill Fogel had gone out the door, Karp had
used his splendid peripheral vision to observe Mr. Lie pause on the threshold and
shoot back at him a look full of assessing intelligence, guile, and impersonal
hatred.

Chapter 9

AFTER CHINESE SCHOOL LUCY USUALLY went to get something to eat with Janice and a group of friends, but today she had promised to go up to the lab and have lunch with Ronnie Chau before going to the lab. Chau had invited her several times in the past weeks, when Lucy had been too depressed to go, but the new Lucy had made a cheery call from a pagoda-tipped phone booth after class and set it up.

She boarded an uptown Broadway train at Canal, found a corner seat in the first car, and reached into her bag for a copy of
Sing Tao Jih Pao
, the Chinese newspaper. It amused her to observe the reactions of the passengers to a white girl reading it. But as she reached into the bag, her hand touched an unfamiliar object, and she drew out, wonderingly, Tran's copy of
The Tale of Kieu
.

Her eyes stung and she had to take several deep breaths of ozone-rich subway air before her emotions were back under control. She inspected the book closely. It was stained on the edges and endpapers with water and earth, and on the leather of the back cover there was a large dark brown blot of what was surely blood. She stared at it, jogging on her lap in the train's motion, a holy thing, she thought, a relic of romance, of war, of horror, of courage, of desperate flight, and she felt honored beyond endurance that Tran had slipped it (she could not imagine how) in with her possessions.

She turned past the title page, her fingers caressing the blurred memento of the dead wife, and began to read. It was slow going, for the orthography of Vietnamese is complex and the language was poetic and refined and, in the fashion of classical Asian poetry, the poet made use of compressed references that would be familiar to any Vietnamese, whose meaning she had to guess at. The train was rushing out of 72nd Street before she had the first verse clear.

A century. In a span that long of life on earth

Talent and destiny will often war,

Sea becomes mulberry field and returns to sea

And you must watch things that sicken the heart.

Yet, is it so strange that loss and gain balance, although

Blue Heaven, in spite, strikes down the rosy-cheeked girl?

She shuddered with pleasure as the meaning revealed itself, and attacked the next verse at once. She was so absorbed in this difficult work that she forgot where she was. She did not notice the gradual emptying of the car as the train moved farther north on its route, nor did she notice the three young oriental men in black clothes and sunglasses sitting together at the car's other end, did not even notice when the train stopped at and departed from 168th Street. Three minutes too late, in the irrational spasm well known to subway riders, she yelped and leaped to her feet, hurriedly stuffing the book back into her shoulder bag, and went and stood swinging from a strap in front of the door, cursing silently to herself and watching the columns whiz by in the dark.

Lucy exited at 181st Street and made for the crossover to get back on the southbound line, and that was when she noticed the three oriental youths for the first time. They had followed her off the train. A pulse of fear, a flush of embarrassment: How could she have been so stupid . . . !

She kept walking, searching for people, but the crossover and the adjoining stairways were deserted. One of the youths moved past her, to the stairs that led to the southbound platform, and turned, grinning up at her. The other two closed in from behind. Lucy bolted down the stairs, faked past the guy below, and dashed toward the stairs to the platform. With relief she saw that there were a half dozen people waiting for the southbound Broadway express.

Then she was falling, jerked off her feet by a hand gripping her shoulder bag. She landed painfully on her hands and knees, rolled down three steps, and staggered to her feet. She saw the backs of the three men retreating, heard their running footsteps echoing off the tile walls. Her heart jerked as she realized they had taken the bag with Tran's book inside it. Without further thought she raced after them.

On the street, out in the sunlight, she looked around wildly, spotted the three of them crossing Broadway, and headed toward them. She had no idea how she was going to get the bag away from three men. If there was anything at all rational lurking under the stew of fear and rage that occupied her mind, it was the belief that, having taken the few dollars she had in there, they would toss the bag in the gutter and she would get the book back. She was not going to leave without Tran's
Tale of Kieu
.

The youths were about twenty yards ahead of her, laughing and tossing the bag back and forth. Every so often one of them would glance over his shoulder to see if she was still following. This should have tipped her off that something was up, but her usual instincts were in suspension. All she could think about was the book, and losing it, and what it would mean.

They went east on 182nd Street, Lucy following. They hadn't looked in the bag yet. Vaguely she wondered why. They should rifle the bag, take the cash, and dump it. She prayed for a cop car to come along. It was not the sort of neighborhood where a little white girl could ask a stranger to go up against three Asian toughs over a grungy-looking canvas bag.

They stopped and conferred, the three dark heads close together, and then they headed for an abandoned building, a sooty former tenement with weathered plywood over its doors and windows. One of them found a way in, clearly much used from the evidence of the trash and crack vials scattered around it, and the three of them disappeared inside. Hopelessly, Lucy followed them in, as if drawn by an unbreakable wire. Her sneakers crunched thin glass, she ducked under a plank, entered darkness, and immediately, as she had half expected, was grabbed in a bear hug from behind, with the hand of her captor jammed across her mouth. The man holding her said nothing as he hustled her along the ruined corridor. She didn't bother to struggle, but went dead in his arms, making him carry her weight. He was a slightly built but muscular man, smelling of acrid sweat, a lilac hair oil, and, strongest of all, a smell she knew very well. It was
nuoc mam
, a pungent sauce made from fermented fish, and it told her that she had been captured by Vietnamese.

“Why does this make me want to grumble?” said the district attorney. It was the morning after Karp's interview with Fogel, and Karp was in the D.A.'s office, filling him in on the abortive negotiation.

“Because you want it to have been a break for us, and it may
be
a break, but not in the form it was offered. Lie thinks he's being smart. Okay, he
is
smart, the little fucker. You know what they say, Jack, we only think criminals are stupid because we never meet the smart ones. Here's a mutt who's been selling dope and doing all kinds of evil for four or so years, and he's got no sheet at all. If I took his bait, we could've found ourselves committing to look the other way on God knows what kind of mass destruction.”

“Somehow I doubt Tommy Colombo is going to have those kind of scruples,” said Keegan sourly. His immaculate cigar drooped below a lower lip petulantly protruding.

“I agree, and that's the difference between a cheap grandstander like Tommy Colombo and us. What's the matter, Jack? You don't look happy.”

“I'm struggling to keep my joy under control. You know we're going to get raped in the press on this. Colombo's going to have a field day.”

“True, but meanwhile it's over three years to the next election. Let him have his thrill. Meanwhile, we still have our ace in the hole.”

“Which is what?”

“Murder,” said Karp. “The feds can't offer immunity against a crime that's not on their books. So sooner or later we'll have our crack at Mr. Lie and whoever really did Eddie Cat. Even assuming that's not saying the same thing.”

“You think Lie was more involved than he's letting on?”

“It wouldn't knock me off my chair. Priority one is finding out more about this guy. Especially where he was on the night of, although I'd lay money he's alibied to the hairline.”

Keegan considered for a moment, then nodded, and placed his cigar on his desk. “Okay, go do it, and keep me informed. And fill in Roland, too. He's going to be even more delighted than I am.”

“He'll get over it,” said Karp.

“Oh, yeah. Especially since he's going to have to field the press questions, him or you, buddy, because this is one I'm happy to delegate to my loyal staff. What about the Colombo front?”

“Oh, I think he'll give Mr. Lie a big, sloppy kiss. He'll buy whatever he has to say and put him in front of the federal grand jury and use his testimony to indict Pigetti under any number of federal statutes. Conspiracy, interfering with a federal prosecution, witness intimidation, depriving Mr. Catalano of his civil rights. There's a grab bag for him there.”

“And what does Lie get out of all this?”

“Oh, he'll get federal immunity, of course, but what he mainly wants out of the feds is the witness-protection program. Mr. Lie is what they used to call a shadowy figure, Jack. He tried to set it up with us so that he'd start with a clean slate regarding any state crimes he's committed. I wouldn't roll on that, so he's dropped back to his second choice. I have the feeling that he wants to fade away entirely about now, and Colombo is going to help him.”

“And we're going to stop him, I hope you're going to say.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Karp. “If we can.”

[NYT 12 JUN 60]

Gangland Lawyer in Suicide Leap from Empire State

By Joseph P. Huntington

Police sources revealed today that the man who threw himself from the observation deck of the Empire State Building at 9:30 yesterday morning was Gerald S. Fein, of Brooklyn, a disbarred criminal lawyer well known for his defense of reputed organized-crime figures. According to police, Mr. Fein left his home at 1320 Avenue M in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn at the usual time, about eight o'clock, and arrived at his parking garage at 8:45. He then walked to the Empire State Building, where his law firm, Kusher, Fein and Panofsky, had offices on the fifty-seventh floor. Witnesses, including Dennis Horgan, 32, a ticket taker at the Empire State's observation deck, stated that Mr. Fein entered the deck at about nine, purchased a ticket, and strolled around the deck for a few minutes. The deck was relatively empty at that time of day, Mr. Horgan recalled, and Mr. Fein did not seem to be particularly distraught. Some minutes later, in a manner still under investigation by police, Mr. Fein made his way past a normally locked door to a service area, and then through another door to the parapet above the observation windows, where he threw himself off. He landed in the roadway of Fifth Avenue, ten yards from its intersection with 34th Street, causing several minor traffic accidents. No injuries were reported.

Because of Mr. Fein's ties to reputed organized-crime figures, a police investigation has been authorized under the command of Detective Lieutenant Arnold D. Mulhausen of the 14th Precinct, but at present the police have no evidence of any foul play. Mr. Fein's family remains in seclusion and was unavailable for comment, but Mr. Herschel Panofsky, Mr. Fein's law partner, was reported as saying that Mr. Fein had been despondent in recent weeks after losing his appeal against the New York Bar Association's decision on April 18, 1959, revoking his license to practice law. Mr. Fein was convicted of jury tampering in the trial of alleged racketeer Salvatore Bollano for the murder of an associate, John Gravellotti. Mr. Fein had won an acquittal for Mr. Bollano in that case, but his victory was immediately marred by accusations that several jurors had received bribes. In the jury-tampering case against him, Mr. Fein had accepted a plea bargain, resulting in a fine and a suspended sentence. Mr. Panofsky said, “Jerry expected a censure from the Bar Association, but not the loss of his livelihood. He just couldn't handle it. The law was his whole life.”

See obituary on Page A30

Marlene declined to read another obituary just now, although she thought the one in the
Times
would be the most complete. There had been seven daily newspapers in New York when Jumping Jerry had gone off that parapet, and each had given the suicide a big play. Marlene's secretary and factotum, Sym McCabe, had been set to gathering Xeroxes of these reports for the past week or so, and doing other research tasks. The young woman sat across the cluttered table from her, poring over phone books, trying to locate various people who might be useful to the investigation. Sym was a small tan woman of twenty-odd, with large, suspicious eyes and an intense, hungry look, like an osprey nestling. She was another of Marlene's brands from the burning: taken in at seventeen, illiterate, addicted, and carrying an unspeakable family and sexual history, taught, encouraged, nurtured, and converted into a useful citizen with a GED and twenty credits already at Manhattan Community College. This was the first time Marlene had sent her out to do research. Sym had found that while scoring facts was not as easy as scoring dope, many of the same skills were required.

“I got six John J. Dohertys in the five boroughs,” she said. “You want me to look on the Island, too?”

“No, call those first, maybe we'll get lucky.”

Sym went into the front room to call, and Marlene shoveled through the piles of folders and clipped copies on the table, looking for a place to start spending Vivian Fein's money in a useful way. There was plenty of it. Two days before, Marlene had walked out of a cubbyhole in the diamond center on 47th Street, minus Vivian's gaudy ring, and holding a certified check for $108,750, after which, armed with a power of attorney from Ms. Fein (or Mrs. Bollano, as she would have been called in certain circles), she had opened a checking account for the woman, plus an escrow account upon which Osborne Group Security, Inc., was entitled to draw for the purposes of conducting an investigation into the death of Gerald Fein.