The Bonfire Of The Vanities Part 21

That was bulls.h.i.+t, but Kramer didn't want the discussion to get onto the Muslims and Greg's G.o.dd.a.m.ned story. So he said, "Herbert's not really a Muslim. I mean, Muslims don't go to bars."

It was slow going. Greg knew it all. He knew all about Muslims, prisons, crime, street life in the billion-footed city. He began to turn the story against Kramer. Why were they so anxious to prosecute a man who had done nothing but follow the natural instinct to protect your own life?

"But he killed killed a man, Greg!-with an unlicensed gun that he carried every day, as a routine thing." a man, Greg!-with an unlicensed gun that he carried every day, as a routine thing."

"Yeah, but look at the job he had! It's obviously a dangerous occupation. You said yourself everybody carries weapons up there."

"Look at his job? job? Okay, let's look at it. He works for a G.o.dd.a.m.ned Okay, let's look at it. He works for a G.o.dd.a.m.ned boot bootlegger!"

"Whaddaya want him to do, work for IBM?"

"You talk like that's out of the question. I bet IBM has plenty of programs for minorities, but Herbert wouldn't want one a their jobs if they gave it to him. Herbert is a player. He's a hustler who tries to cover himself with this religious mantle, and he just goes on being childish, egocentric, irresponsible, s.h.i.+ftless-"

Suddenly it dawned on Kramer that they were all looking at him in a funny way, all of them. Rhoda...Mary Lou...They were giving him the look you give someone who turns out to be a covert reactionary. He was too far gone in this criminal-justice scam...He was humming with the System's reactionary overtones...This was like one of the bull sessions the gang used to have when they were all back at N.Y.U., except that now they were in their early thirties and they were looking at him as if he had become something awful. And he knew in an instant there was no way he could explain to them what he had seen over the past six years. They wouldn't understand, least of all Greg, who was taking his triumph over Herbert 92X and stuffing it down his throat.

It was going so badly that Rhoda felt compelled to come to the rescue.

"You don't understand, Greg," she said. "You have no idea, the caseload Larry has. There are seven thousand criminal indictments every year in the Bronx, and they only have the capacity"-the kehpehsity-"for five hundred trials. There's no way they can study every aspect of every case and take all these different things into consideration."

"I can just imagine somebody trying to tell that to this fellow Herbert 92X."

Kramer looked up at the ceiling of the Haiphong Harbor. It had been painted matte black, along with all sorts of ducts, pipes, and lighting fixtures. Looked like intestines. His own wife. Her idea of coming to his defense was to say, "Larry's got so many colored people to put away, he hasn't got time to treat them as individuals. So you mustn't be hard on him." He had broken his hump on the Herbert 92X case, handled it brilliantly, looked Herbert himself right in the eye, avenged the father of five, Nestor Cabrillo-and what did he get for it? Now he had to defend himself himself against a bunch of intellectual trendies in a trendy bistro in trendy f.u.c.king SoHo. against a bunch of intellectual trendies in a trendy bistro in trendy f.u.c.king SoHo.

He scanned the table. Even Mary Lou was giving him the fishy look. The big beautiful whitebread airhead had become as trendy as the rest of them.

Well, there was one person who understood the Herbert 92X case, who understood how brilliant he had been, who understood the righteousness of the justice he had wrought, and she made Mary Lou Jugs look like...like...nothing.

For a moment he caught Mary Lou's eyes again, but the light had gone out.

11. The Words on the Floor

The Paris stock exchange, the bourse, was open for trading only two hours a day, 1 to 3 P.M. P.M., which was 7 to 9 A.M. A.M., New York time. So on Monday, Sherman arrived at the bond trading room of Pierce & Pierce at 6:30. By now it was 7:30, and he was at his desk with his telephone at his left ear and his right foot up on Felix's portable shoes.h.i.+ne stand.

The sound of young men baying for money on the bond market had already risen in the room, for the market was now an international affair. Across the way was the young lord of the pampas, Arguello, with his telephone at his right ear and his left hand over his left ear, talking to Tokyo in all probability. He had been in the office for at least twelve hours when Sherman arrived, working on a huge sale of U.S. Treasuries to the j.a.panese postal service. How this kid had ever even gotten his finger into such a deal, Sherman couldn't imagine, but there he was. The Tokyo exchange was open from 7:30 P.M. P.M. to 4 to 4 A.M. A.M., New York time. Arguello was wearing some kind of go-to-h.e.l.l suspenders with pictures of Tweety Pie, the cartoon character, on them, but that was all right. He was working, and Sherman was at peace.

Felix, the shoes.h.i.+ne man, was humped over, stropping Sherman's right shoe, a New & Lingwood half-brogue, with his high-s.h.i.+ne rag. Sherman liked the way the elevation of his foot flexed his leg and sprung it out and put pressure on the inside of his thigh. It made him feel athletic. He liked the way Felix humped over, sh.e.l.l-backed, as if enveloping the shoe with his body and soul. He could see the top of the black man's head, which was no more than twenty inches below his eye level. Felix had a perfectly round caramel-brown bald spot on the crown of his skull, which was odd, since the hair surrounding it was quite thick. Sherman liked this perfect round bald spot. Felix was dependable and droll, not young, resentful, and sharp.

Felix had a copy of The City Light The City Light on the floor beside his stand, reading it while he worked. It was open to the second page and folded over in the middle. Page 2 contained most of on the floor beside his stand, reading it while he worked. It was open to the second page and folded over in the middle. Page 2 contained most of The City Light The City Light's international news. The headline at the top said: BABY PLUNGES 200 FEET-AND LIVES BABY PLUNGES 200 FEET-AND LIVES. The dateline was Elaiochori, Greece. But that was all right. The tabloids no longer held any terrors for Sherman. Five days had now pa.s.sed and there had not been a word in any of the newspapers about some dreadful incident on an expressway ramp in the Bronx. It was just as Maria had said. They had been drawn into a fight in the jungle, and they had fought and won, and the jungle did not scream about its wounded. This morning Sherman had bought only the Times Times at the little shop on Lexington. He had actually read about the Soviets and the Sri Lankans and the internecine strife at the Federal Reserve on the taxi ride downtown, instead of turning at once to Section B, Metropolitan News. at the little shop on Lexington. He had actually read about the Soviets and the Sri Lankans and the internecine strife at the Federal Reserve on the taxi ride downtown, instead of turning at once to Section B, Metropolitan News.

After a solid week of fear, he could now concentrate on the radium-green numbers sliding across the black screens. He could concentrate on the business at hand...the Giscard...

Bernard Levy, the Frenchman he dealt with at Traders' Trust Co., was now in France doing a last bit of research on the Giscard before Trader T committed their $300 million and they closed the deal and had a print...the crumbs...Judy's contemptuous phrase slipped into his mind and right out again...crumbs...So what?...They were crumbs of gold...He concentrated on Levy's voice on the other end of the satellite carom: "So look, Sherman, here's the problem. The debt figures the government has just released have everybody on edge here. The franc is falling, and it's bound to fall further, and at the same time, as you know, gold is falling, even though it's for different reasons. The question is where the floor's going to be, and..."

Sherman just let him talk. It wasn't unusual for people to get a little squirrelly on the verge of committing a sum like $300 million. He had spoken to Bernard-he called him by his first name-almost every day for six weeks now, and he could barely remember what he looked like. My French doughnut, he thought-and immediately realized this was Rawlie Thorpe's crack, Rawlie's cynicism, sarcasm, pessimism, nihilism, which were all ways of saying Rawlie's weakness weakness, and so he banished doughnut doughnut as well as as well as crumbs crumbs from his mind. This morning he was once more on the side of strength and Destiny. He was almost ready to entertain, once again, the notion of...mastery of the universe...The baying of the young t.i.tans sounded all around him- from his mind. This morning he was once more on the side of strength and Destiny. He was almost ready to entertain, once again, the notion of...mastery of the universe...The baying of the young t.i.tans sounded all around him- "I'm sixteen, seventeen. What does he want to do?"

"Bid me twenty-five of the ten-year!"

"I want out!"

-and once more it was music. Felix was stropping the high-s.h.i.+ne rag back and forth. Sherman enjoyed the pressure of the rag on his metatarsal bones. It was a tiny ma.s.sage of the ego, when you got right down to it-this great strapping brown man with the bald spot in his crown down there at his feet, stropping, oblivious of the levers with which Sherman could move another nation, another continent, merely by bouncing a few words off a satellite.

"The franc is no problem," he said to Bernard. "We can hedge that to next January or to term or both."

He felt Felix tapping the bottom of his right shoe. He lifted his foot off the stand, and Felix picked it up and moved it around to the other side of his chair, and Sherman hoisted his mighty athletic left leg and put his left shoe on the metal shoes.h.i.+ne stirrup. Felix turned the newspaper over and folded it down the middle and put it on the floor beside the stand and began to work on the left New & Lingwood half-brogue.

"Yes, but you have to pay for a hedge," said Bernard, "and we've been talking all along about operating under very blue skies, and..."

Sherman tried to imagine his doughnut, Bernard, sitting in an office in one of those d.i.n.ky modern buildings the French build, with hundreds of tiny cars buzzing by and tooting their toy horns on the street down below...below...and his eye happened to drift down to the newspaper on the floor below...

The hair on his arms stood on end. At the top of the page, the third page of The City Light The City Light, was a headline saying: Honor Student's Mom: Cops Sit On Hit'N'Run Above it in smaller white letters on a black bar it said: While he lies near death While he lies near death. Below was another black bar saying, A A CITY LIGHT CITY LIGHT Exclusive Exclusive. And below that: By Peter Fallow By Peter Fallow. And below that, set into a column of type, was a picture, head and shoulders, of a smiling black youth, neatly dressed in a dark jacket, a white s.h.i.+rt, and a striped necktie. His slender delicate face was smiling.

"I think the only sensible thing is to find out where this thing bottoms out," said Bernard.

"Well...I think you're exaggerating the, uh...the, uh..." That face! That face! "...the, uh..." "...the, uh..." That slender delicate face, now with a s.h.i.+rt and tie! A young gentleman! That slender delicate face, now with a s.h.i.+rt and tie! A young gentleman! "...the, uh, problem." "...the, uh, problem."

"I hope so," said Bernard. "But either way, it won't hurt to wait."

"Wait?" Yo! You need any help! Yo! You need any help! That frightened delicate face! That frightened delicate face! A good person! A good person! Did Bernard say "Wait"? "I don't get it, Bernard. Everything's in Did Bernard say "Wait"? "I don't get it, Bernard. Everything's in place! place!" He hadn't meant to sound so emphatic, so urgent, but his eyes were fastened on the words lying on the floor below.

Fighting back tears, a Bronx widow told The City Light The City Light yesterday how her honor-student son was run down by a speeding luxury sedan-and accused police and the Bronx District Attorney's Office of sitting on the case. yesterday how her honor-student son was run down by a speeding luxury sedan-and accused police and the Bronx District Attorney's Office of sitting on the case.Mrs. Annie Lamb, a clerk at the city Marriage Bureau, said her son, Henry, 18, due to graduate with honors from Colonel Jacob Ruppert High School next week, gave her part of the license number of the car-a Mercedes-Benz-before he slipped into a coma."But the man from the District Attorney's Office called the information useless," she said, on the grounds that the victim himself was the only known witness.Doctors at Lincoln Hospital termed the coma "probably irreversible" and said Lamb's condition was "grave."Lamb and his mother live in Edgar Allan Poe Towers, a Bronx housing project. Described by neighbors and teachers as "an exemplary young man," he was slated to enter college in the fall.The teacher of Lamb's advanced literature and composition cla.s.s at Ruppert, Zane J. Rifkind, told The City Light The City Light: "This is a tragic situation. Henry is among that remarkable fraction of students who are able to overcome the many obstacles that life in the South Bronx places in their paths and concentrate on their studies and their potential and their futures. One can only wonder what he might have achieved in college."Mrs. Lamb said her son had left their apartment early last Tuesday evening, apparently to buy food. While crossing Bruckner Boulevard, she said, he was struck by a Mercedes-Benz carrying a man and a woman, both white. The car did not stop. The neighborhood is predominantly black and Hispanic.Lamb managed to make his way to the hospital, where he was treated for a broken wrist and released. The next morning he complained of a severe headache and dizziness. He fell unconscious in the emergency room. It was determined that he had suffered a subdural concussion.Milton Lubell, spokesman for Bronx District Attorney Abe Weiss, said detectives and an a.s.sistant district attorney had interviewed Mrs. Lamb and that "an investigation is underway," but that 2,500 Mercedes-Benzes are registered in New York State with license plates beginning with R, the letter provided by Mrs. Lamb. She said her son thought the second letter was E, F, B, P, or R. "Even a.s.suming one of those is the second letter," said Lubell, "we're talking about almost 500 cars- RF-Mercedes-Benz-the data on the pages of a million newspapers-went through Sherman's solar plexus like a tremendous vibration. His license plate began: RFH. With a horrifying hunger for the news of his own doom, he read on: -and we have no description of a driver and no witnesses and That was as much as he could read. Felix had folded the newspaper at that point. The rest was on the lower half of the page. His brain was on fire. He was dying to reach down and turn the newspaper over-and dying never to have to know what it would reveal. Meantime, the voice of Bernard Levy droned on from across the ocean, bouncing off an AT&T communications satellite.

"...talking ninety-six, if that's what you mean by 'in place.' But that's beginning to look rather pricey, because..."

Pricey? Ninety-six? No mention of a second boy! No mention of a ramp, a barricade, an attempted robbery! No mention of a second boy! No mention of a ramp, a barricade, an attempted robbery! The price had always been set! How could he bring that up now? The price had always been set! How could he bring that up now? Could it be-not a robbery attempt, after all! Could it be-not a robbery attempt, after all! He'd paid an average of ninety-four for them. Only a two-point spread! Couldn't lower it! He'd paid an average of ninety-four for them. Only a two-point spread! Couldn't lower it! This nice-looking lad dying! My car! This nice-looking lad dying! My car! Must focus on it...the Giscard! Couldn't fail, not after all this time-and the tabloid sizzled on the floor. Must focus on it...the Giscard! Couldn't fail, not after all this time-and the tabloid sizzled on the floor.

"Bernard..." His mouth had gone dry. "Listen...Bernard..."

"Yes?"

But perhaps if he took his foot off the shoes.h.i.+ne stand- "Felix? Felix?" Felix didn't seem to hear him. The perfect caramel-brown bald spot on the crown of his head continued to go back and forth as he worked on the New & Lingwood half-brogue.

"Felix!"

"h.e.l.lo, Sherman! What did you say?" In his ear, the voice of the French doughnut, sitting on top of 300 million gold-backed bonds-in his eyes, the top of the head of a black man sitting on top of a shoes.h.i.+ne stand and engulfing his left foot.

"Excuse me, Bernard!...Just a moment...Felix?"

"You say Felix?"

"No, Bernard! I mean just a minute...Felix!"

Felix stopped working on the shoe and looked up.

"Sorry, Felix, I've got to stretch my leg a second."

The French doughnut: "h.e.l.lo, Sherman, I can't understand you!"

Sherman took his foot off the stand and made a great show of extending it, as if it felt stiff.

"Sherman, are you there?"

"Yes! Excuse me a second, Bernard."

As he hoped, Felix took this opportunity to turn The City Light The City Light over in order to read the lower half of the page. Sherman put his foot back on the stand, and Felix hunched over the shoe again, and Sherman put his head down, trying to focus on the words lying on the floor. He bent his head down so close to Felix's that the black man looked up. Sherman pulled his head back and smiled weakly. over in order to read the lower half of the page. Sherman put his foot back on the stand, and Felix hunched over the shoe again, and Sherman put his head down, trying to focus on the words lying on the floor. He bent his head down so close to Felix's that the black man looked up. Sherman pulled his head back and smiled weakly.

"Sorry!" he said.

"You say 'Sorry'?" asked the French doughnut.

"Sorry, Bernard, I was talking to someone else."

Felix shook his head reprovingly, then lowered it and went to work again.

" 'Sorry'?" repeated the French doughnut, still baffled.

"Never mind, Bernard. I was talking to someone else." Slowly Sherman lowered his head again and fixed his eyes upon the print way down below.

-no one who can tell us what happened, not even the young man himself."

"Sherman, are you there? Sherman-"

"Yes, Bernard. Sorry. Uh...tell me again what you were saying about price? Because, really, Bernard, we're all set on that. We've been all set for weeks weeks!"

"Again?"

"If you don't mind. I was interrupted here."

A big sigh, from Europe, by satellite. "I was saying that we've moved from a stable to an unstable mix here. We can no longer extrapolate from the figures we were talking about when you made your presentation..."

Sherman tried to pay attention to both things at once, but the Frenchman's words quickly became a drizzle, a drizzle by satellite, as he devoured the print visible below the skull of the shoes.h.i.+ne man: But the Rev. Reginald Bacon, chairman of the Harlem-based All People's Solidarity, called this "the same old story. Human life, if it's black human life or Hispanic human life, is not worth much to the power structure. If this had been a white honor student struck down on Park Avenue by a black driver, they wouldn't be trifling with statistics and legal obstacles."He called the hospital's failure to diagnose Lamb's concussion immediately "outrageous" and demanded an investigation.Meantime, neighbors came by Mrs. Lamb's small, neatly kept apartment in the Poe Towers to comfort her as she reflected upon this latest development in her family's tragic history."Henry's father was killed right out there six years ago," she told The City Light The City Light, pointing toward a window overlooking the project's entry. Monroe Lamb, then 36, was shot to death by a mugger one night as he returned from his job as an air-conditioning mechanic."If I lose Henry, that will be the end of me, too, and n.o.body will care about that either," she said. "The police never found out who killed my husband, and they don't even want to look for who did this to Henry."But Rev. Bacon vowed to put pressure on the authorities until something is done: "If the power structure is telling us it doesn't even matter what happens to our very best young people, the very hope of these mean streets, then it's time we had a message for the power structure: 'Your names are not engraved on tablets that came down from the mountain. There's an election coming up, and you can be replaced.' "Abe Weiss, Bronx District Attorney, faces a stiff challenge in September's Democratic primary. State a.s.semblyman Robert Santiago has the backing of Bacon, a.s.semblyman Joseph Leonard, and other black leaders, as well as the leaders.h.i.+p of the heavily Puerto Rican southern and central Bronx.

"...and so I say we let it sit for a few weeks, let the particles settle. By then we'll know where bottom is. We'll know if we're talking about realistic prices. We'll know..."

It suddenly dawned on Sherman what the frightened doughnut Frog was saying. But he couldn't wait- couldn't wait-not with this thing this thing closing in on him-had to have a print closing in on him-had to have a print-now!

"Bernard, now you listen. We can't can't wait. We've spent all this time getting everything in place. It doesn't have to sit and settle. It's wait. We've spent all this time getting everything in place. It doesn't have to sit and settle. It's settled settled. We've got to move now move now! You're raising phantom issues. We've got to pull ourselves together and do it do it! We've thrashed out all these things a long time ago! It doesn't matter matter what happens to gold and francs on a day-today basis!" what happens to gold and francs on a day-today basis!"

Even as he spoke, he recognized the fatal urgency in his voice. On Wall Street, a frantic salesman was a dead salesman. He knew that! But he couldn't hold back- "I can't very well just close my eyes, Sherman."

"n.o.body's asking you to." Thok Thok. A little tap little tap. A tall, delicate boy, an honor student! The terrible thought possessed his entire consciousness: They really were only two well-meaning boys who wanted to help... They really were only two well-meaning boys who wanted to help... Yo!...The ramp, the darkness...But what about him-the big one? No mention of a second boy at all...No mention of a ramp...It made no sense Yo!...The ramp, the darkness...But what about him-the big one? No mention of a second boy at all...No mention of a ramp...It made no sense...Only a coincidence perhaps!-another Mercedes!-R-2,500 of them- But in the Bronx on that very same evening?

The horror of the situation smothered him all over again.

"I'm sorry, but we can't do this one by Zen archery, Sherman. We're going to have to sit on the eggs for a while."

"What are you talking about? How long is 'a while,' for G.o.d's sake?" Could they conceivably check out 2,500 automobiles? Could they conceivably check out 2,500 automobiles?

"Well, next week or the week after. I'd say three weeks at the outside."

"Three weeks!"

"We have a whole series of big presentations coming up. There's nothing we can do about that."

"I can't wait three weeks, Bernard! Now look, you've let a few minor problems-h.e.l.l, they're not even problems problems. I've covered every one of those eventualities twenty G.o.dd.a.m.ned times! You've got to got to do it now! Three weeks won't help a thing!" do it now! Three weeks won't help a thing!"

On Wall Street, salesmen didn't say got to got to, either.

A pause. Then the doughnut's soft patient voice from Paris, by satellite: "Sherman. Please. For 300 million bonds n.o.body's got to got to do anything on hot flashes." do anything on hot flashes."

"Of course not, of course not. It's just that I know I've explained...I know I've...I know..."

He knew he had to talk himself down from this giddy urgent plateau as quickly as possible, become the smooth calm figure from the fiftieth floor at Pierce & Pierce that the Trader T doughnut had always known, a figure of confidence and unshakable puissance puissance, but...it was bound to be his car. No way out of it! Mercedes, RF, a white man and woman! bound to be his car. No way out of it! Mercedes, RF, a white man and woman!

The fire raged inside his skull. The black man stropped away on his shoe. The sounds of the bond trading room closed in on him like the roar of beasts: "He's seeing them at six! Your offering is five!"

"Bid out! The Feds are doing reverses!"

"Feds buying all coupons! Market subject!"

"Holy f.u.c.king s.h.i.+t! I want out!"

All was confusion in Part 62, Judge Jerome Meldnick presiding. From behind the clerk's table, Kramer gazed upon Meldnick's bewilderment with amused contempt. Up on the bench, Meldnick's large pale head resembled a Gouda cheese. It was bent over next to that of his law secretary, Jonathan Steadman. Insofar as the judges.h.i.+p of Jerome Meldnick had any usable legal background, it was lodged in the skull of Steadman. Meldnick had been executive secretary of the teachers' union, one of the largest and most solidly Democratic unions in the state, when the governor appointed him as a judge in the criminal division of the State Supreme Court in recognition of his jurisprudential potential and his decades of dog's work for the party. He had not practiced law since the days when he ran errands, shortly after pa.s.sing the bar, for his uncle, who was a lawyer who handled wills and real-estate contracts and sold t.i.tle insurance out of a two-story taxpayer on Queens Boulevard.

Irving Bietelberg, the lawyer for a felon named Willie Francisco, was on tiptoes on the other side of the bench, peering over and trying to get a word in. The defendant himself, Francisco, fat, twenty-two, wearing a wispy mustache and a red-and-white-striped sport s.h.i.+rt, was on his feet yelling at Bietelberg: "Yo! Hey! Yo!" Three court officers were positioned to the sides and rear of Willie, in case he got too excited. They would have been happy to blow his head off, since he had killed a cop without batting an eye. The cop had apprehended him when he came running out of an optician's with a pair of Porsche sungla.s.ses in his hand. Porsche sungla.s.ses were much admired in the Morrisania section of the Bronx, because they cost $250 a pair and had the name Porsche Porsche etched in white on the upper rim of the left lens. Willie had gone into the optician's with a forged Medicaid prescription for gla.s.ses and announced he wanted the Porsches. The clerk said he couldn't have them, because Medicaid wouldn't reimburse the store for gla.s.ses that cost that much. So Willie grabbed the Porsches and ran out and shot the cop. etched in white on the upper rim of the left lens. Willie had gone into the optician's with a forged Medicaid prescription for gla.s.ses and announced he wanted the Porsches. The clerk said he couldn't have them, because Medicaid wouldn't reimburse the store for gla.s.ses that cost that much. So Willie grabbed the Porsches and ran out and shot the cop.

It was a true piece a s.h.i.+t, this case, and an open-and-shut piece a s.h.i.+t, and Jimmy Caughey hadn't even had to breathe hard to win it. But then this weird thing had happened. The jury had gone out yesterday afternoon and after six hours had returned without reaching a verdict. This morning Meldnick was plowing through his calendar session when the jury sent in word they had reached a verdict. They came filing in, and the verdict was guilty. Bietelberg, just doing the usual, asked that the jury be polled. "Guilty," "Guilty," "Guilty," said one and all until the clerk got to an obese old white man, Lester McGuigan, who also said "Guilty" but then looked into the Porscheless eyes of Willie Francisco and said: "I don't feel absolutely right about it, but I guess I have to cast a vote, and that's the way I cast it."

Willie Francisco jumped up and yelled "Mistrial!" even before Bietelberg could yell it-and after that all was confusion. Meldnick wrapped his forearms around his head and summoned Steadman, and that was where things stood. Jimmy Caughey couldn't believe it. Bronx juries were notoriously unpredictable, but Caughey had figured McGuigan was one of his solid rocks. Not only was he white, he was Irish, a lifetime Bronx Irishman who would certainly know that anyone named Jimmy Caughey was a worthy young Irishman himself. But McGuigan had turned out to be an old man with time on his hands who thought too much and waxed too philosophical about things, even the likes of Willie Francisco.

Kramer was amused by Meldnick's confusion but not Jimmy Caughey's. For Jimmy he had only commiseration. Kramer was in Part 62 with a similar piece a s.h.i.+t and had similar ridiculous catastrophes to fear. Kramer was on hand to hear a motion for an evidentiary hearing from the lawyer, Gerard Scalio, in the case of Jorge and Juan Terzio, two brothers who were "a couple of real dummies." They had tried to hold up a Korean grocery store on Fordham Road but couldn't figure out which b.u.t.tons to hit on the cash register and settled for pulling two rings off the fingers of a female customer. This so angers another customer, Charlie Esposito, that he runs after them, catches up with Jorge, tackles him, pins him to the ground, and says to him, "You know something? You're a couple of real dummies." Jorge reaches inside his s.h.i.+rt, pulls out his gun, and shoots him right in the face, killing him.

A true piece a s.h.i.+t.

As the s.h.i.+tstorm grew louder and Jimmy Caughey rolled his eyes in ever more hopeless arcs, Kramer thought of a brighter future. Tonight he would meet her at last...the Girl with Brown Lipstick.

Muldowny's, that restaurant on the East Side, Third Avenue at Seventy-eighth Street...exposed brick walls, blond wood, bra.s.s, etched gla.s.s, hanging plants...aspiring actresses who waited on tables...celebrities...but informal and not very expensive, or that's what he heard...the electric burble of young people in Manhattan leading...the Life...a table for two...He's looking into the incomparable face of Miss Sh.e.l.ly Thomas...

A small timid voice told him he shouldn't do it, or not yet. The case was over, so far as the trial went, and Herbert 92X had been duly convicted, and the jury had been dismissed. So what was the harm in his meeting a juror and asking her about the nature of the deliberations in this case? Nothing...except that the sentence had not been handed down yet, so that technically the case was not over. The prudent thing would be to wait. But in the meantime Miss Sh.e.l.ly Thomas might...decompress...come down from her crime high...no longer be enthralled by the magic of the fearless young a.s.sistant district attorney with the golden tongue and the powerful sternocleidomastoid muscles...