Free Marilyn the Wild by Jerome Charyn Page A

registered to me. You do him any harm, and I’ll collar you so fast your tongue will fall off.”
    Barney glowered behind his suspenders, at Wadsworth, Isaac, and Newgate. “Isaac, take the cotton out of your ears. This is Barney Rosenblatt, remember? I’m not Manfred Coen. You won’t have a piece of wood left in your office, Isaac, if you come down on me.”
    â€œPistols, Barney, is that what you want? Come, we’ll have a shoot-out in the hall.”
    â€œIsaac, don’t be wise.” And he trudged out, the pearl handle of his Colt wobbling like a nasty stick in his pocket. Wadsworth didn’t smirk; he had no interest in Barney Rosenblatt. He could piss on the walls at Headquarters, dangle his prick in front of any commissioner. Wadsworth was immune from arrest. If the burglary squad caught him napping on a fire escape, or prowling in a shoe store after midnight, they had to let him go. He belonged to Isaac and the First Dep. Wadsworth had once been a practicing arsonist. Now he was semiretired. Not even the First Dep could rescue him if a baby died in one of his fires. So he abandoned his career as a “torch” under instructions from Isaac. He burned only vacant buildings and parking lots. “I’m sorry to cause you trouble,” he said, having to nod at Isaac around Newgate’s head.
    â€œYou’re no trouble to me, Wads. Would you like a cherry coke?”
    â€œIsaac, we don’t have time for beverages. I think I found a lollipop for you.”
    â€œWhere?” Isaac said, the hump in his neck refusing to rise with Newgate around.
    â€œAt a hospital in Corona.”
    Isaac rubbed his nose. “Corona? Why Corona?”
    â€œIsaac, who knows? My uncle Quentin works in the emergency room. A kid crawls in with broken arms and legs. But there aint a scratch on the rest of his body. My uncle’s not a dope. That’s the mark of the landlord, Amerigo Genussa.”
    â€œWhat kind of kid? White or black?” Isaac said, trying to throw off the FBI man.
    â€œIsaac, you can see for yourself.”
    Isaac rounded up his chauffeur Brodsky, Pimloe, his deputy whip, and his angel, Manfred Coen. Newgate began to whine. “Take me, Isaac. I’ll drop a portable lab right into the kid’s bed. You can tape him, fingerprint him, test his urine and his blood.”
    Isaac couldn’t deny Newgate without creating a stink: the FBI man might blab to Barney Rosenblatt. “Come,” Isaac said, “but leave your lab at home.” The FBI’s could pull fingerprints and semen stains out of the ground with their magic laboratories. But it was never the print you needed, and the semen usually came from cats and dogs.
    Brodsky telephoned for the First Dep’s sedan. He marched with Isaac, Pimloe, Newgate, and Coen to the ramp in back of Headquarters. They crossed the Manhattan Bridge, Newgate marveling at the enormity of Brooklyn, which, he believed, could swallow the whole of Maryland. Brodsky was happiest with Isaac in the car. Coen annoyed him. The chauffeur despised pretty boys. Coen was the one Isaac lent to the Bureau of Special Services when an ambassador’s wife grew restless in New York. Women stuck to Blue Eyes. He was the Department’s prime stud. Isaac could populate the city with white niggers, Puerto Rican stoolies, and beautiful woodenheaded boys.
    A dumb Maryland Cherokee like Newgate could only come alive by touching Isaac’s sleeve. Isaac taught him how to sniff. He would plant evidence in your shoe, blackmail your sister, force Coen to romance your mother or your wife, until you could do nothing but cry out your guilt. This was’ Isaac the Pure, who didn’t waste his scruples on a thief.
    They arrived at St. Bartholomew’s, a dinky hospital off Corona Avenue. The hospital couldn’t accommodate big police cars. Brodsky found a parking spot across the street. Wadsworth had no badge to show the