"Oh, no offense, Karp," she said. "If I took umbrage at everything said to me during drunken bouts, I wouldn't have any friends left."
"Assuming you had any at the onset of the bout," observed Murrow in a not quite inaudible voice.
"Murrow, what is it with these little digs?" she said, fixing him with her eye. "Would you like a blow job? Would that calm you down? Excuse me, Karp, this will just take a second." She slid off her chair and stumped across the office on her knees for a few feet, with her mouth open, making vacuumlike sounds, and saying, "You know, some of these little skinny guys have the most enormous schlongs. I hope I don't crack my jaw. I hate when that happens."
"I'm sorry," said Murrow, "I have to have my special rubber underwear or it doesn't work."
When they had stopped giggling and Stupenagel was back in her chair, she said, "What were we talking about before Murrow got carried away by his disgusting lusts? Something important…"
"Whither modern jurisprudence?" suggested Karp. "Very important."
"Indeed it is. Well, whither? The age of Keegan is about to end. Now begins the age of…"
"Please! I don't want to hear it. It's funny, I've just been thinking about the last time I got drunk in this office. Not this office, one of the big bays down on six. We were having a party, and everyone was pretty well oiled, and some of the guys got weapons out of the evidence lockers and they were playing grab-ass cops and robbers, like a bunch of kids. They had some porno films, too. This was when porn was illegal, Murrow, way before your time."
"What, no tits and ass on demand, twenty-four seven?"
"No, Murrow, back then, in order to see it legal you had to go on a date. You had to wear a jacket and tie and buy flowers and beg and tell lies. Anyway, we watched porn films, and got even more fucked up, bras hanging from the light fixtures… And Garrahy found out about it, and hauled all of us up to his office, standing in rows like prisoners in a roll call, and he just reamed us all new ass-holes. I never heard anything like it, before or since. Because he thought that the DA was like a church and what we did was sacred, and screwing around with it like we did was like blasphemy. He always said, whatever you do on the job, imagine how you'd feel if it got printed on the front page of the Times. He believed that and he lived it. And the people like me who came up under that regime never forgot it. We didn't always live up to it, but when we did something slimy we had the grace to feel bad about it. The sad thing was that when he was reaming us out, we could see how old and weak he'd become: he had to stop and catch his breath between excoriations. Ray Guma said it was the last scoop of ice cream in the carton, that speech. It was close to the end of his term, and everyone figured he was going to hang it up, hoist the jersey up to the rafters, and go out with the cheering. Keegan was head of homicide then, and all ready to step into the shoes."
"But he didn't, as I recall," said the reporter. "Garrahy ran again."
"Yeah, he did. I went up to see him one afternoon. I'd done something that deserved a compliment, I forget what it was. And he started talking about leaving, about how it was time for him to go. What do you think, Karp? He asked me, a pissant kid. So I said, 'Oh, no, Mr. Garrahy, no, everyone wants you to stay. Everyone will come out and work on your campaign, all the staff.' So, instead of retiring he ran again. I managed the campaign, as a matter of fact. Not that the issue was in any doubt. He got another term, and a couple of months later he was dead. The governor appointed a piece of shit to replace him. Sanford Bloom, an actual felon. I don't think Jack Keegan has ever really forgiven me for that."
The radiator now let out a groan that stopped conversation. It sounded as if something heavy and metallic were being dragged over a number of hogs.
"They must still be working down in the basement," said Karp, reaching over to touch the radiator. "Stone cold. Cold as a well digger's ass. Cold as a bail bondsman's heart."
"That's good, Karp," said the reporter. "Have you ever thought about a career in journalism?"
"Briefly, but I failed the aptitude test. You know, where they make you eat raw zebra that's been dead for a week?"
"Mm-mm!" Smacking those large lips. "Love it! So, are we going to freeze now? We could take off all our clothes and crawl under my space blanket. That always works."
"Do you actually have a space blanket?" asked Murrow.
"I do." She groped in her bag and showed a corner of the thing, red and silver. "Prepared for everything, my motto. Alternatively, Murrow, we could kill Karp and crawl inside him for the warmth, like arctic peoples do with dogs."
"Do they really do that? I thought that was just a story."
She shuddered delicately. "They really do, my boy, and I've done it. Why do you think I drag a space blanket around with me?"
Murrow stood up. "Luckily, I know where there's an electric heater. We may not have to eviscerate the chief assistant district attorney. I believe that's a misdemeanor offense."
"Oh, go ahead!" cried Karp. "I don't mind."
"Be right back," said Murrow, and left.
"Leave the door open," said Karp, too late. "What are you doing, Stupenagel?"
She had crossed the intervening space in an instant, and was settling herself on his lap. "Just getting warm. You don't want me to freeze, do you? Would you like to see a special heat-producing trick I learned in Siberia?"
"No."
"How about a plain vanilla, repressed Jewish lawyer little kissee, then?" She grabbed his head and suited the action to the offer. Her mouth tasted faintly of lemons under the various alcohols, quite pleasant, Karp thought, and also thought that if you were a man, and a woman sat on your lap and ran her unusually long and muscular tongue down your throat you could not, no matter how uxorious you felt, scream like a Victorian virgin and slap her face.
She came up for air at last. "There! Wasn't that nice?"
"Yes. Now could you get off me?"
"What is your problem, Karp? We're a couple of grown-ups having grown-up fun, a few scant moments of delight snatched from the general shit pie of life. Don't you think Marlene does it as much as she can?"
"Does she?"
"Of course. With that hunk out there that trains her dogs. You think they play hearts all evening?"
"She's not out there. She's in town, and I expect her at any moment. With the kiddies."
"Then they can all watch." The mouth descended on him again. I must really be drunk, he thought. This must be another reason people drink, besides forgetting their problems. People drink to remove inhibitions, so they can have pleasures they ordinarily forbid themselves. Was he having pleasures? To an extent. This was pleasurable but also slightly sickening, like eating a quart of rocky road ice cream at one sitting.
They heard footfalls and a clanking scrape, as if someone was maneuvering a large appliance through the narrow dogleg corridor outside Karp's office. Stupenagel immediately began to bounce up and down on Karp's lap, making the chair's springs squeal, and at the same time crying in falsetto, "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, do it, give it to me, oh, that's so good. Ooooh!"
Karp shot to his feet, dumping the reporter onto the floor and knocking the judge's chair over backward. He staggered, became entangled in the legs of the chair, and went down, too. The reporter was hooting laughter as Murrow peeked in, clutching to his bosom a large electric baseboard heater.
"Did I interrupt something?"
"No," said Karp, struggling to stand. There was something wrong with the message center that normally controlled his legs.
"No, we were just finishing up," said Stupenagel. "It was one of the greatest experiences of my life. I feel like a real woman now."
"Oh, shut the fuck up, Stupe!" said Karp, finally upright.
"I could leave," said Murrow. "Just let me find an outlet for this and I'll be gone."
"Take her with you," said Karp as he picked up his chair.
"No, I want more, more, more," said Stupenagel. "You promised!"
"Gosh, boss, this is just like those l
awyer TV shows, where they're always grabbing each other after court. I'll just plug this in- here- and you can have your privacy back."
"Oh, for crying out loud, Murrow, we're not doing anything. This woman is a maniac."
"You have the right to remain silent," Murrow intoned, as Stupenagel laughed like a maniac.
"Turn it on high," said Stupenagel to Murrow as he plugged the thing in. "I want to be covered with greasy sweat. I want my blood to boil."
The two men looked at her, then exchanged a look. "Perhaps a moderate setting," said Murrow, "just to chase the chill. And now that I've done that, why don't I go check with the state people on when this show is going to get going."
He made to leave, but Karp was up so fast that his chair vibrated on its central springs.
"I'll go," he said, almost bodychecking the smaller man on his way out. "I have to go to the…"
He was out the door. Murrow shut it and addressed the reporter. "Well, if you don't mind, I think I'll go back to my desk. I have a few things I need to catch up with and-"
"Oh, fuck that, Murrow! Sit your tiny little ass down and have some more wine. It's Friday, for Christ's sake. You have nothing that won't wait." She poured two glasses full of champagne. He was interested to see that, drunk as she was, she did not spill a drop. He took a glass and sat on the couch. She perched on the edge of Karp's desk. She raised her glass. "Dead friends."
They drank. "Have you even got any dead friends, Murrow?"
"A kid from my soccer team in middle school drowned in a boating accident."
Her snorting laugh. "Oh, perfect! That's so American, which is why I spend as little time as I can in my homeland. Let me show you something." She rummaged in her big sack of a purse, removing files, notebooks, a large jar of French Imodium tablets, an Urdu-English Dictionary with no cover, a ball of soiled tissue, a cell phone, and a thick greasy nylon passport wallet. She opened the wallet and plucked out a creased photograph.
"This was taken in the bar of the Summerland Hotel in Beirut in 1982," she said. "That gorgeous creature in the middle is me, if you can believe it. The other five people in it were all killed on the job." She pointed a finger at one grinning face after another. "Beirut, a bomb, about a week after the picture. This one, a sniper in Sarajevo, this one disappeared in Chechnya. Peru, kidnapped. Guatemala, shot at a roadblock. What do you think of that, Murrow?"
"I think it's sad. I think you need some new friends."
"Nobody wants to be my friend anymore. No, that's not true. I don't want to be their friend anymore. Do you know why? Because they all get killed."
"You need friends in safer professions."
"That's a good idea, Murrow. You could be my friend. We could get married. I could get a job on the style section. Or I could marry Karp. Tell me the truth, do you think there's any possibility that he'd dump Ciampi and go for it?"
"He seemed pretty devoted."
"Devoted. That's a great word you don't hear much anymore, except in obits. 'Devoted wife of Abraham Schnitski.' I could write obits, that might be a good way to conclude my career in journalism. Does he ever talk about her?"
"Marlene? No, he tends to keep the private life separate."
"But come on… they've been married years. I can't believe he doesn't play around a little. All these cute little lawyerettes tripping around the office, a good-looking alpha-male man, the aphrodisiac of power. Off the record, Murrow."
"Honestly, I really couldn't say."
"Oh, please, Murrow. I'll let you feel me up."
"Really, I don't know anything that would be worth that."
"Oh, fuck you. But seriously… never? No chewing face in the supply closet with what's-her-name, the little Irish?"
"No. Strange as it seems, he takes his marriage vows seriously. Many people do, you know. It's a point of honor."
"Good Christ! Honor? I've slipped into a time warp. As long as it's not just me that turns him off. I mean, you don't think it's me, do you? I'm losing it, maybe? Oh, God, my entire life ethos has been based on the idea that men are dogs: show them a damp pussy and they have all the discrimination of a cheap windup toy. Honor is not a concept I have seen much associated with the sex act. What is this, a trend? I hope not. The New Victorians. I could do a feature, if I wrote that kind of shit. How about you, Murrow? Do you keep your honor bright?"
"My honor is my loyalty," said Murrow.
She laughed. "Just as the Nazi SS used to say. And you knew that, didn't you? A man with an historical imagination; it makes me all shivery. If only you weren't such a little Murrow. Have some more champagne." She poured, her hand steady as a cliff. "Murrow, could I ask you something?"
"That's all you've been doing."
"No, really. I have to whisper it."
"Oh, go ahead." He felt her hot breath on his ear.
"Do you see that sprinkler head sticking out of the ceiling?"
Murrow looked up. The ceiling was very high, a characteristic feature of office buildings erected before the age of air-conditioning. The brass sprinkler nozzle stuck up from a dropped pipe that ran the length of the room. "What about it?"
She whispered.
"You might," he said, "but wouldn't you regret it later?"
"I never have before," she said. "It's sort of my trademark." She reached both hands up under her skirt.
***
During her long drive in, Marlene had rehearsed her speech. She thought that if they could just keep quiet and let her say it, and played along, they could all get through this pretty well. In addition to the crazy stuff, there was a lot of what Marlene still thought of as divine-intervention love in the Karp family. And it was also helpful that all its members were essentially decent people. Except for her. And she wasn't quite sure about Zak, although he was still young.
In the event the thing went off well enough. She sat stiffly in a chair in her kitchen (her former kitchen?) and spoke to the three children, who stood before her in a group. A speech from the throne. She said, "Babies, I'm barely hanging on here, and if you ask me any questions about what I'm doing, or why I'm not here, or when I'm coming back I will die. I'm not going to make up happy stories about it. It's bad and I can't disguise it. I've been a terrible liar, I thought I was being smart, that I was trying for… oh, forget that, I don't want to justify what I did. But now all we have is the truth."
She paused, forcing herself to look at their faces, Lucy's patient, Zak's closed and hurt, Giancarlo intently listening, his eyes invisible behind his dark glasses, leaning slightly against his brother. She wished for a cigarette, a prop.
"The truth is that this is a big day for the man I love most in the world and if I have anything to do about it, it's going to be a good day. We are, I am, going to pack all the family garbage into plastic bags for one day and just concentrate on making it right for your father. Can we just do that?"
Giancarlo said, "But if we do that and we're all happy and like that, like we used to be, you'll start crying and you'll have to think about why you're not here with us."
"Yes, but you know, sweetheart, I think I can just suck it in enough so that won't happen. I think for once I can just be here now. It's supposed to be the route to true happiness anyway."
A brief silence and then Lucy said, "That's good, Mom. Did I tell you Dan's here?"
"No. That's great. He's lurking while we have our family conference."
"Yes, and I'm going to go back there and ease him into the flow." She kissed Marlene on the cheek and walked off.
"They're kissing all the time," said Zak. "They never stop."
***
Karp reeled into the eighth floor men's room and leaned on a sink. His face felt as though someone was holding a velvet throw cushion gently but firmly down on it. His lips and tongue seemed the size of hamburger rolls. The floor rolled slowly under his feet, which seemed farther away than they ordinarily were.
I'm drunk, he thought. Drunk as a skunk. Or a lord. He sort of enjoyed the rolli
ng-floor feeling, but not the velvet-cushion one. Despite knowing he was drunk, he felt fine, not in the least impaired, or rather not so impaired that a little extra care would not put him right. The Inner Karp, however, informed the drunk that this feeling was exactly what led people to climb into motor vehicles and drive them at full speed down the wrong side of the freeway, under the impression that they were fully in control of the situation.
The Inner Karp also took this opportunity to inquire why Karp was doing this, getting drunk just before such an important and prestigious occasion. Karp strove for an answer; he was interested, too. A phrase floated up from memory: You're wound up so tight that one day you're going to crack and when that happens, look out! His wife's voice. First or second wife? Hard to tell; they had both expatiated on the theme. Can't believe I married a man who doesn't drink. That was definitely Marlene. Days of wine and roses? The drunk drawing the partner down the drain of self-destruction. Not really. Marlene was what she called a maintenance drunk. Come to that, Jack Keegan was pretty nearly in the same class, along with half the cops and judges in New York. And a binge every twenty years was not exactly a ticket to Betty Ford. But why now?
You couldn't discount Stupenagel's presence, the woman did drive him crazy, her challenging routine, daring him to match her drinking, as if that were some kind of achievement. And also not wanting to look like a wuss in front of Murrow. And why had Murrow brought that cognac? To celebrate, obviously, and it had gotten out of hand.
Or had it? Karp splashed some water on his face and dried it on a rough paper towel. Karp did not let things get out of hand, not consciously anyway, and only where his wife was concerned. Marlene was perpetually out of hand. So… he wanted to get drunk? The room swam, the white walls wavered like the reflection in a swimming pool. Karp fought off a wave of nausea. No, there was a purpose here, the need for some greater access to the reptilian brain. Down there must lie the answer to… what? What was the question? Why he felt this way. He had won, triumphed over everything, it had been a great year and the next would be even better. Why then did he feel like everyone knew a secret that he didn't know? He gets to be prom queen but it's all a big practical joke, a pig date on a metropolitan scale.
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