Robert Tanenbaum - No Lesser Plea

She got to her feet, her eyes widening in terror.

“No! Don! I got my programs comin’!”

Dunbar put up his gun and eased the hammer down. “OK, what about the envelope?”

“Yeah, he got one-it look the same, but it be real fat, thick like.”

“Was there an address on it? Can you remember the address?”

“No, but, like, Pres, he tol me to write one on it, on account of I got real good handwritin’. The teacher, she be sayin’ I could be a schoolteacher, I got such fine writin’. But I had to quit school, you know?”

“Right,” said Dunbar, moving closer to her and trying to control his voice. “Now, Vera, can you remember the name and address you wrote on the envelope?”

“I don know. I copy it down. He done have it writ out, you know?”

“Try, Vera.”

“It somethin’ like Carl, the las name. And some street like Senn, San, somethin like that. It start with a C.”

“Senn? Was it Centre Street, One hundred Centre Street?”

“Yeah, that it. I think.”

I’m so stupid, I should turn in my potsy and be a fucking doorman, thought Dunbar.

“Vera, baby, tell me. The name was Karp, Roger Karp, right?”

She smiled for the first time. “Yeah! Thas right! Karp.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“They cut it off,” she said. “Hey, I don be in no trouble jus for writin’? I din do nothin’.”

But Dunbar was already gone.

Marlene Ciampi was looking for an excuse to see Karp again, and make up. At the same time she despised herself for wanting to. I can’t believe it, she thought for the millionth time. I’m having an affair with a married man, who works where I work. It was so degrading-like the secretary screwing the boss, like a public convenience or one of his perquisites. Here’s your big office, Mr. Karp, your special couch, your walnut bookcases, your leather judge’s chair. Oh, yeah, you want some pussy? Ciampi, put down that case file and drop your pants.

Then again, she felt, she feared, she was truly in love. She could feel herself flush when he came near her. Her belly gave a jump even when she saw his name written. When she awakened in her own apartment, she felt empty, and it took all her self-restraint not to rush to the phone and call him.

And she couldn’t tell anyone about it. Most of her friends from high school were married and had settled suburban lives. They’d think she was a freak. Her family? Mama, I’m fucking this married man. No, he’s not Italian. He’s not Catholic, either. Instant coronary. Her professional friends? Out of the question. That’s all she needed, this story to get around the office.

She rubbed her face and tried to shake these thoughts out of her head. To work. Maybe he’d call. She turned to her brimming in-basket. Sorting through the papers, she noticed that they were still sending her Karp’s mail.

Karp was in his outer office talking with some of his staff when the call came through.

“Mister Karp, there’s a call for you-they say it’s extremely urgent,” said Helen Simms.

“OK, guys, back to work. The city never sleeps. It’s probably the laundry calling, they put in extra starch by mistake.”

The voice on the phone was scratchy and interrupted by bursts of static.

“Butch, it’s me, Sonny. Listen, I found Pres.”

“What, who? Speak up, Sonny, I can hardly hear you.”

“Pres. The third man. His name’s Preston Elvis, and he SKRRRCHHHH, the paper that Louis worked for.”

“You got him? Is he in custody?”

“No! Look, I’m on the Deegan, they patched me through over the radio. Butch, he’s got SKRCHHHWOOOOWRR in an envelope. He’s tied in with that guy, the terrorist. Butch, I think he’s heading for you SSSSCHHHRRWOWR already called the bomb squad, they should be there any minute. So don’t WOORRSCHH.”

“Jesus, Sonny, what the fuck are you talking about. What’s this about the bomb squad. I can’t hear shit on this line.”

“The third man, Butch. Louis set him up with a bomb. Don’t touch any CCCHHWWOOOOWRRCHH.”

“Any what? What?”

“Any mail! It’s a letter bomb. The bomb’s in a nine by twelve manila envelope, with an out-of-town postmark. You better get your office cleared out, too. Butch, are you there? Butch? Ah, shit!”

As soon as Dunbar said “letter bomb,” of course, Karp had thrown down the phone and leaped for the door. He ran to his secretary and told her not to touch any mail. Then, with mounting horror, it came to him that he had still not told the mailroom that he had moved his office. His heart was pounding in his throat as he ran out of the office and toward the stairs to the sixth floor.

Marlene had three pieces of Karp’s mail lined up on her desk. One was an American Express bill. One was a letter from the University of California Alumni Association. The third one was the item that held her interest, a thick manila envelope with a Berkeley postmark, addressed in a flowing, patently feminine hand.

Marlene turned the envelope over and inspected it. The flap was fastened, but not sealed. She had a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. She wants him back, she thought. It’s a long letter explaining her affair with that woman and how she realized it wasn’t for her and how she’s going to come home to New York and make a great little home for him and have kids. Or maybe she’s sending back a bunch of letters he wrote to her, begging her to take him back, he’ll be her slave, he’ll move to California and sell insurance. Telling her he’s been screwing this little guinea in revenge but that’s all over, she’s the one and only. Or maybe it’s divorce papers.

“Oh, God!” said Marlene out loud, “I can’t stand this.”

She undid the clasp and pulled the flap up.

Now even in the midst of this emotional turmoil, there was a part of Marlene’s mind that remained cool and rational. It was trying to send messages through to Marlene Central, but the circuits were blocked by hormones and random emotional noise. This part of Marlene knew pretty well what she held in her hand. Marlene had, after all, seen pictures of such envelopes before. Perhaps if it had been postmarked Detroit all would have been well.

“Bomb!” said that part of Marlene, as Marlene’s hand came up on the flap. “Bomb!” it said again as Marlene felt the tiny tug of resistance and saw the fine wire glued to the flap. By then it was too late, for electrons were already flowing from the battery to the primer charge. Marlene knew what it was now, and sent an urgent message to her hand and arm to throw the thing away. Her hand came dutifully up, slowly, slowly, while her mind screamed in overdrive. The envelope left her hand, but now it was hardly an envelope any more, more like a hot flower. Marlene brought her arm up in front of her beautiful face as the fireball swallowed her.

Karp’s chest hurt. He had a broken heart. He was breathing mere pints of air, and his face ached with unshed tears. His stomach was empty and his mouth was still sour, because after he had entered the shattered office and seen the scorched and bloody thing that lay behind Marlene’s desk, he had vomited. After that, he had knelt by her side and tried to help, covering her with his jacket and mouthing meaningless words of reassurance, more for him than for her, since she was mercifully unconscious. The cops and the emergency team had arrived a few seconds later and gently moved him aside so they could tend to her.

Now he was waiting in a hallway in Bellevue, studying the cracks in the peeling green paint and trying to forget his last sight of her as they wheeled her past, the black and red Halloween mask on her face, blowing red bubbles. He shared the waiting with a crowd of assorted Ciampis, sitting in stunned silence on benches, pacing nervously, or-in the case of her mother- sobbing without letup. Karp didn’t introduce himself, nor did they make any effort to include him in their circle of grief.