Robert Tanenbaum - Resolved

"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 lawyer 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."