Robert Tanenbaum: Malice

Of course, they'd be doing that without the boss for a while. At least physically.

Karp had been ordered to stay away from the office by his physician, and he'd agreed in order for the doctor to let him out of the hospital. But he'd taken that to mean he wasn't supposed to physically go to the Criminal Courts Building.

Little by little, he'd been insinuating himself back into the running of the office. It began when he was still in the hospital and he'd call to discuss the bigger cases with Kipman or one of his other inner-circle bureau chiefs, like V. T. Newbury, the head of the bureau that investigated official corruption and malfeasance. Then he started hinting that he might "drop by" just in case someone needed a little face time or even to quietly "catch up on some paperwork."

That afternoon, Murrow could have sworn that he saw Karp standing across Centre Street. The man had been wearing a broad-brimmed hat that he'd pulled down to cover most of his face, so it was hard to say for sure, but he had the same build, and when he moved, it was with a limp.

Murrow learned that his Karp sighting was the real McCoy a couple of hours later when he got a call from a terse Marlene Ciampi. "Gilbert, this is Marlene," she said, unnecessarily giving her name, as he would have recognized her voice, and been very afraid, in any dark alley. "I'm sitting here with my husband, Butch. Now, Gilbert, I'm going to ask you a question, and I expect you to answer me honestly."

Gilbert swallowed hard. He didn't need her to say "or else" to understand that this was an "or else" situation. The boss's wife had a temper straight from her ancestral home of Sicily and he wanted no part of it. "Yes, Marlene," he answered meekly.

"Gilbert, did you see my husband today?"

Hoping to be saved by a technicality, he answered, "I'm not sure."

There was a very pregnant pause. Then Marlene hissed. "Gilbert, are you toying with me?"

That's all it took. He cracked like a bad egg. "I think I may have seen him… I was across the street, but it looked like him."

"Way to go down with the ship!" Gilbert heard Karp shout in the background.

"Tell him I couldn't commit perjury," Gilbert pleaded.

"No, Gilbert dear, you did the right thing…the smart thing," Marlene purred. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to cut a liar's tongue out of his mouth."

Gilbert had hung up the telephone feeling like a twelve-year-old kid who'd just ratted out his best friend to avoid getting grounded. And he should know, he'd been that kind of a kid.

It was for his own good, he told himself as he carved a curl of lemon peel into a martini glass. There was nothing I could do. She knew. No sense both of us paying the price.

Still queasy at the thought of his close call with Marlene's temper, Murrow jumped at the sound of Ariadne's voice from the bedroom. "I hope the only reason you're so quiet out there is because you're stretching before the big game."

He paused to consider the merit of her suggestion. Not only was she taller, she outweighed him by fifteen pounds and, except for plenty of soft padding in the right places, was more muscular. Sometimes it paid to be limber when she was in one of her "moods."

"I'm shaking, not stirring, baby cakes," he yelled back. He cut the second lemon peel and plopped it into the other glass.

Murrow left the drinks on the counter and walked over to Ariadne's sound system-a Bose that could peel the paint off the walls when she was having a heavy-metal moment-and inserted a CD of Sinatra's greatest hits.

"These little town blues/are melting away/I'll make a brand-new start of it/in old New York…" Murrow sang along with Ol' Blue Eyes as he picked up the drinks.

A lot of people gave him and Ariadne one look and started to giggle. He figured other men were wondering what the voluptuous sex goddess saw in the pear-shaped little man in the wire-rimmed glasses whose taste in fashion embraced bow ties, vests, and tweed coats with a pocket watch.

To be honest, he'd wondered the same thing. But he gradually came to accept that for some unfathomable reason, she actually thought he was sexy, as well as smart. The fact was, however, that for all their physical differences, they had a lot in common.

For one thing, they loved the same music. Their friends might have been surprised if they'd seen them dressed in tight leather pants, leather vests, and dog collars at CBGB's, the seedy but trendy nightclub on the Bowery, attending a reunion concert of the Ramones. But they enjoyed a wide variety of music, including Sinatra and the rest of the Rat Pack, as well as big-band swing.

They were both also fascinated with American history. Anyone who ever listened to the way they talked to each other in some settings might have thought that the only book they had in common was the Kama Sutra. But the truth was that most of their evenings together were spent quietly lying in bed, reading aloud from some historical narrative like Ron Chernow's biography of Alexander Hamilton.

Who would have ever imagined that Ariadne could be turned on by a dramatic rendition of the Federalist Papers, he thought. Speaking of getting turned on…

"You coming?" he called back to the bedroom. "I think the Viagra is starting to wear off!"

"You won't need any Viagra when you see what I bought at VS today," she yelled back.

Murrow smiled and grabbed the martinis before heading out onto the rooftop garden area that was the chief benefit of the loft apartment on Fifty-fifth Street between Second and Third avenues. Ariadne didn't own the place-she couldn't have afforded it-it was on loan from one of her former lovers, a writer who'd "sold out" to author best-selling motivational books.

At first, Murrow wasn't thrilled about staying in the apartment of a former lover. But she'd convinced him that there was something particularly virile about having his way with her in the home-nay, on the very bed-of his rival, so he'd gotten over it.

Outside it was a lovely fall evening, and the air still carried a hint of summer. The roof had a nice clear view of the top half of the Chrysler Building and Midtown city lights, and was high enough not to be terribly disturbed by honking taxis and the smell of garbage. He placed the drinks on the ledge and reached up to adjust his glasses.

Good thing, too, because at that moment, the garrote that dropped over his head would have quickly accomplished its task. As it was, his hand was caught between the nylon cord and his neck.

Back in the apartment, Ariadne paused her primping to listen. She thought she heard a glass breaking, but there was no sound other than Sinatra and the far-off noises of the city. Gilbert could be a little clumsy; she just hoped he hadn't dropped one of the martini glasses given to her years before by an enraptured British Member of Parliament when she was on assignment in London.

"I want to be a part of it/New York, New York," she sang as she brushed out her hair.

There was no one more surprised than she at her attraction to Gilbert Murrow. Karp's estimate of the number of notches on her bedpost was not totally inaccurate. She'd screwed some of the world's wealthiest, most powerful, and even best-looking men for the sake of a story, but she'd given them all up for a nearsighted intellectual who barely reached her chin.

However, she could not have cared less what people thought of her falling for Gilbert. He had a brilliant mind, was well read, and wasn't so in love with his own voice that he couldn't pause long enough to listen to her. And not just listen politely the way some men did when all they really wanted was to get laid. All of this made Murrow more desirable than any athlete with six-pack abs and buns of steel.

Along with the lovable personality traits, Gilbert had a few surprises of his own. For one thing, he was the most attentive and unselfish lover she'd ever known, and with the stamina to keep up with her own healthy libido. He claimed it was from all his years of abstinence. And he was delightfully funny for someone who came off even to his friends as such a straight arrow. He'd also discovered a latent calling for clandestine activities, whether it was assisting her with a story-as long as it didn't involve the DAO-or suggesting having sex in public places where they stood a decent chance of getting caught.