Robert Tanenbaum: Enemy within

An instant's pause, then, "Sure. Sounds good. When?"

"Tomorrow okay? Check your calendar."

"I don't have to. I always eat lunch in. Or out. You remember."

A deep, rumbling laugh came over the line. "Oh, God, yes, the cancer wagons. I'm still digesting a knish from 1973. How about La Pelouse?"

"Ouch! I'm a civil servant."

"I'm buying."

"No, you are not," said Karp pleasantly.

Another laugh. "Looking forward to it, buddy."

Karp put down the phone and thought about why he had for that instant considered putting Shelly Solotoff off with an excuse. "I'll have my secretary set it up" was a good one, and then it wouldn't happen and the other guy wouldn't call again. He didn't exactly dislike Solotoff. He'd known the man for years and years, never actually friends, but not enemies either, rather the sort of uncomfortable relationship that grows up whenever one party seems a lot more interested than the other. No, that wasn't it, although Karp would never have called Solotoff in a similar situation. He wants something, Karp thought. About a case? Hard to believe. A job offer? More likely. But maybe he was just lonely, a guy recently back in town, looking to renew old acquaintances; maybe he felt isolated, beset, friendless… Karp put on his raincoat and picked up his gym bag. Yes, he could understand that.

As Karp left the office, his secretary got up from her desk in the tiny cubicle she occupied and ran after him. A small, pale, red-haired young woman from the Republic of Ireland, she spent much of her considerable energy snapping at the heels of her gigantic boss like a terrier at a bull, so that he would show up where he was supposed to show up without, as she put it, fergettin' his bluidy head.

"And where are you off to now?"

"Personal time. I'm going to play basketball."

"Basketball?"

"Yes, Flynn. The player attempts to fling a large orange rubber ball through a steel hoop set high above the floor, while other players try to stop him. Or her."

"I know what basketball is, sir. I'm not a complete yokel, you know."

"Of course you're not a yokel, Flynn. When I think of sophisticated women, you come right after Simone Signouret. Now what can I do for you?"

"Yer fergettin' yer mobile." She did not say "again," although she dearly wished to, and held out the device to him.

"D'you see, sir, the principle of the t'ing is it's supposed to go with you. That's why they made it so small, if you take me point."

Karp exhibited one of his famous glowers, jammed the cell phone in his raincoat pocket, and stalked out. He was one of the dwindling minority who thought that the whole point of ditching work was to ditch work and be out of reach for the duration of the ditch. But Flynn had never once allowed him to slip from the office without that goddamn warbling pickle.

An hour and some minutes later he was playing basketball, three-on-three, half-court, twenty-one wins, winners' ball, and not, in fact, thinking great legal thoughts, but rather thinking nothing substantive at all, which was a delicious relief. Karp had at one time been one of the best young basketball players in the country, a high school all-American, and a standout freshman at Cal. In his sophomore year, however, some gigantic people had tromped on his knee in a game, ending any possibility that he would be another Bill Bradley, and turning his competitive instincts toward the law. He now had an artificial left knee, but he could still score a phenomenal percentage of shots from anywhere on the half-court.

If this kid would get out of his face. The kid was a little over fivenine, and lucky if she hit one-twelve on a damp day. She had a peculiar, large-featured face, not pretty nor plain either-remarkable, memorable in a way hard to describe-with close-cropped dark hair, now sweat-welded to her forehead, and looking at him like a hunting python out of odd, slanted eyes the color of Lucky Strike's fine tobacco. She was guarding him just right, too: close enough to block the sort of feeble jumper Karp was up to these days, and far enough back to avoid a hip and a blast past. He himself had taught her to guard like that, and wasn't he sorry now?

Karp caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, faked left, and whipped a pass around his back at a charging teammate, who went in for a score. That made it eighteen all. The two other men on Karp's team were both his age or a little younger, a dentist named Irv and an NYU professor named Doug, both of whom had played some college ball, although not at Karp's level. The three opposing players were their daughters, all of whom could outrun and outjump their old-fart opponents, which advantage the old farts typically negated by skill, guile, brutal use of their heavier bodies, and selective cheating. Today, however, the girls were hot, and the dads were having trouble even staying even. Karp moved around his daughter, took a pass in the paint, dribbled once, pushed off his good leg, and released the ball. To his astonishment, Lucy Karp came out of hyperspace and blocked the shot. Karp leaped in to smother her return shot, but she outstepped him easily and passed to Althea, who, outpacing her own sire, passed to Jessie, who sank an eight-footer.

From there it went downhill (the penny at last having dropped), and the girls kept the game wide and ran the pants off the fathers, who were reduced to howling, fouling, red-faced, sweat-streaming impotence. On the last play of the game, Karp's daughter and Althea executed a pick-and-roll that would not have embarrassed Larry Bird, and Karp, who had seen it coming, raced to the basket to block the shot, found himself a step late, and had to watch Lucy Karp go up like a homing salmon at the falls to sink it for twenty-one and game.

Irv the dentist threw himself on the floor and pounded it with his fists. "That's it!" he cried. "Beat by a bunch of girls! I'm taking the gas. Honey, the insurance and the will are in my desk in the office. Have a nice life!" The girls were dancing around, hooting with glee and giving each other high fives. Doug slapped Karp on the back and leaned against him, in a parody of exhaustion. "Oh, sharper than a serpent's tooth."

"It had to happen," said Karp. "They're getting better and we're getting older."

"Yeah, but so soon? I was hoping for an early pregnancy to intervene."

Irv got up off the floor, pointedly ignoring Jessie's offered hand. "Get away from me, you! And from now on, back to the kitchen! Knit me a sweater!"

After a good deal of similar, they left for the respective locker rooms. In the lobby, showered and breathing easily again, Karp suggested taking the girls out for a bite, to celebrate their first victory.

"Not this time," said Doug. "I have to grade papers. And, believe me, it's going to be all F's. I hate the young."

"That's a fine idea," said Irv. "I got two root canals this afternoon, and if they think they're getting any novocaine, they got another think coming. Let 'em writhe."

Then the girls emerged looking rosy, even Althea, who was rosy in a milk chocolaty way, and the others left, Irv loudly talking about golf from now on, leaving Karp alone with his daughter. Lucy was wearing a nurse's dark wool cloak, a beret, a black wool skirt, black tights, and heavy lace-up, black boots. She carried her school gear and her athletic stuff in a big Swedish army musette bag. As far as Karp knew, his daughter had hardly ever bought clothes that had not been used at least once. This did not jibe with what he had learned from the fathers of similarly aged daughters, but he had long since given up expecting his kid to fit into any common social groove.

"You're not crying, I see," she said.

"I'm a big boy. I can take a whipping. I have to say, you looked pretty good. You're improving."