Karp would enjoy such a party, the new Karp, the new relaxed, home-at-six Karp, with whom Marlene had for the last few weeks fallen again in love, owing to the time, the bland, missionless time together alone, which (in a good marriage) is to marital bliss what steroids are to lifting weights.
These pleasant daydreams were interrupted by the ringing of the phone. Karp said, “That’ll be Roland,” and picked it up. He spoke for ten minutes, and when he got off there was an odd look on his face.
“Well?”
“Oh, they picked him up with no trouble. Brought him in, he gave them the finger and asked to call his lawyer. No surprise there.”
“And?” She was observing him closely. He was leaning against the counter, idly tossing a can of soup in his hands, with his gaze fixed on infinite nowhere.
“Oh, nothing,” he said. “Roland just mentioned that Robinson had retained Lionel Waley.”
Marlene set her jaw, flared her nostrils, and, in a voice of brass, said, “Don’t. Even. Think it!”