"What a liar, and if you keep doing that I'll never let you out of here, and you'll be late, and all the bigwigs will spot the stains on your pants and make fun of you."
"Let them," said Karp. "I'm not proud."
After considerable kissing and fooling around, Karp said, "I have to go before I come, so to speak."
Marlene said, "I knew it! Get a girl to the absolute squish point, and run off. I guess your career comes first. Dear. Not-quite-wifey will have to rub it off against glossies of Bruce Springsteen while you cavort with the great."
Karp laughed. "Yeah, right-the career. Reedy invited me to this political wingding. The old farts have to check out the new kid, make sure I don't have horns."
"How noble of you to suffer for your little family! Why don't you admit you're ambitious? You'd love to be D.A."
Karp stood up, adjusted his clothing and smoothed his hair in the mirror, then put on his dinner jacket.
"I'd love it, sure," he said, "but whether I buy it depends on the price tag."
"Is there a price tag?"
"Sure. Just like in Macy's. I just haven't been told what it is yet. How do I look?"
"Like a young fart," replied Marlene grumpily. "No, actually you look gorgeous. Have a good time."
He leaned over and kissed her lightly. "Don't wait up."
"I won't," said Marlene, feeling guilty. She heard the hollow slam of the downstairs door and checked the bedside clock radio for the time. Six-thirty. Still hours to kill. She went down the ladder from the sleeping loft, turned on the TV, watched the beginning of a movie, lost track of the plot, switched it off, made an omelet and toast, ate desultorily, fed most of it to the cat, paced the length of the loft, the butterflies growing more huge in her gut. She went down to the gym end of the loft, laced on a pair of light gloves, and slapped the speed bag around until her arms were limp. Seven-thirty.
She peeled off her sweat-sodden clothing, folded back the cover of her bathing tank, and plunged in. She waited for the warm water to relax her, gave up, emerged, dried and powdered herself.
She dressed and made up carefully in the style she thought of as classy-but-available: lots of eye makeup, false lashes, and crimson lipstick. She brushed her heavy black hair, then combed it across the bad side of her face, Veronica Lake style to obscure her glass eye. She put on a long black skirt with buttons up the front, the bottom six undone, and a Chinese raw-silk shirt in red over bare skin-the top three buttons undone.
She checked herself in the mirror: a dark, smallish, pretty woman showing definite nipples. She looked like all the victims. She grabbed her bag and left. Tangerines was housed in a narrow tan building on Madison in the Sixties. Its name was drawn in neon of the appropriate color in the curtained window. Raney was not there when Marlene arrived, and neither was JoAnne Caputo. She paced outside for ten minutes, spurning half a dozen pickup attempts. Finally she turned with a curse and went inside.
There were around two hundred people in the place, most of them members of a youngish crowd who lacked the fame and money to go to the big see-and-be-seen places and who considered themselves too sophisticated for the ignominy of standing behind the velvet rope with fat people from the burbs, gaping at the gilded folk. There was a long bar along one wall, separated from the main room by a low planter and trelliswork, packed with climbing philodendrons, ferns, and aspidistras in pots.
The aisle thus formed was jammed with standees holding drinks-the meat market itself. On the other side of the greenery was the cabaret, a room of twenty or so tables, each lit by little orange globes, a tiny stage, and a dance floor not much larger in front of it. The stage was occupied by a trio and a singer, doing sixties stuff and some contemporary music, with a bias toward the romantic. Couples clutched one another and rocked gently on the dance floor. Contact dancing was back at Tangerines.
Marlene checked out the cabaret briefly, went back to the bar, muscled her way through the crowd, and scored a tonic and lime. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned.
For a moment she failed to recognize her. JoAnne Caputo was decked out in a platinum wig and violet lipstick and wearing what looked like an army-surplus tent in mustard brown.
"JoAnne!" Marlene exclaimed. "You look… different."
Caputo's expression was vacant and disturbed at the same time, as if she had just awakened from a nightmare. There was a knotted and ferocious look around her eyes. "I look like shit," she said tonelessly, "but I don't want him to recognize me. Is the cop here?"
"Not yet, but he'll show up. Have you spotted anybody who looks right?"
"No, but I just got here. What do you want me to do?"
Think fast, Marlene, Marlene thought. She hadn't counted on the place being so crowded or on the lines of sight being so constrained. Catching someone in this crowd was a job for half a dozen men.
"OK, here's the plan," she said at last. "You stay in the bar and sort of drift back and forth through the crowd. That's where it's most likely he'll be. If you spot him… um, stick your head through those plants over there and signal. I'll be in the main room over by the far wall. I got to watch for Jim. For the cop."
JoAnne nodded agreement, and took a deep swig of her drink, which Marlene doubted was nonalcoholic. As she left, she saw JoAnne signaling strenuously to the barman for a refill. That's all I need, she thought: an identification by a drunk witness. It was starting to look like not such a great idea.
The far wall of the main room supported a narrow padded shelf running almost its entire length, against which standees could lean and rest their drinks. Marlene leaned and took in the room. To her right were the dance floor and bandstand of the cabaret and to her left was the street wall with its curtained window, glowing pale orange. The barrier of plants stopped just short of this wall, and the passageway thus formed was guarded by a velvet rope. She could just make out the door to the outside around the end of the fernery.
"Come here often?" asked a voice to her left.
She turned to it. He was medium tall, of medium build, wearing a leather jacket over a black T-shirt and black jeans. His dark hair was collar-length and swept back over his ears. His eyes were dark and his features were even, except for his nose, which was long and marked by a lumpy ridge down its center. She looked down at the floor. He wore woven loafers with no socks.
The man smiled winningly. Marlene felt herself smiling back. She said, "Not really. This is my first time," trying to keep the tension out of her voice as she realized that it was the guy. Karp sat in his unfamiliar dinner clothes with two dozen similarly dressed men, all with real bow ties, in a suite of a small, expensive mid-town hotel, listening to Congressman Marcus Fane finish his speech. He sipped his coffee, but passed on the little snifter of brandy set before him. It had been quite a meaclass="underline" Scottish smoked salmon to start, a cream soup with oysters and crab, an enormous slab of prime rib, decorated with potatoes and mushrooms carved into fanciful shapes, a salad made of some unknown sour greens and yellow flowers, and baked Alaska for dessert.
Karp had never had baked Alaska, nor had he ever dined with a group such as this, one of the little bands of prosperous men who called the shots in the cities of America. He looked down the table at the smooth attentive faces, some of them famous, others obscure, but all radiating confidence and power. They represented the City's largest banks, the big real-estate holdings, a few of the megacorporations that were still headquartered in New York, the insurance industry, the stock market, the state, the newspapers and the TV networks, the archdiocese, the Jewish community, the unions, and the two political parties. Fane represented the downtrodden masses and the federal government.
He was a good speaker, Karp thought. He spoke extempore, and seemed both confiding and blunt. Karp agreed with the burden of the speech, which was that crime was bad and ought to be stopped, and applauded politely with the others when it was over. The party rose. Apparently they were going to adjourn to the other room of the suite, there to indulge in yet more of the secret rituals of the rich and powerful.