Rizzo’s Fire

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Early Monday evening, Carol Rizzo swung her ten-year-old Civic into the driveway of the Rizzo home. She parked in front of the small, detached garage beside her father’s Camry. Switching off the engine, Carol stretched out her arms, weary from the traffic-clogged two-and-a-half-hour drive from the Stony Brook campus on Long Island’s north shore.

Entering the house, she was surprised by her father as he came through the basement door and into the kitchen.

“Hey, hon,” he said in greeting. “We didn’t expect you till tomorrow.”

Carol shrugged, crossing the room to exchange a perfunctory kiss with him. “I left early,” she said. “I only have one class tomorrow-sociology. The other two were canceled for Thanksgiving break, but my soc professor refused to capitulate to the crass celebration of the exploitation of indigenous peoples.”

Rizzo smiled, reaching out to brush brown strands of hair from his daughter’s face.

“So you canceled him. Good for you,” he said. “Welcome home.”

Carol dropped her travel bag to the floor and walked to the refrigerator, removing a Snapple. She opened the bottle and turned to face her father.

“So,” she said, injecting a casual tone into her voice. “When is Marie due home?”

“Wednesday. I’m picking her up at Grand Central. Maybe you can take a ride with me.”

Carol shook her head. As she crossed the kitchen to the travel bag, lifting it from the floor, she twisted her lips as she spoke.

“Doubtful,” she said. Then she left the room, making her way toward the staircase and the small upstairs bedroom she shared with her sister Jessica.

Rizzo shook his head slowly, running a hand through his hair.

“Damn,” he said softly.

Thomas Ross Bradley was forty-nine years old, a native of the section of London known as Kingston-on-Thames. After a voluntary stint as a British Army Commando with Special Air Ser vices, he had pursued, with assistance from his wealthy, influential family, a career as a producer of London theater. He had emigrated to New York City fifteen years earlier, carrying with him a stellar reputation in the theater world and finding quick success with a string of Broadway shows, followed by a rather rocky and unproductive five-year period, which had come to an end with the success of Avery Mallard’s An Atlanta Landscape.

Bradley gazed across his neat, glistening black desk to Rizzo and Jackson, his gray eyes clear and probing. It was Tuesday morning, November 25.

“There’s no need to be apologetic, Sergeant Rizzo,” he said in the clipped accent of the British upper class. “I’m fully aware of the complexities in the nature of your work. I would imagine follow-up interviews are often necessary.” He paused, looking from one to the other. “This would be my third interview, Sergeant,” he said. “May I feel confident this one will suffice?”

Rizzo shrugged, taking out his note pad and pen. “Yeah, let’s hope.”

Bradley sat back in his seat, his expression stoic.

“Yes,” he said. “Let us hope.” He paused before continuing. “I’m afraid I must insist on brevity, Sergeant. I’ve an appointment of rather great importance in less than an hour’s time.”

Rizzo shrugged. “If you’re gonna insist on it, then you better tell me what it is,” he said with a smile. “Brevity, I mean.”

Bradley’s eyes moved from one detective to the other, then fell on Rizzo. His own smile appeared forced as he replied.

“Conciseness, Sergeant,” he said pleasantly. “Condensation of language. I’m in a bit of a push, you see. Short of time.”

Rizzo nodded. “Oh,” he said, slowly turning to Priscilla. “Did you know that, Cil?” he asked. “Did you know what ‘brevity’ meant?”

“Yes,” she said with a shrug, her eyes on Bradley.

Rizzo nodded again. “That works for us, too. Now we can skip all the polite public relations bullshit and get down to the questions.” He leaned inward toward Bradley. “Fair enough?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Bradley replied. “Quite fair.”

Rizzo flipped open his pad. By coincidence, the notebook fell open to the page where, earlier that morning, he had made a notation of what McQueen had reported: Bradley’s uncensored statement to Detective Lieutenant Dominick Lombardi, Manhattan South, confirmed that Linda DeMaris was Bradley’s mistress as well as his alibi witness.

Rizzo raised his eyes once again to meet Bradley’s. It was time to begin rattling the man’s cage.

“So, you’re from En gland, eh?”

“Yes. Kingston-on-Thames.”

“Where’s that?”

“In London, Sergeant.”

Rizzo nodded. “Really? Must be quite a fancy neighborhood.”

Bradley arched his eyebrows. “Oh?”

Rizzo shrugged. “Well, you ask most people where they’re from, they say, New York, Chicago, Paris, like that. You said Kingston-onthe-whatever, not just London. So I’m guessin’ it’s a fancy place, a place you’re proud of.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Bradley answered with a tight smile. “I do take pride in it, actually. However, in Great Britain, it’s common practice to refer to one’s locale quite specifically. A cultural practice, if you will.”

“Is Ms. DeMaris in?” Rizzo asked.

Bradley blinked. “Pardon?”

“Linda DeMaris,” Rizzo repeated. “Your personal assistant. Is she here today, at work somewhere around the office?”

Bradley shook his head, his face without expression. “No, she’s taking today off.”

“Sick day?” Rizzo asked. “Vacation? What?”

Bradley remained silent, holding Rizzo’s eyes. Rizzo smiled at him.

“You wanted brevity?” He shrugged. “I’m figurin’ this is it.”

Still expressionless, Bradley answered. “Ms. DeMaris worked all day yesterday, Sergeant. At the theater as well as here in the office. It was a very long day. So, in compensation, she is not working today.”

“Okay,” Rizzo said, jotting in his pad.

With a frown, Bradley spoke once again. “Just what is your interest in Ms. DeMaris, Sergeant?” he asked, his accented tones sounding cool.

“Interest?” Rizzo asked, looking up from his notes.

“Yes, Sergeant. Interest.”

“Nothin’ special,” Rizzo said. “Just followin’ the same lead to her that we followed to you.”

Bradley laid his hands palms down on his desk and leaned forward. Annoyance tugged at his facial muscles as concern dawned in his eyes. Rizzo took notice, still smiling benignly.

“Perhaps you should explain yourself, Sergeant. What is this ‘lead’ you mention?”

“Well,” Rizzo responded, cocking his head to one side. “Do you know a guy named Samuel Kellerman?”

Bradley’s brow furrowed, and he sat back in his seat. “Sam? Yes, of course, I know Sam very well. He’s a dear friend, in fact.”

“Really?” Rizzo said, raising his brows. “Funny, he didn’t put it like that when we spoke to him.”

Bradley’s eyes narrowed, and Rizzo noted slight color come into the man’s cheeks.

“Sergeant,” he said, glancing pointedly to the Rolex on his wrist. “I must insist you get to what ever point it is you are here to make. As I told you, I have an appointment. If it becomes absolutely apparent that I must, I shall call Lieutenant Lombardi, whom I assume to be your superior officer, and have him intercede in this. I have had his assurance that certain factual information I provided to him is confidential and for his eyes only, and now you are indicating that …”

Rizzo held up a hand, palm outward, his smile turning cold. “Take a beat, Bradley, okay? I’m just doin’ my job, that’s all. I don’t even know this Lombardi guy, and I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about with ‘confidential.’ ”

Bradley’s face flushed, his effort to maintain composure becoming obvious. “Explain yourself, Sergeant,” he said, his voice tight with surpressed anger.

Rizzo nodded, lowering his hand, allowing his smile to fade.

“Sure. And as you requested, with brevity.” He cleared his throat and began. “We’re workin’ this Brooklyn case, and Kellerman’s name comes up, so me and Detective Jackson here, we follow it up. It leads us to a few other people-you, for instance. And this DeMaris woman who works for you. And so, here we are.”

Bradley’s expression remained neutral as he looked from one detective to the other. Priscilla remained silent, allowing Rizzo to play his line out.

“Brooklyn case?” Bradley asked. “I had assumed you were here inquiring into Avery Mallard’s murder.”

“Oh?” Rizzo asked. “What gave you that idea?”

Bradley shook his head. “Well, when you called to set up this appointment, you identified yourself as a police officer, so I assumed-”

Rizzo looked up. “I couldn’t help but notice that picture, Mr. Bradley,” he said, indicating with a tilt of his head a black-and-white, eight-by-ten photo hanging on the wall to his left. “You in that fancy combat uniform. See, once, when I was in the Army, I had this sergeant, tough old son of a bitch, tell me, ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘never assume nothin’.’ ” Rizzo leaned forward.

“Didn’t they ever tell you that, Mr. Bradley?” he asked in a low, threatening tone. “In the ser vice, I mean?”

Bradley glanced at the photo showing him in full S.A.S. Commando combat dress, face darkened with grease, automatic assault weapon in hand, his eyes shadowed by the Kevlar-and-steel helmet on his head.

“What is this inquiry about, Sergeant?” he asked softly.

Rizzo continued. “Like I say, we have this case in Brooklyn we’re investigatin’. Some sad-sack semirecluse type got himself murdered. Looks like just a break-in, same as what happened to Mallard. We found somethin’ in the guy’s apartment leads us to Kellerman. He was Mallard’s agent, matter-of-fact. See, that’s why it don’t pay to start makin’ assumptions, Mr. Bradley.” Rizzo smiled. “Like, for instance, I could start figuring Kellerman’s involved here somehow. In both murders, maybe. Only that would be an assumption, and my old drill sergeant, he was pretty friggin’ clear about that: you assume, you make an ass outta you and me.”

Bradley became impatient. “How am I relevant here, Sergeant? Please explain yourself.”

Rizzo shook his head. “Far as I can see, you aren’t relevant,” he said. “We’re just takin’ a look around Kellerman and his associates, that’s all. He mentioned you’re the producer of Mallard’s last work, this play on Broadway. What’s it called, Cil?”

“ Atlanta Landscape, ” Priscilla replied.

“Yeah, right.” He looked back to Bradley. “I hear it’s pretty good.”

Bradley nodded. “A typically American understatement. This play is a very serious work of art, Sergeant, rendered even more remarkable when you consider its contemporaries currently in production. Restagings of tired musicals from other eras, mindless chronicles of faded pop stars, recycled film works, and even, God help us, comic book characters.” He smiled sadly. “ An Atlanta Landscape is Broadway at its best, Sergeant. Theater at its best, as it was meant to be, not merely drivel designed to amuse tourists from Iowa and God knows where else. This work rates amongst All My Sons, The Iceman Cometh, The Glass Menagerie, Angels in America.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said, nodding. “I saw those movies.”

Bradley looked at Rizzo, his lips pursing. He shook his head. “I fear the death of Avery Mallard is a tragedy unfathomable by the superficial fabric of your rather sad American culture, Sergeant,” he said. “Now, if it had been some bubbleheaded blonde pop singer in between rehabilitations, that would be considered a true American tragedy, I’ve no doubt.” He shook his head once more. “That would be something you people could take to heart.”

Rizzo laughed. “You know, it amazes me how many foreigners I run into bitchin’ about the U.S.” He allowed a moment to pass, then continued. “Makes a guy wonder, how come they’re over here bitchin’? Why didn’t they just stay the fuck home, where everything was so perfect?”

With growing anger, Bradley responded. “Once again, Sergeant, get to your business. My appointment cannot be delayed.”

“Okay, relax,” Rizzo said. “Here we go: Kellerman ever mention a guy named Robert Lauria to you? A shoe salesman from Brooklyn?”

Bradley shook his head, his face now without expression. “No,” he said.

Rizzo smiled. “Just like that? ‘No’? You don’t even have to think about it?”

“No, Sergeant. I do not have to think about it. Sam never mentioned any shoe salesman to me. From anywhere.”

“Maybe in some other context, some other reference? Robert Lauria.” Rizzo spelled the last name.

“No. Never.”

“Okay,” Rizzo said, as he wrote in his pad.

“What’s the connection between Sam Kellerman and this murdered shoe salesman, Sergeant?” Bradley asked.

Rizzo looked up from his note pad. “Oh, that’s kinda confidential, Mr. Bradley,” he said lightly. “You know, like what ever you got goin’ with your lieutenant, that guy Lombardi.” He paused. “And did I say Lauria was the murder victim? I don’t remember saying that.” He shrugged. “Guess you’re assumin’ again. Only this time… you happen to be right.”

Bradley did not respond.

“I understand you helped Mallard out with writing that play,” Rizzo said. “That Atlanta thing.”

“Your understanding being based on what information exactly, Sergeant?”

“Oh, I dunno. Something Kellerman said, I think.”

Priscilla interjected. “It had something to do with the plot.”

“I assure you, Officers, my only assistance with the script was in allowing Avery to utilize my cottage at Southampton while he crafted the play.” He smiled coldly at Rizzo, then Jackson. “If I were capable of contributing to so majestic a work, I daresay I would author one myself.”

“Where were you on October thirtieth?” Rizzo asked.

Bradley again looked from one to the other, settling his gaze on Rizzo. “Pardon?”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said offhandedly. “That’s when Lauria was probably killed, or maybe the twenty-ninth. Just a routine question, you know. I gotta ask it. For the record.”

Bradley seemed to ponder matters for a moment. “I cannot answer that, Sergeant,” he said coolly. “You’re talking about nearly one month ago. I have no idea where I may have been.”

“See, Cil?” Rizzo said, turning toward Priscilla. “It’s like I said, who knows where they were a month ago? Nobody.” He turned back to Bradley, lowering his voice, again leaning inward. “Kellerman knew where he was right away,” Rizzo said. “Claimed to be in Paris at the time.”

“I see,” Bradley said.

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, always gets my attention, these instant alibi answers. But you, you weren’t sure. Had no idea where you were. Hell, I got no idea where I was those two days, either.”

They sat silently for a moment before Rizzo continued.

“Well, Mr. Bradley, unless you can think a somethin’ you wanna add about Kellerman, I guess we’re done here.”

Again Bradley made a point of looking at his wristwatch. “No, Sergeant. I have nothing further to add.”

Rizzo stood, Jackson following his lead. He reached across the desk, shaking hands with the producer, noting the dryness of the man’s palm.

“Thanks for your time,” he said. “Maybe we’ll stop by after the holiday, next week sometime. Just to have a word with-what’s her name, your assistant?”

“Linda DeMaris,” Bradley said, releasing Rizzo’s hand.

“Yeah. DeMaris.” Rizzo turned to leave. “We can find our own way out, Mr. Bradley,” he said. “No need to get up.”

“Fine,” Bradley said. “Good day to you both.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said on the way out. “And I hope your Lieutenant Lombardi finds Mallard’s killer.”

“Yes,” Bradley said curtly, his eyes dark. “As do I.”

At the door, Rizzo turned once more, remaining silent and making eye contact with Bradley, the gesture designed to prod the man to speak one last time, to impose a sudden and unwanted obligation on Bradley. Awkward seconds ticked by.

“And, Sergeant,” Bradley finally said. “Good luck to you as well, with your Bensonhurst murder.”

Rizzo smiled. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

On their way out, Rizzo and Jackson stopped at the reception desk and showed Robert Lauria’s photograph to the young woman there. She shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I’ve never seen him here.”

Afterward, the two detectives bought coffee from a shop in the building’s lobby, then sat in the Impala on Fifth Avenue, drinking and reviewing their notes.

“Bradley’s our killer, Cil,” Rizzo said. “No fuckin’ doubt about it.”

Priscilla frowned. “He sure looks good, Joe, but no doubt? How you figure that?”

“Remember his little, ‘In Great Britain we use our specific area, not just the city we live in,’ bullshit?”

“Yeah, he’s from Kingston, not just London. So what?”

Rizzo sipped his coffee. “Point of information,” he said, “for when you’re dealin’ with a cool character like Bradley. And he was cool, believe me. His palm was dry as a stone in the desert, even after that completely unexpected dance around DeMaris and Lauria he had with us. See, guys like him, they think one step ahead, they anticipate, form their answers before they speak. They’re not street skells, blurtin’ out what ever bullshit pops into their heads. Not as a rule, anyway. He was one step ahead of my next question for most of the interview. But as we were leavin’, I turned slow and stared at him. He’s calm on the outside, but wound tight inside his chest. He sees me starin’, he figures I’m gonna ask him somethin’ else now, after he thought we were all done. And he can’t imagine what I’m gonna say. So he’s gotta buy himself some more time to think, and he finally does just say what pops into his head. Any damn small talk chitchat.”

Priscilla furrowed her brow. A moment passed, then her eyes widened. Rizzo smiled, again sipping his coffee.

“Holy fuck, Joe,” she said softly. “ Bensonhurst. How did Bradley know Lauria got killed in Bensonhurst?”

“Bingo. The guy didn’t even know we were from Brooklyn till I tole him, let alone Bensonhurst. And we never mentioned the Six-Two, either, not that some limey would know it’s in Bensonhurst anyway. No, Cil, this guy’s a foreigner, probably never been over to Brooklyn before, or if he has, just the trendy neighborhoods like The Heights and Park Slope. When he was plannin’ Lauria’s murder, he’d have resorted to what’s native to him. He’d have checked a map of Brooklyn, maybe Googled Lauria’s address. When he saw it was in Bensonhurst, from habit he mentally converted ‘Brooklyn’ to ‘Bensonhurst.’ Just like ‘London’ to ‘Kingston-on-Thames.’ Then, under the pressure of my parting stare, it slipped out, and he didn’t even realize its significance.”

Priscilla shook her head. “He’s a double murderer,” she said.

“Yeah, that he is,” Rizzo said. “And from the getup he was wearin’ in that photo on the wall, he was some kinda special forces guy, Royal Marines or S.A.S., somethin’ like that. Bet he got plenty a training in strangulation. Piece a cake for Bradley to kill these two guys. Neither one of them was a tough guy, that’s for sure.”

Priscilla nodded. “And did you see that suit he was wearing, Joe? Musta set him back a grand, at least. Outta the four of ’em-Kellerman, the director, the neighbor, and Bradley-he’s the most upscale dresser. A guy like him would definitely own a high-priced raincoat.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo agreed. “Like every other well-off London dude.”

“So why’d you piss him off so much, Joe?”

He smiled. “Mostly ’cause I could. He figured me for some nottoo-bright reactionary cop type. I could see it in his smug expression. I didn’t wanna disappoint the prick. Plus, it made it easier for me to switch gears, rattle him, maybe force a slipup.”

“Yeah, let him get all comfortable with that,” she said. “This way, when we shove the arrest warrant down his throat, he’ll never see it coming.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said softly, “but we’re a long way from an arrest warrant, Cil. We got a ton of circumstantial evidence, enough to convince most people Bradley’s our man. But it’s still not worth much in a courtroom. We can’t prove anything. Not yet.”

Priscilla countered, “But we throw a fiber match from his raincoat onto that pile of circumstantial, we got a conviction.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “But we need a search warrant to get to the coat. And I can’t see a judge signin’ one. Not based on what we got so far.”

“I disagree,” Priscilla said. “We got a clear track for Lauria’s play to Bradley through DeMaris. We got the Bensonhurst comment, and we got Bradley’s ties, motives, means, and opportunities on both Lauria’s and Mallard’s killings.”

“Normally I might take all that to a judge,” Rizzo said. “Take a shot, cut DeMaris a lesser charge. She takes back that alibi, Bradley sinks with Lauria’s Solitary Vessel. But we go to a judge with the Mallard tie-in now, we risk losin’ it all to Manhattan South. We need to work it just from the Lauria angle, which is too weak for a warrant. Or we gotta have an open-and-shut slam-dunk against Bradley on both homicides.”

“Sounds kinda tough.”

“Yeah, it should. It is tough, but I’m thinkin’, what’s Bradley’s next move?”

Priscilla thought for a moment. “He has to warn DeMaris. Or kill her.”

“Exactly. He’s gotta protect himself before we talk to her some time next week, like I told him we’d do. He’s got to make sure she’s prepared to stonewall us. We don’t know how deep she is in all this. We can certainly figure she stole the play from her former job and gave it to Bradley. She knows it’s plagiarized. Then she alibied Bradley for the night of the Mallard killing, so she probably knows, or damn well should know, he’s the one killed Mallard. She may not know about the threat Lauria posed, although why would she think Bradley had to kill Mallard unless she also knew Lauria had turned up claimin’ he was ripped off?”

“What ever she does know,” Priscilla said, “she’s up to her freakin’ eyeballs in this whole mess.”

Rizzo sipped at his coffee. “And Bradley has to get her past the interview with us. An interview he figures’ll only focus on Lauria, and maybe Kellerman.”

A worried look came to Priscilla. “I hope we didn’t just sign De-Maris’s death warrant, Joe. If Bradley sees her as the weak link, he might just decide she’s gotta go, too, and right now.”

Rizzo nodded. “Sure. As awkward a position as that would put him in-connecting him to three murders-he might figure it’s better than her bein’ out there with too much information and maybe not enough balls to stand up.”

Priscilla shrugged. “Well, we haven’t even met the woman yet, Joe. Maybe she does have the balls.”

“Could be,” Rizzo said. “Maybe she’s the spark plug here, and he’s just the piston. But either way, his best chance of survival might be for her to stop breathin’.”

“So how should we play it?” Priscilla asked, uneasily. “We’re on thin enough ice as it is, sidestepping Manhattan. We get some woman killed, we’re really in deep shit. Maybe now’s the time to bring it in, go to this Lieutenant Lombardi. We lay it all out for him and maybe he cuts us in for a piece of the credit. If we don’t, this DeMaris maybe gets killed.”

“She ain’t exactly the Virgin Mary, Cil. She’s an accomplice to murder. Maybe two murders.” Rizzo hesitated. “Wouldn’t break my heart if she did get whacked, but I see your point. That’s why I figure we keep this on a short leash. We’re off tomorrow, the next day is Thanksgiving. I don’t see Bradley doin’ anything rash. His history shows he’s a careful planner, not a spur-of-the-moment killer, and he needs a new plan-he can’t use that break-in routine again. He’ll warn DeMaris, then assess the risk. If he decides to murder her, it won’t be on Thanksgiving. Even though he’s a limey, and probably doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the holiday, he’s been here long enough to have someplace he’s gotta be for turkey dinner-some friends or business associates, whoever. And DeMaris, she’s the goumada-goumada s hafta spend their holidays single, tellin’ themselves by this time next year, Mr. Dreamboat will have left his wife and filed for divorce. Yeah, next Thanksgiving everything’ll be just peachy. But for this year, it’s back to Momma’s or Aunt Tillie’s or whoever. No, Cil, I figure she’s safe for at least a few days. We’ll go see her on Friday.”

Priscilla compressed her lips. “Seems a little risky to me, Joe. I don’t know.”

“Yeah, well, like my daughter Carol says, anything worthwhile is hard.” He shrugged. “Let’s chance it. It’ll be okay.”

Reluctantly, she agreed. “All right, I guess… But Jesus, I can’t see myself getting too much sleep until this is over with. When we do see her, how should we play it?”

“Oh, I got a plan, Cil. I’m gonna let it percolate in my head a couple a days, then we’ll talk about it.”

He drained his coffee container, then tossed it to the floorboard in the rear of the car. He started the engine and smiled at Priscilla.

“We will talk about it, Partner,” he said. “Believe me.”

“Okay,” Priscilla said. “But if DeMaris turns out to be a cool character like Bradley, this could be a tough play.”

Rizzo pulled the car out into traffic. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t worry about it. Chances are, she’ll turn out to be just another self-absorbed yuppie found a way to grab herself a new BMW with her stolen play idea. She probably never figured she was signin’ on for two murders. My money says, we slap her around a little, she caves.”

Priscilla shook her head. “Too bad Bradley didn’t just put his own name on the damn play,” she said. “At least then, Avery Mallard would still be alive.”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah. But you heard what Bradley said. Most of the big Broadway shows are revivals, or bio plays about Frankie Vallie or Sinatra. I’m thinkin’, that kinda stuff comes with guaranteed audiences, so it makes it easy for a producer to raise money. That’s why Bradley never approached Lauria in the first place. Like we figured, he knew he’d never hit a home run, make millions on a show with Lauria’s name on it, no matter how good it was. And his own name wouldn’t be much better. But with Mallard bein’ the playwright, Bradley sees a built-in audience and knows he can easily raise enough dough to produce the thing, and it’s Broadway here we come.”

“Yeah. I forgot that,” she said.

“Well, relax, kiddo,” Rizzo said. “It’s almost over, so don’t be losing any sleep over DeMaris. Your biggest worry right now is my mother.”

Priscilla looked puzzled.

“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “My mother.” He turned to face her. “You gotta come up with some sorta answer.”

Priscilla shook her head. “Answer for what?”

“For Thanksgiving when she asks you and Karen, ‘How come two nice girls like you aren’t married?’ ”