No Lesser Plea

Chapter 16

The ancestral home of Sanford Bloom was a fussy Gothic pile of red sandstone in Fishkill, New York. It had been built by Bloom’s great-grandfather, who had inherited a substantial fortune made by selling beef and leather to the Union during the Civil War. The Blooms decided it was time to leave the slaughterhouse district of Manhattan and live among the patroons upstate. Fortunately, they held onto the stockyards, abattoirs, and surrounding property, which turned, with the fickleness of fashion, into Sutton Place, and made the Blooms truly wealthy.

Karp rode up to Fishkill with V.T., Marlene, and Guma in Guma’s junker. When they got there, a uniformed guard waved them to a parking space with a little red flag. The day was overcast, still, and sultry even in the country.

“Hey, look who’s there!” exclaimed Guma. “It’s Konstantelos.”

“Who’s he?” asked Marlene, sliding out of the backseat, and adjusting her skimpy shorts. “Guma, why don’t you have A/C in your car. My thighs are sticking together.”

“The rent-a-cop,” said Guma, “it’s Marty Konstantelos from the old four-seven precinct. He retired with a three-quarter a couple of years ago, caught his hand in a trunk or some shit. What a character! They called him Fartin’ Martin. He used to crack up the squad room during roll calls. The shift would chip in and get him a quart of chow mein or chili and then he’d stand there and let rip. Christ, could he cut the cheese! He could, like, do words or tunes-I swear to God, it was amazing.”

“Mad Dog, how come only you know people like this?” asked V.T. with something like admiration. “Does he do concerts?”

Guma laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe we can arrange something. Hey, I’m going to bullshit with him, I’ll catch you guys later.” Guma picked up a huge straw beach bag and waddled off. He was wearing an orange Kiss Me I’m Italian T-shirt, black Bermudas, black dress socks, and vinyl sandals.

V.T. gazed musingly after him. He himself was wearing a white Tom Wolfe suit, a yellow silk shirt and a plum-colored Paisley ascot. V.T. was one of the forty-three men in the civilized world who could wear an ascot without looking like a jerk.

“This is uncanny,” he said. “We arrive at this Disneyland castle and the first person to appear is somebody out of a dirty limerick, the man from Sparta, who was such an incredible farter, on the strength of one bean, he’d do God Save the Queen, and Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Do you suppose the man from St. Clair is the butler and the Old Lady from Wheeling is the cook?”

“I want to see the man from Kent,” said Marlene as the three of them set out on the graveled path to the house.

V.T. giggled. “Whose cock was so long that it bent? Stick around. My, this place is unbelievable. Bad taste married infinite riches and lived happily ever after.”

They were passing through some unkempt ornamental plantings. Some of the rose bushes had died and a bank of hydrangeas had succumbed to an invasion of wild grape. Weeds encroached vigorously on the gravel path and pushed up the flagstones of the garden walkways.

“Hey, V.T.,” said Karp, “you’re the maven. How come this place looks so crummy. Is Bloom strapped?”

“No, far from it,” answered Newbury. “But they don’t live here and neither Bloom nor his wife have any real feeling for the old pile. They’ve got their place in town, of course, and a big spread in the Hamptons, where they entertain. This joint is for ceremonial occasions only, or for people who can’t be trusted with the good furniture.”

“Tacky,” said Marlene. “Mom always told us to give the guests the best stuff.”

“Ahh, but we’re not guests, we’re the help. Also, rich people are apt to be stingy, which is how they stay rich. Present company excepted, of course.”

As they approached the house they heard the hum of conversation and the unmistakable sounds of a tennis match in progress. The path opened on a broad flagstoned terrace below the house, on which several long tables covered with checkered cloths had been set. On the near side of the terrace a short walk led to two clay tennis courts. These, at least, were in prime condition. On the far side, the terrace dropped off to a large, murky, ornamental fish pond. There were about a dozen DA staffers milling around, looking ill at ease. Black servants in white jackets were serving drinks and tending hamburgers, and hot dogs were cooking on a huge fieldstone grill.

“Fun is at its maddest, all right,” said Marlene. “Let’s scoff up seven dollars worth of drinks and hot dogs and split.”

“I can’t do that,” replied Karp. “I muscled all my guys to come here and I’m obligated to stay to the bitter end.”

“Besides, it’s bad manners, dear,” said V.T. “We have to greet our hosts, tell them how delightful it all is, get drunk, puke in the bushes, and then split. Haven’t you ever been to a fancy garden party? And speaking of our hosts …”

Bloom, in tennis whites, his face flushed, was coming down the walk from the tennis courts accompanied by a woman and two other men, one of whom was Conrad Wharton.

“Aha, Newbury, Karp, glad you could come. Denise and I just slaughtered Chip and Rich here in doubles, straight sets. Got to work on that serve, Chip.”

Wharton was also in whites. His normally pink face was bright red and his lank blond locks were plastered to his forehead. He smiled sheepishly and said, “Well, yeah, I’ve got a long way to go before I can take you, Sandy.”

Bloom gave a high-pitched laugh. “You know it! OK, just make yourselves at home, kids. Plenty of drinks and food-swim if you want to, play a few sets. I’m going to change.”

“I better change, too,” said Wharton.

Bloom strode off to the house, with Wharton waddling after him. Ignoring Marlene, Mrs. Bloom immediately linked her arms through V.T.’s and Karp’s. She was a wiry, heavily tanned woman of about forty, with large teeth, a truncated nose, and frosted dark hair. She was in a white tennis outfit with little red pom-poms sticking up over her Nikes.

“Oh, you must be V.T. Newbury and Butch Karp. Sandy’s told me so much about you both. Oh, V.T., you know I think we have some friends in common. The Worthingtons have the place just down the road you know, and they keep their boat in the Hamptons all summer. Isn’t that a coincidence.”

V.T. allowed that the world was a remarkable place. Thus encouraged, Mrs. Bloom said, “Now, I know I can get you two handsome young men to find me a drinkie. To the bar, and don’t spare the horses!” She laughed gaily and moved off with irresistible force. Karp shrugged at Marlene and let himself be dragged along.

Marlene was left alone on the path with the other tennis player. He was a tall, gangling man in his twenties, with longish razor-cut hair tied back in a red-white-and-blue terry headband, a straight pointy nose and close-set dark eyes. After a moment he stuck out his hand.

“Rich Wool,” he said.

“Beg pardon?”

“I’m Richard Wool. I head up the data development team in the office. Under Chip, of course. And you are?”

Marlene took the hand gingerly. “Jane Eyre.”

“Well, Jane, and what brings you here? Are you a spouse or one of the paralegals?”

“Actually, I’m with the custodial staff. I work directly for Mister Karp.”

“Really? I didn’t know Karp had any custodial responsibilities. What precisely do you do?”

“Oh this and that. Keep his tubes blown out, and all. Look, Rich, I’d love to stop and chat, but you’ve got to mingle and I need to go back to the car and shoot some smack, so …”

She turned and started off. “What? What did you say?” he called to her back. But by then she had already turned onto one of the many side paths that led off the gravel drive. She wasn’t hungry and she certainly didn’t feel like getting drunk with Denise and Sandy. She figured to screw around for an hour in the woods, sack out or indulge her secret taste for Regency romances, one of which she had stashed in her handbag.

The path came out onto a little clearing overlooking what once had been a horse paddock, but which was now overgrown with high grass and wildflowers.

A columned, domed gazebo in white stone, the kind of structure the Victorians called a “folly,” stood in the clearing. It held two wide stone benches, on one of which sat a youth of about sixteen picking inexpertly at a guitar. Marlene went over and sat on the opposite bench.

“Nice guitar,” she offered. “A Gibson, right?”

The boy grunted, but did not look up. He was slightly overweight and sallow, with shoulder-length straight brown hair, none too clean. He was wearing a black T-shirt and cutoff jeans.

“You live here?” Marlene asked. “How come you’re not at the party?” Silence. “My name’s Marlene, what’s yours?”

He scowled and said, “Hey, lady, the party’s down the road. You wanna leave me alone?”

Marlene got up. “OK, sport, but you’re never going to get a good D Minor with your thumb all scrunched up like that.”

The kid played another sour progression and looked up. “You play?”

“I used to. Here, let me sit down next to you on the old bench.”

“You got a cigarette?”

“Yeah.” She reached into her bag and handed the kid a Marlboro. He lit up and she took the expensive instrument and hoisted it onto her knee. “OK, let’s see. Keep your wrist like so, and your fingers arched, like this. See? D minor, A seventh, D minor, then you can go B sharp, D seventh, and back to, There is a House in New Orleans, they, B sharp, call the Rising Sun, A seventh, and its been D minor again, see how it goes, me, go to G seventh, oh God, A seventh, am one, back to D minor.”

Marlene sang the rest of the song without interruption, in a high shivery contralto; then sang a few more by Joan Baez, some by the Beach Boys, and then taught the kid an Eric Clapton riff-by which time he was in love.

He turned out to be Brian Bloom, and his father had told him that if he showed his face at the party with that hair and that filthy outfit he would definitely be sent to military school and I don’t care what your mother says.

They smoked and chatted about music and families and agreed that Sanford Bloom was an asshole, the kid being surprised to find out that other adults shared his opinion of his old dad. Then Marlene began to play hard blues and after a while people from the party and people arriving from the parking lot began to drift into the clearing, attracted by the music, and sat around on the grass and the steps of the gazebo, listening. People came and went, going over to the terrace to get food and drinks and then drifting back to sit again and listen to the music.

Guma ran into Karp and V.T. at the edge of the crowd.

“Hey, Butch, look at this, a party within a party.”

“Yeah, there’s practically nobody left up at the house. What you been doing, Goom?”

“Oh, you know, mingling with the great and the near-great. Ate some burgers. Had a few brews. Got into a chug-a-lug contest with your guy, Butch, what’s-his-name, the actor.”

“Richie Krier?”

“Yeah. I should modestly add that I took both the quantity and the velocity crown.” He slapped his gut. “The kid was fighting well above his weight.”

“What happened to Richie, you child-molester?”

“Well, he got a little green toward the end there. Couple of guys and me helped him into the house and stuck him in a bedroom to relax.”

“Maybe I better go check him out.”

“Why? You’re not his daddy. Besides, you and V.T. got to figure out how to present my house gift.”

“You bought a house gift for Bloom?” asked V.T. incredulously. “On top of the seven bucks? Mad Dog, you shame us all. What did you get him?”

Guma chuckled. “Yeah, well, I might be from Bath Beach, but that don’t mean I don’t know from class. The man has everything, right? So, I wrack my brains. Then, the other day I’m walking on Fourteenth and I pass that joint that sells all that tourist crap. And right there in the window I see …”

“Plastic doggie vomit. The perfect choice!” V.T. exclaimed.

“Hey, they had that too, but I figure, everybody gives plastic doggie vomit, rubber chocolates, the ice cube with the fly in it. No, I wanted something really special. So I got this.”

Guma reached into his shopping bag and pulled out a large package wrapped in clear vinyl.

Karp said, “A life-sized inflatable sex doll! Way to go Goom!”

“Yeah, it’s pretty snazzy. All the orifices work and it comes with a tube of lubricant. Your rubber nipples. It’s got the real acrylic crotch hair too. I hope he likes blondes.”

“Mad Dog, this is a princely gift. I’ll never criticize your taste again.”

“Well, thanks V.T. Come on in the house, you can help me blow it up.”

“Honored. Where are you going to put it?”

“I don’t know. We’ll think of something. You coming, Butch?”

“No, I think I’ll hang around here. I want to talk to Marlene.”

V.T. and Guma took off and Karp wandered through the crowd. He heard angry noises from the direction of the stone gazebo, and saw Bloom, now dressed in a lime-green jumpsuit, berating his son. Karp couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Bloom was obviously very angry. He actually stamped his foot in rage. The boy said something and Bloom shoved him hard. The boy, his face screwed up and pale with anger, cursed shrilly and went crashing off into the woods.

Bloom began to do his har-har-har-these-kids-today routine, smiling a political travesty of a smile, trying to jolly his not-quite guests into believing that they had not seen what they had in fact seen, which was a man brutalizing a child for no particular reason. The crowd around the gazebo began to break up. Karp spotted Marlene and headed toward her. Her brow was furrowed and she puffed aggressively on a cigarette.

“What was that all about?” Karp asked.

“Ah shit, I don’t know. We were just sitting here strumming and passing a jug around and having a good time, when Bloom bursts out of the bushes and starts bracing the kid. It’s his kid, by the way, poor little bastard. I gather he was bent out of shape because the kid was smoking and drinking, and generally having a good time with adults, which according to the kid was a first. Apparently, Bloom keeps him hidden most of the time.”

She looked around. “Looks like the songfest is over. Let’s find the guys and go home, Butch. This place sucks. And I drank too much wine.”

“OK by me. I think they’re back by the house.”

Marlene hoisted the Gibson and they joined the stream of people moving back toward the terrace. “You know something, baby?” said Marlene. “I think the real reason Bloom was mad was because a bunch of people at his party were doing something spontaneous-I mean not under his gaze, or his control. He just took it out on the kid. Some shit, huh?”

“Yeah, you could be right. It’s a real happy family. Denise is half in the bag most of the time. She spilled her guts to me and V.T. Apparently Bloom hates this place; it reminds him of his old man, the senator or the secretary of whatever the hell he was. But he won’t sell it and keeps pretending it’s his beloved country seat. We got the grand tour. The place is fucking crumbling. Half the rooms are closed up. The only things still in their original condition are the tennis courts and the fish pond. And the beehives.”

“Beehives?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s got dozens of them in the meadow on the other side of the fish pond. The great man won’t have any store-bought honey on his toast. His big thing is giving quarts away at Christmas. He’s famous for it. It’s the only thing he ever gives away. Also the fish are not just ordinary goldfish, which they look like, but imperial carp or some shit like that. Very valuable and brought back at great expense by his grandfather when he went to China for FDR. Each one comes with a price tag.”

“Fascinating.”

“Yeah, right. I can’t figure him. He practically wouldn’t leave me alone. ‘Have a pickle, Butch. More beans, Butch?’ Old Corncob was all smiles, too. I can’t figure it.”

“You can’t? It’s plain as day to me. The office is suffering from terminal morale problems. More people are leaving than coming in. He spotted you as the natural leader of the younger ADAs, besides which you were closer to Garrahy than most. He figures he’s got to co-opt you to complete his control of the office. He can fire the old farts, but …”

“He needs young farts like me, huh?”

“Right. Which is why you’re going to be bureau chief when Gelb leaves. Then I’ll love you even more.”

She slipped her hand down the back of his cutoffs and goosed him.

The terrace was once again full of people. The servants were clearing away the rest of the food. Marlene grabbed the last hot dog off the grill, suddenly ravenous and light-headed from having eaten nothing and drunk a good deal all afternoon. The hot dog was too hot and she blew on it to cool it off. She was too engrossed to notice the arrival of V.T., who said, “Suck, Champ, blow is just a figure of speech.”

“Oh, hi, V.T. Where’s Goom? We want to get out of here.”

“Wandering around somewhere. He’ll turn up. Oh, oh. It looks like we’re going to have a speech.”

Bloom had climbed up on a wooden folding chair. Somebody tapped a spoon against a bottle and the crowd fell silent. The only sounds were those made by insects, and the hum of the motor that aerated the fish pond.

“Friends, I just wanted to tell you how much Denise”-here he glanced around for his wife, who was not to be seen-“um, and I have enjoyed having you here. I want our office to be like a family, and you know I’m always ready to help you out whatever your problems are. I want to get to know you as people and I want you to know me the same way.”

Marlene whispered to Karp. “How unbelievably pompous! Why is he doing this?”

Karp whispered back, “You were right. He’s reestablishing control over the fun.”

“You all seem to be having a good time. I hope everybody had enough to eat and drink?” Murmurs of assent. No one was crude enough to mention the seven dollars.

“Good, good. But no party is complete without entertainment and I …”

At that moment, Bloom was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of someone passing gas. But what a passer! The sound went on for what seemed like an impossibly long time, changing in tone and pitch from a high bagpipelike skirl to a profound popping bass. Scattered applause and laughter ran through the crowd.

“That’s Fartin’ Martin,” said V.T. “Guma’s been plying him with beans and beer all afternoon. He delivered right on cue. What a sense of theater!”

Bloom flushed and popped his eyes, but took a deep breath and recovered his composure.

“I noticed a little while ago that there was a young lady singing for some people back over in the bushes, and I wondered if she would come up here now and sing for all of us.” He looked directly at Marlene, smiling broadly, except around the eyes. He started to clap, and others took up the applause.

Marlene said out of the side of her mouth, “Fuck this asshole, I’m not going to go up and perform for him.”

V.T. clapped loudly by her side. “Come on, Champ, do one of your specials. Knock ’em dead.”

“Yeah, Marlene, see if you can top Martin,” Karp said.

“All right, bozo, you asked for it,” she said grimly, as the crowd made way for her. She went up to the cleared space Bloom had spoken from, nodded curtly at Bloom and propped a foot up on a chair. Bloom sat down on the retaining wall that divided the terrace from the short slope that led to the pond. He had a front row seat. Wharton was at his side, as usual.

Marlene lifted the guitar onto her raised knee, adjusted the capo, and began to play. The tune was the “Wabash Cannonball,” but the version she sang departed substantially from the original:

Don’t put sand in the Vaseline, or you’ll hurt the one you love,

Sandy Vaseline will make chicken croquettes of your little turtle dove,

So, be real kind and gentle, and use a velvet glove,

But don’t put sand in the Vaseline or you’ll hurt the one you love.

That was the chorus. The fifteen verses that follow are generally considered to be among the filthiest ever written. But funny. Bloom was not laughing, nor was his immediate court of lackeys. He substituted a fixed, unnatural smile, like a model in a cheap clothing ad. Everyone else was on the floor, screaming with laughter and joining in on the chorus.

Unfortunately, Marlene was not able to finish all the verses. At verse four-“Oh, did he call the axman, to chop off both their heads, No, he just put sand in the Vaseline and they tore themselves to shreds”-the air was riven by an immense explosion. The famous fish pond was history. A column of greasy black water forty feet high-laden with pureed imperial carp and the immemorial slime of the pond bottom-hovered for an instant above the terrace and then crashed down on the crowd.

There followed a second or two of stunned silence, and then pandemonium. Nobody was seriously injured, except sartorially. Bloom was thrashing about like one of his late fish in a puddle of slimy muck, bellowing. Marlene was soaked and stained black from head to toe. V.T.’s immaculate white costume was covered with silver-dollar-sized patches of grunge. The place smelled like low tide near a sewer outlet.

“This is the end! This is the goddamn end!” Bloom was shouting. Wharton and his other aides were fussing over him, picking bits of glittering fish scales, guts, and other detritus from his jumpsuit, which was now a dark olive drab. He shook away from them. “Stop that, you morons! Get the police! We’ve been bombed, can’t you see that? There could be others planted.”

As Wharton rushed toward the house to carry out these orders, it became clear that this was not, in fact “the end.” An upstairs window flew open and Mrs. Bloom stuck her head out and began to shriek like a banshee.

What had happened was that Denise had decided to take a little nappie in the waning afternoon. She had been hitting the gin pretty heavily and thought it best to recover so she could bid farewell to the departing guests without swaying. She chose a spare bedroom and curled up under the covers on one of the twin beds.

But this was the same bedroom in which V.T. and Guma chose to deposit the zonked-out Richie Krier. Did they pull his clothes off and hide them under the bed? Of course. And did they inflate the life-sized sex doll and arrange it on top of Richie’s nakedness in the classic sixty-nine position? Naturally.

So that when the mighty explosion awakened both sleepers, and Denise looked around in panic and in the dim light saw Richie thrashing around under the doll, she concluded-not without reason-that two people were performing an act that she had read about with a combination of fascination and horror, but which was as yet outside her experience-and performing it in her house. She shouted, “Stop! What! Wha … Stop, who, who, what!!”

Richie was trying to put his mind back together. He seemed to have lost a considerable amount of time. He recognized the DA’s wife, but not what was three inches from his nose, which was a fairly good simulacrum of the female pudenda. That is, he knew what it was, but had no clue as to its owner, never a good situation to wake up into.

He sat up, which caused the doll to flip over onto its back. Now its welcoming arms, huge, red-tipped breasts, and gaping thighs were directed at Mrs. Bloom. Of course, Richie was out of bed by now, covering his crotch with a pillow and running around the room trying to find his clothes. Mrs. Bloom naturally concluded that this man, having reduced one woman to paralysis through that unspeakable act, was about to perform it on her. In her confusion, she shouted, “Stay away from me!” and picked up her most recent gin-and-tonic glass.

Richie said, “OK, lady, I just got to find my clothes,” but in so saying he advanced toward her bed to search the other side of the room. She flung the glass at him. It glanced off his head, flew up to the ceiling and shattered the ornate glass light fixture. A rain of glass shards fell down on the bed and the doll, one of which punctured its skin.

With a fizzing sound that might have come from Fartin’ Martin, the doll simultaneously deflated and flew across the room, a sexual gargoyle on the rampage. Which is why Denise Bloom was standing at the window screaming like a being demented. Which, at the time, she was.

Bloom was also screaming. “The terrorists have got my wife! Wharton, get the security guard! Do something, damn it!”

The security guard, who was, of course, Marty Konstantelos, burst out of the bushes brandishing his nightstick and his.38. He took several long steps on the terrace, slipped on the slimy surface, skidded twenty feet like a speed skater out of control, bowled over several people, including Wharton, and caught his head a nasty knock against the stone steps. As he sank into unconsciousness, his fabled gas reservoir let loose a cannonade that would have honored a chief of state, much less a district attorney.

At that moment an almost unidentifiable creature leaped up on the retaining wall. It was short and squat and glistening black in color, and stank. One might have guessed it was a sort of ape or a subhuman amphibioid creature that time forgot. A bottle of Scotch glittered in its grubby paw, not a usual accessory of such creatures. Perhaps an ape after all. Marlene identified it first. “Guma, you rotten son of a bitch! You stole my souvenirs!” she shrieked.

Guma-it was him indeed-jumped from the wall and raced across the terrace.

“Run! Run! It’s the fucking bees!” he shouted, and was gone down the path. And in fact the shock wave from the blast had upset half a dozen of the beehives in the meadow near the fish pond. The bees were not amused. In a moment the air was full of tiny yellow bodies and cries of pain. Marlene, Karp, and V.T. raced after Guma toward the parking area. They leaped into the old Mercury, rolled up the windows, and swatted bees as Guma peeled off down the drive, throwing a rooster-tail of gravel in his wake.

“Whoo-ee!” Guma exclaimed, as they roared onto the state road. “We stink like four inches up a penguin’s asshole. Anybody want some Scotch?” Everybody took a restorative belt. They also soaked V.T.’s ascot in Scotch and used it to dab at their stings.

“Hey, Ciampi! You ain’t mad at me, are you. For borrowing your bomb?”

“Shit, not really, Goom. I couldn’t think of a better use for it actually. On the other hand, you ever go near my office again, paisan, I’ll break your fucking head.”

“And she will, too, Guma,” added Karp sincerely.

They drove in silence for a while, and then V.T. let out a sigh and said, “Well, I guess he probably won’t invite us back there for a long time.” They laughed about that all the way down the Sawmill River Parkway.

Guma dropped Marlene and Karp off at Karp’s place. They took showers and changed clothes. Marlene was spending most of her time at Karp’s place by now, but kept her apartment-just in case.

“Hey, Marlene, why isn’t the water draining out?” yelled Karp from the bathroom.

Marlene was wrapped in a towel, sitting on the bed drying her hair. It had frizzed into a near-Afro that she was struggling to bring under control with a dryer and a steel brush. “Oh, that’s my hair. It always clogs. I’ll get some Drano tomorrow.”

Karp walked out of the bathroom, naked. “Hair in the drain? Drano? Does this mean the romance has gone already?” He bent over and nuzzled her neck. She shivered. “Nah, it just means-ahh, that’s so fine! — it just means we should get ready for new and startling levels of intimacy.” She held his head between her hands and stared into his eyes. “We’re in pretty deep and there’s a lot we don’t know about each other.”

“Especially me,” agreed Karp. “I mean sometimes you really whack me out, Marlene. I mean the stuff you pull. It scares me. You just decide to, I don’t know, disappear, or join the circus or something. You know?”

“Yeah, I know. You want me to be calm, so you can admire my beauty in peace. Like this.” She draped the towel over her head and struck a Mona Lisa pose. “I mean I know I’m easy on the eye. Shit, I’ve been hearing that since I was six. I know about the advantages of being attractive. But in a way, I hate it. It’s like what V.T. says about being rich. Is it me that’s desirable, or is it the other stuff, the money or the face? I mean, to a freak or a poor son of a bitch that’s looney, right? But there it is. My innermost fear.”

“It’s you,” said Karp, taking the hair dryer and the brush out of her hands. “Just you.”

She lay back and flung the towel down. “It better be, Buster.”