"Guma!" Marlene hissed, nodding at the twins who had joined the group. "Young ears."
"Aw, Mom," Zak complained. "Uncle Ray's already told us about the three Bs."
"Three Bs?"
"Yeah, the birds, bees, and broads," Giancarlo said innocently.
Ducking Marlene's glare, Guma headed back "to check on my future ex-wife."
By now everyone was listening to the conversation at the door and laughing except for Hairsmith-Dupont, who had maneuvered herself over to the bookshelf, where she pretended to be vastly interested in the Karp-Ciampi collection. V.T. joined her with two glasses of wine.
Last to arrive was Harry Kipman. His wife had died of ovarian cancer five years earlier. They'd been sweethearts since their high school days, and he'd still not gone out with anyone after her death, to Karp's knowledge. He'd initially turned down this invitation until Marlene called and begged him to come.
"Well, okay, but don't be trying to set me up with anybody," he said. "I'm not ready."
Two hours later, well lubricated on a half-dozen bottles of red wine and eggnog and fueled by Marlene's famous veal parmesan, roasted Italian sausage with sauteed red and green peppers with onion, and gnocchi, as well as several loaves of bread, the conversation was roaring right along. Even Katrina had loosened up to the point of asking Crystal, who, when not dancing for folded dollar bills, was a hair colorist, what she recommended as far as putting highlights in her blond-going-to-gray hair.
"Oh, honey, let me do you in copper-with those green eyes, you'll have every man in New York wanting a go at that cute little chassis of yours," Crystal promised.
Katrina, whose "chassis" resembled a surfboard with two peas on it about breast high, blushed but looked pleased. "Well, I don't know," she said. "I've never been a redhead."
The twins had been ordered off to their room a half hour earlier. They'd gone under protest and only after their dad, who'd had a couple more than his usual, had very nearly given his permission for them to hold Ned's Peacemaker in the morning. To their delight, John Jojola had gone with them. "Come on guys, I'll tell you some stories about Christmas at my pueblo," he said.
When Marlene tried to get him to stay, he shook his head. "It's really not a good idea for me to be around alcohol," he said. "It's not that I'd take a drink. But I don't like the feeling of wishing I could have one."
"We've had enough," Marlene said. "We'll stop. Just stay." She reached for his arm.
Jojola smiled and patted her hand. She sensed the almost electric bond that there'd been between them from the first time they met. It wasn't a man-woman thing. It was more like two old souls who recognized each other.
"Go back to the party," he said. "I need my rest anyway." He hesitated, then added, "I have something I need to do. So if I disappear for a couple of days, don't worry about me."
"This have to do with your dream about David Grale?" She shivered saying the name.
Jojola nodded. "It may be nothing. But I can't ignore the spirits."
"What if it's more than a couple of days?" she said and tried to smile but just managed a small one.
"Send the cavalry." Jojola smiled. "Or better yet, send the Sioux."
When Marlene walked back into the living room, Lucy and Ned were getting up from the couch where they'd snuggled in to listen to "the old folks." They put on their coats, as Lucy explained, "We're going to Rockefeller Center to see if we can ice-skate if the crowds aren't too bad."
"Hey," Karp pouted. "I wanted to take you and the boys ice-skating under the Christmas tree. That's our tradition." He hadn't meant to sound so petulant, but, by God, a father just didn't have to let his daughter start breaking family traditions with the first cowboy who came along.
Lucy walked over and kissed him on the cheek. "We're going to be here for at least three weeks. There'll be plenty of time to go ice-skating as a family." Then out the door they went.
Karp turned to find Marlene smiling knowingly at him. "Daddy's having trouble letting go," she said, wrapping an arm around his waist and leaning her head on his shoulder. "Come on, deep breath."
"I am not," he argued, mostly because there was something else on his mind. "By the way, where's he going to sleep? John's on the futon in the boys' room. Out here on the couch?"
Marlene gave him an amused look.
Then he understood what that meant. "Oh no…they're not…you're not thinking it's okay for them to…," he sputtered. "Not in my house."
Marlene gave him a squeeze. "It's her house, too," she said. "In Ned's defense, he offered to sleep on the floor of the boys' room-said he sleeps on worse when he's riding herd. But Lucy won't hear of it."
Maybe it was the wine, but Karp felt like crying. This is why I don't drink, he thought, it turns me into an idiot.
Marlene steered him back into the living room. Guma was sitting on the love seat next to Crystal, who'd passed out and was snoring like an old man. Green thong, Karp thought, his theory about the skirt having been borne out by the physical evidence. Marlene noticed too and tossed an afghan over the sleeping woman. "She looked cold," she said when she noticed that now he was the one with the amused look on his face.
Murrow and Stupenagel occupied a single overstuffed chair, though it was difficult to see him with her on his lap; they were talking to Kipman, who'd done a number on the brandy and swayed as he stood next to them. Meanwhile, Fulton, Newbury, and their female counterparts were engaged in a lively discussion about the war in Iraq.
Looking for something less meaty than politics, Karp glanced at Guma. "So what was the big secret you couldn't make our meeting for?" he said.
Guma extricated his hand from under Crystal's ass and got up. "Well, maybe this isn't the place, but since the new love of my life has already embarked on her beauty rest, and I'm feeling generous, I guess I'll give you an early Christmas present," he said loud enough that the other conversations stopped and everyone turned to listen.
"I'm Jewish, but go ahead, it can be a late Hanukkah present," Karp said.
"Well, it's not true that I've been pouring drinks down my beloved's throat," he said. "I didn't even get over to the club until four o'clock on my way over here. I've been working. And as it turns out, the I. Kaminsky down at the morgue is not the I. Kaminsky we thought he was. It's his brother, Ivan; as far as I know, Igor Kaminsky is still alive."
"Good work, Guma!" Marlene exclaimed.
"Thank you," Guma said, giving a little bow. "But to be honest, it didn't take any great detective work. I knew that our boy was missing an arm. But the guy in the morgue had both of his…or at least he did before he got slammed by the train, but most of the pieces were present and accounted for."
"Wow, just like in The Fugitive," Stupenagel said. "I just love Tommy Lee Jones."
"Hey," Murrow complained. "I thought you loved me."
"And you're right, my little sugar plum," she cooed. "I love you lots more than Tommy Lee Jones, Honey Buns."
"Sugar Lips," Murrow replied.
"I think I'm going to be sick," an awakened Crystal said before Karp could voice a similar sentiment.
"It is pretty icky," Karp said.
"No, I mean I'm going to be sick for real," she said, scrambling to her feet and wobbling down the hall to the bathroom from which loud retching noises emanated.
Guma hurried after her but soon returned. He had a sheepish look on his face. "Uh, sorry, Marlene," he said.
Marlene patted him on the shoulder. "Don't be. She's a nice kid. Probably too nice to be hanging out with a lecherous old fart like you. I believe I've had my own intimate conversations with the porcelain god in my younger days. Anyway, back to the fugitive. Anything else?"