Lerner was looking at him as if he had Karp's number-not a nice look. He asked, "How's Marlene these days, Butch?"

"She's fine," Karp answered shortly. Crane caught the interplay. He said, "I'm sure something could be found for your wife, Butch. I hear she's quite a competent attorney in her own right."

"Yes," said Karp, beginning to steam. "She is. And I'll need to discuss this with her. And think about it some more. Why don't I call you tomorrow or Monday?"

Crane frowned. "All right. But we need to get moving on this."

After thirteen years, why the rush? Karp thought to himself, but said nothing.

On the train back to the city, Karp went through the interview again in his mind, obsessing about what he should have asked, how he should have acted. It was an uncomfortable pattern of thought, and unfamiliar. Nerds did it, playing out witty things never said to snooty girls, going home on the subway to Queens, having failed to score in the Village. L'esprit d'escalier. Karp nearly always said exactly what he thought at the moment (except, of course, when he conversed with his wife). Athletics, they say, builds character, and Karp had the sort of character built by big-time athletics: all-state guard, high school all-American, Pay-Ten star, and that peculiar six weeks in the NBA. You see the opening, you go for it. Roll over anybody who gets in the way. You screw up, you don't think about it, there's always another game. Shoot the ball.

It happens that this sort of character is also well suited to prosecuting homicides, although less so for major life decisions requiring introspection. That's what Marlene was for.

Karp shook himself free of troubled thought and watched New Jersey flow by outside the dirty window. What he should have said, he concluded, when Crane first offered the job was, "Sure. When do I start?" Holding that thought, he dozed.