"That isn't fair, Marlene."

"No, you're right, it isn't. How about you springing this shit on me? Hey, babe, I got a job in D.C., pack it up! That's fair? Look-you can't stand working for Bloom? Fine! There's four other DAs in the city, plus two federal prosecutors, and half a dozen other county prosecutors within commuting distance. Not to mention, I hear there's one or two private law firms in New York. I don't recall you beating on those doors, you can't stand another minute of Bloom."

Karp stood up abruptly and walked a distance away from her, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. He was angrier with her than he'd been in a good while. It was the sort of rage we experience when we have been selfish under the guise of some pretended generosity, and have been found out. Naturally, what he said then was, "You're really being selfish, Marlene."

She opened her mouth to say something, closed it, took a breath instead, and knocked back the rest of her wine. "I'm going to bed," she said, and walked off.

"We haven't finished this, Marlene," said Karp.

She stopped and turned. There were tears in her eyes but her voice was steady. "No, but in a minute you're going to bit me with 'A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.' And I agree. A man's gotta. But a woman doesn't, and neither does a little kid. Don't forget to write."

The next day, Karp called Bert Crane and told him he would take the job. Crane made enthusiastic noises of congratulation; they sounded tinny and unreal coming over the phone, and made Karp feel no better. He had a taste like bile in his mouth and his stomach was hollow and jumpy. He was stepping into a void.

Next, he went up and saw the district attorney. Bloom was sitting behind his big, clean desk, in shirtsleeves and yellow suspenders, puffing on a large cigar.