"Not right away," said Karp, turning back to his friend. "We're being modern."

V.T. nodded and smiled ruefully. He himself had been carrying on for a number of years a hopeless affair with an artist who lived in the Berkshires and who would on no account move to the city. "Yes," he said, "how well I know it! Prisoners of women's liberation, a burgeoning gulag. And without even the balm of self-pity, since we richly deserve anything they can dish out, we swine. Sins of the fathers. The best cure is more wine."

He poured himself another glass of champagne. V.T. had sprung for a case of Moet magnums, a typical gesture, and one that had contributed mightily to the current hilarious mood of the party. Nor had he stinted himself in the use of his own gift. A bar of scarlet had appeared across his cheekbones, and his intelligent blue eyes were starting to approximate the cheap plastic glitter of a baby doll's.

"Fuck 'em, anyway," said Karp woozily. "You know, Newbury, you should get out of here, too."

"Why? The party's roaring and we have four bottles of wine left."

"No, I don't mean the party. I mean the DA's." Karp put an affectionate arm across Newbury's shoulder. "Look, V.T., I have a slot for a head of research on our staff. Why don't you take it?"

Newbury cocked his head and looked at Karp out of a narrow eye. "You're joking, right?"

"No, I'm not. You should do it. We'll have a ball."

"But I'm a funny-money man. Fraud is my life."

"The People rest," said Karp.

V.T. laughed, sputtering around a mouthful of champagne. "What? You have the brass to suggest that the Warren Commission and the concept of fraud can possibly exist in the same universe of discourse? It was printed in the Times! Walter Cronkite-"

"Will you?"

"Of course," said V.T., without an instant's hesitation.