"Sure. Why not? Jack and his pals are hitting the scotch in there. We might as well all get loaded. When the governor gets here we can all lean against each other and sway."

"I notice you're not in there."

"No. I'm not one of the boys. I'd cramp their style, and Jack deserves a couple of hours of fun. It's a big day for him, too."

"Why aren't you?" asked Murrow. "One of the boys. I always wondered about that. You're a boy and you've been here since the year one."

"It's a long story."

"We have time."

"It's longer than that. Let's just say they don't really trust me. Let's just say…"

The office door burst open and a woman walked in. Murrow stared up at her, higher up than he ever had at a woman before, for she was over six feet tall, even without the thick-heeled knee boots she wore. She also had on a knee-length dark leather coat lined with grayish fleece and a flat gray wool hat, dotted with melting snow.

"So, here's where you're hiding!" she exclaimed. "I should have known. And a secret drinker, too, I see. Who's your friend, and will he pour me a shot of… what is that, cognac?"

"You'll have to ask him," said Karp. "Murrow, this is Ariadne Stupenagel, a friend of my wife's. A reporter." His tone on this last word was what he might have used saying "pedophile."

Murrow stood up and shook hands with the woman. A man of moderate size, he felt as if he were back in third grade. He tried not to stare, but this was difficult; she seemed to invite staring: the bottle green eyes, heavily made up with mascara, shadow, and cynicism; the big beak; the enormous, ravenous-looking mouth slashed with orange-pink lip gloss. She whipped off her hat and flung it onto a filing cabinet, spraying droplets.

"I'm sorry, we only have two glasses," Murrow said.

"Oh, that's not a problem," replied Stupenagel, reaching into the capacious canvas sack she carried and coming out with a heavy cut-glass Old-Fashioned tumbler. As he poured, Murrow noticed that the bag was stenciled with Cyrillic lettering and was extremely dirty.