Kramer looked up at the ceiling of the Haiphong Harbor. It had been painted matte black, along with all sorts of ducts, pipes, and lighting fixtures. Looked like intestines. His own wife. Her idea of coming to his defense was to say, "Larry's got so many colored people to put away, he hasn't got time to treat them as individuals. So you mustn't be hard on him." He had broken his hump on the Herbert 92X case, handled it brilliantly, looked Herbert himself right in the eye, avenged the father of five, Nestor Cabrillo -- —and what did he get for it? Now he had to defend himself against a bunch of intellectual trendies in a trendy bistro in trendy fucking SoHo.

He scanned the table. Even Mary Lou was giving him the fishy look. The big beautiful whitebread airhead had become as trendy as the rest of them.

Well, there was one person who understood the Herbert 92X case, who understood how brilliant he had been, who understood the righteousness of the justice he had wrought, and she made Mary Lou Jugs look like . . . like . . . nothing.

For a moment he caught Mary Lou's eyes again, but the light had gone out.