At that moment, Della came down from the bathroom, showered and smelling of Goya talcum. She had dressed herself in one of Ed’s green gingham shirts, with the sleeves rolled up, and the front unbuttoned right the way down to her navel. She had washed her hair, and it was wet and combed Sha-Na-Na style.

‘I just looked in on Shearson,’ she said. ‘He’s sleeping.’

‘Again?’ asked Karen.

‘I think he’s trying to retreat from reality,’ Della remarked. She went to the cocktail cabinet and, uninvited, poured herself a bourbon. Ed said, ‘Help yourself to a drink,’ but his sarcasm didn’t faze her in the least. She came to the window and possessively curled her arm around his waist, and kissed him on the cheek. Karen gave them both a tight lemon-at-the-party kind of a smile.

‘Shearson can’t imagine a world without food,’ said Della. ‘Therefore, he’s decided to withdraw from it completely until it all gets back to normal. If this famine goes on, he’ll probably sleep like a baby until he dies of starvation in his bed.’

‘How’s Peter?’ asked Karen.

Della swallowed bourbon. ‘Peter’s okay. I think he’s got used to the idea that he’s going to be better off if he cooperates. Peter’s enough of a political manager to know what kind of a jam he’s in. In his case, I think a little plea-bargaining is going to go a long way.’

‘You still think you’re going to be able to bring Shearson to court?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Della. ‘But until I get orders to the contrary, he’s under arrest charged with fraud and misappropriation of funds and more federal bank offences than you can mention. And that’s the way it’s going to stay.’ Peter Kaiser appeared in the doorway, dressed in an ill-fitting short-sleeved shirt in bright orange, and a pair of creased khaki slacks that were too wide around the waistband and three inches too short around his ankles. ‘Well, well,’ said Karen. ‘How’s Waikiki beach today?’ Peter didn’t even answer. He sat himself on the end of the sofa, clutching himself as if he was beginning to feel the cold, and looked steadfastly miserable.

‘You want a drink?’ asked Ed. ‘There’s some bourbon left, or a little sherry.’

‘No. No, thanks,’ Peter told him.

Della said, ‘You’re not in cell block eleven yet, Peter. Don’t look so unhappy.’

Peter looked up. ‘You think I’m unhappy because of that? You think your half-assed threats of arraignment mean anything at all? You can stick your arraignment, right where the camel stuck his dates. I’m worried about my mother, if you must know. I tried to call her this morning, but all the lines to Washington are out.’

‘I got through to LA just now,’ said Ed. ‘Maybe they’re only out for an hour or two.’