“‘To sleep, perchance to dream…’” Paul raised his eyebrows. “I just got my season tickets to the Globe Theater in San Diego. First production’s All’s Well That Ends Well. Come with me, my sweet, and I promise you an extraordinary experience.”

“Pass.”

“Come on, Marjorie,” Paul said. “Expose yourself to culture.”

“I have culture.” She reached inside her desk and pulled out her flute case. “This is culture.”

“Culture is for yogurt,” said Mike Hollander, lumbering in. He settled his meaty buttocks on a chair and pulled out a pile of papers from his desk drawer.

“Good morning, Michael,” said Marge. “Did you get the invitation to my next recital?”

Hollander tugged on the ends of his drooping mustache and gave her a sick smile. “Mary and I will be there.”

Marge gave him a pat atop his bald head. “For that, I’ll serve you coffee.”

Hollander smiled, genuinely this time. “You can toss me that old doughnut, Margie. No one else seems to be eating it.”

“Righto.” She aimed and fired. Hollander caught it in his right hand.

MacPherson said, “You’re actually going to her recital.”

Hollander whispered back, “The sacrifices one makes for friendship.”

“You’re an asshole,” MacPherson said. “You listen to her produce squeaky noises and I ask, what’s the payoff?”

“It makes her happy,” Hollander said.

“Makes her happy?” MacPherson said. “I don’t believe you said that, Michael.”

“I heard that, Paul,” Marge said.

“Mea culpa, madam,” said MacPherson. “I apologize. I don’t pick fights with women who outweigh me by twenty-five pounds.”

“Twenty,” Marge said. “I lost some weight since I broke up with Carroll. God, what an appetite that man had. I never realized how much the two of us ate.” She went over to the urn and poured two rounds of coffee, one in her unadorned mug, another in Hollander’s—a ceramic cup fronted with two 3-D breasts, the nipples painted bright pink.

“Done with the paper work yet, Paulie?” Hollander asked. “Shit, that must have been bad.”

MacPherson said, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the DBs. Both of the punks were subhuman. It’s the little sister that burns my butt.”

“She get in the way of cross fire?” Marge asked, handing Hollander his cup.

MacPherson shook his head. “Get this. She was trying to protect her older brother—the punk. Such a sweet little thing. What a waste!”

“Where’s Decker?” Hollander asked. “He’s late this morning.”

“He took the day off,” Marge said.

“Oh, that’s right,” Hollander said. “He mentioned he was meeting some old army buddy that got himself in a jam.”

MacPherson said. “Rabbi Pete’s upstairs committing an immoral act with a minor.”

Marge smiled and sipped.