It was Dad, quite naturally, who set the trap that sprung its tungsten jaws quite neatly over Rabun’s scrawny neck. Warlock flew to Minneapolis and Dad met him at the Republic gate with his dumpy second wife. Warlock, continuing his role as the forlorn waif, had fallen into his father’s arms, aided, in his sentimental overdrive, by a long boozy layover at O’Hare.

“Jesus! Let go. Everyone will think we’re homingtons. What shitheel gave you that haircut?”

The fact of the matter was that on his return in December only Diana had appreciated his scuffy haircut, and that was for the peculiar effect his soft, short hair had on her upper thighs.

“Are you pretending I’m someone else?” he had asked with a searing pang in his heart.

“No, not really. It just feels different. Everyone needs something different.” She was hoisting herself on her own petard!

“I’m not enough?” He buried his face in the pillow, almost afraid to hear.

“I said something different, goofy. Not someone. Your hair feels like my first boyfriend, you know, back in the ninth grade.”

“Did you do you know what with him?”

“Of course not. We were both Methodists. He had this giant thing and I’d rub it once a week with a lot of tissues in my hand.” Diana began laughing hysterically. He didn’t get the joke.

Over an inedible mess of Myrna’s pork paprikash at Dad’s condo the plan was made. After a few swift phone calls much of the blame, other than Rabun’s, was affixed on the Detroit law firm. After determining Warlock’s solvency, Dad called an ace private dick in Detroit, a former employee of both the FBI and the IRS who charged five hundred bucks a day plus expenses. That matter immediately solved, Dad railed on about the ineptitude of the Minnesota Vikings until he noticed tears forming in his son’s eyes.

“So what’s the matter?”

“Diana’s been running around.”

“Big fucking deal. So write your congressman. If you got proof, tell her to stop. She’s too good a lady to divorce.”

“You mean it?”

“Are you kidding? Any man would give his eyetooth or thumbs for a shot at her drawers. Grow up. All this time on the road, are you fucking around?”

“A little bit but she doesn’t know it.”

“Myrna, Myrna!” Myrna emerged from the toilet in a pink satin robe. “Myrna, you should listen to this jerkoff kid I raised.” Myrna shrugged and went back to the toilet. Warlock’s dad drank deeply from his schnapps on the rocks. “Fran Tarkenton should come out of retirement. Bud Grant don’t know shit from shinola.”