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"Oh, yes, of course." The director guffawed. "And you never went bowling with Goebbels, I suppose."

Karl, impervious, turned to Shirley.

"And never went flying with Rudolph Hess!"

"Madam wishes?"

"Oh, I don't know. John, you want coffee?"

"Fuck it!"

The director stood up abruptly and strode belligerently from the room and the house.

Shirley shook her head, and then turned to Karl.
"Unplug the phones," she ordered expressionlessly.

"Yes, madam. Anything else?"

"Oh, maybe some Sanka. Where's Steffi?"

"Down in playroom. I call her?"

"Yeah, it's bedtime. Oh, no, wait a second, Karl. Never mind. I'd better go see the bird. Just get me the Sanka, please."

"Yes, madam."

"And for the umpty-eighth time, I apologize for John."

"I pay no attention."

"I know. That's what bugs him."
Shirley walked to the entry hall of the house, pulled open the door to the basement staircase and started downstairs.
“Hi ya, stinky, watchya doin’ down there? Got the bird?”
“Oh, yes, come see! Come on down, it’s all finished!”
The playroom was paneled and brightly decorated. Easels. Paintings. Phonograph. Tables for games and a table for sculpting. Red and white bunting left over from a party for the previous tenant’s teenage son.
“Hey, that’s great!” exclaimed Shirley as her daughter handed her the figure. It was not quite dry and looked