A Volta two-wheeler was waiting for him outside. Jean drove off down
the drive with characteristic contempt for the laws of gravity when
Dan had piled in, and Carl Golden was there, looking thinner, more
gaunt and hawk-like than ever before, his brown eyes sharp under his
shock of black hair, his long, thin aquiline nose ("If you weren't a
Jew you'd be a discredit to the Gentiles," Dan Fowler had twitted him
once, years before, and Carl had looked down his long, thin, aquiline
nose, and sniffed, and let the matter drop, because until then he had
never been sure whether his being a Jew had mattered to Dan Fowler or
not, and now he knew, and was quite satisfied with the knowledge) and
the ever-present cigarette between thin, sensitive fingers. Dan
clapped him on the shoulder, and shot a black look at his daughter,
relegating her to an indescribable Fowler limbo, which was where she
belonged, and would reside until Dan got excited and forgot how she'd
betrayed him to Dr. Moss, which would take about ten or fifteen
minutes all told. Jean Fowler knew her father far too well to worry
about it, and squinted out the window at the afternoon traffic as the
car skidded the corner into the Boulevard Throughway, across the river
toward home. "God damn it, boy, you could have _wired_ me at least.
One of Jean's crew spotted the passage list, so I knew you'd left, and
got the hearing moved up to next month--"