“Billy—,” she said.
“And inside the punch bowl, the alcohol steeps in juniper berries, oil of coriander and orange peel. But look, you can add your own juniper berries.” He picked up a tiny blue-black berry from a small silver bowl, squished it between his fingers and let it fall—
plop!
—into his glass. “Delightful.”
“Billy—”
He raised the glass and slurped it down, juniper berry and all.
She looked at Sherwood, who was grinning, his eyes half lidded. He looked like he might slide off the sink at any moment.
“You were supposed to cut him off,” she said.
“Don’t you worry.” Sherwood waved his hand. “This boy can hold his liquor.”
“Yes, he’s now holding a glass of it in each hand,” she said, and grabbed one of the glasses from Faulkner. Faulkner used the free hand to steady himself on the edge of the tub.
Benchley entered, took one look around the small room, then stepped forward and dipped his martini glass into the big punch bowl. Contentedly, he sat down on the edge of the tub next to Faulkner.
“Oh, well,” Dorothy sighed, giving up. Then she, too, filled her glass. “No one frolics like we alcoholics.”
She sat down on the edge of the tub on the other side of Faulkner. She took out a cigarette, which prompted Faulkner and Sherwood to light up cigarettes as well, and Benchley took out his pipe.
They sat contentedly smoking and drinking for only a moment when Woollcott suddenly stood in the doorway.
“What the deuce is going on in here?” Woollcott glared at each of them in turn. His eyes nearly popped out when he looked at Faulkner. “Is that my tie, young man?” He turned to Dorothy. “Is he wearing my necktie?”
Woollcott fluttered forward, his cape flapping behind him. He stood over Faulkner and Dorothy. “You two overtake my humble abode for who knows how long! You hold out the promise of chocolates that never existed! You besmirch my good name by fabricating lies and deceit in a lowly tabloid! And you solicit funds for my foe’s funeral! To top it off, you purloin my most treasured necktie! I won’t stand for this!”
“Then, take a seat,” she said calmly, pointing at the toilet. “The john is unoccupied.”
Woollcott ignored her. He continued his tirade, now demanding that Faulkner take off the tie. Then Woollcott demanded that Faulkner and Dorothy never return to his apartment.
Dorothy noticed Neysa McMein standing in the bathroom doorway, seemingly indifferent to Woollcott’s temper tantrum. In her hands, she held Dorothy’s upturned cloche. Neysa came forward, handed the hat to her, shrugged, then left the room.
Dorothy looked into the hat. It was almost as empty as when she had taken it off earlier. At the bottom were a few wadded-up dollar bills, a handful of loose change, a couple cigarette butts and a gum wrapper.
Well, what had she expected, after all? Did she think she could help Neeley pay for Mayflower’s entire funeral expenses by passing around a hat at a party of his rivals?
Still, she was disappointed just the same. She sucked away the last of her cigarette and tossed the butt into the hat with the others.
“Hold on, now, just a minute,” Faulkner was saying. Unsteadily, with the assistance of Benchley, he rose to his feet, inches from Woollcott’s pinched nose. “Maybe I can make up this to you, sir.”
Faulkner fumbled in his pockets and finally withdrew a shiny object. “Here!”
He dropped it into Woollcott’s open palm. Woollcott actually jumped when he realized what it was: the tooth from the Sandman’s watch chain.
Woollcott’s upper lip curled in disgust. His chubby fingers could scarcely hold the thing.
Benchley clapped Faulkner on the shoulder. “Well done, my lad! How did you find it?”
Faulkner smiled; his eyes tried to meet Benchley’s but couldn’t quite make it. “Simple. I went looking for it the following morning. There it was in the gutter, covered by a leaf.”
“Take this
thing
away!” Woollcott cried. He held it at arm’s length.
Faulkner shook his head. “No, please, you keep it. You’ve been so gener—”
Woollcott was nearly shaking. His doughy face was pale. “I won’t be insulted like this!”
Faulkner smiled again. He didn’t seem to understand. “Think nothing of it.”
Dorothy stood. It was time to use the secret weapon. “Billy,” she said, “give him the thing in your other pocket.”
She had to repeat it, and even so, it took a moment for Faulkner to comprehend. Finally, from his other jacket pocket, Faulkner removed the box of liquor-filled chocolates. He looked at it and his jaw dropped. He was seemingly unaware of how it had gotten there, as though he had just pulled a rabbit out of his pocket.
Woollcott stopped shaking. His whole demeanor changed. “Now, that’s more like it—”
Then, with stunned surprise still etched on his face, Faulkner passed out. He fell forward, collapsing directly into Woollcott, tearing his cape and landing facedown on the bathroom floor, crushing the box of chocolates beneath him.
For once, Woollcott was speechless. For a long moment, no one said a word. They just stared at Faulkner lying on the floor.
“Alcohol,” Dorothy said. “The life—and the death—of the party.”
Chapter 35
Dorothy rolled over and fell to the floor. Her head pounded furiously. She stared at the carpet. It was not her carpet. It was much nicer. She slowly turned her head and looked at the sofa on which, until just a moment ago, she had been sleeping. It was not her sofa. It was much nicer. She realized it was Woollcott’s sofa, and she wondered for a moment how Woollcott’s carpet and sofa had found their way into her apartment. Then she realized it was not her apartment. It was much nicer. It was Woollcott’s apartment.
Then, still lying on the floor, she began to piece together the final events of the night before.
Faulkner had passed out on the floor of Neysa McMein’s bathroom. She remembered that very clearly. Woollcott, who had been indignant a moment before, suddenly changed his tune and became devilishly merry. He abruptly bid them good night, saying he was returning, as planned, to Dorothy’s apartment at the Algonquin.
Forget it, she had told him. The ruse is no longer necessary. He could have Wit’s End back.
Wouldn’t think of it, Woollcott had said. A deal’s a deal.
She realized he was doing this just to spite her—the distance to Woollcott’s apartment was several blocks farther away than the distance to the Algonquin, which would make transporting Faulkner that much more difficult.
But before she could protest, Woollcott had turned and was gone with a swish of his torn opera cape.
Eventually, Benchley and Sherwood pulled Faulkner to his feet and managed to walk him out to the street and fold him into a taxi. Fortunately, getting Faulkner to Wit’s End wasn’t much different from getting him to the Algonquin, just an extra few blocks in the taxi. Again, Benchley and Sherwood lugged him out and into Woollcott’s apartment building, and up the elevator to the apartment, and dumped him onto Woollcott’s bed.
To celebrate getting Faulkner back safely, they decided to empty Woollcott’s liquor cabinet. They plopped down on the sofa and managed to empty half a bottle of brandy before they gave up at around three o’clock in the morning.
One thing Dorothy remembered clearly: After Sherwood excused himself for a minute, Benchley turned to her.
“Is there anything at all the matter?” he asked casually. “You’ve been giving me that evil eye of yours all night.”
“As a matter of fact”—she couldn’t stop herself—“I’m annoyed how you talked to that Goosey woman. You already have a woman who loves you. You shouldn’t need to look at and talk to that harlot that way.”
His smile faded. “I know my wife loves me.” The words stung her. “But I can’t help but notice that stripper. She’s like an eye-catching billboard or a rare animal in a zoo. One’s attention is attracted to such spectacles. As for talking to her—”
“Yes, did you
have to
inquire about her romance with Mickey Finn? ‘What do you see in this man?’ That was shameful.”
Benchley considered this. “I was merely curious about her welfare in a very small way, much the same way you’ve been a mother hen to our little Billy. I wasn’t looking to rescue her or—heaven forbid!—fall in love with her, if that’s what you mean. My, my, Mrs. Parker, I had no idea you were such a slave to propriety,” he teased.
She realized she felt relieved. “I’m no slave to propriety.” She leaned toward him and held out her empty glass. “Nor to sobriety. Fill ’er up, Mr. Benchley.”
Later, she had a vague recollection of Sherwood and Benchley saying good night. She recalled that Sherwood had offered Benchley his couch. She also seemed to remember that Sherwood had given her a hug, which made her feel warm, and Benchley had kissed her forehead, which made her stomach flutter.
Had she dreamed that? The members of the Vicious Circle didn’t hug. They certainly didn’t kiss.
Must have been a dream, she decided.
But having decided this, she felt sad. And that got her thinking about other sad things. She felt sad that she had been able to collect only a few dollars for Lou Neeley. She felt sad that she had allowed Faulkner to get stone drunk, as if she had misled him somehow, as if this whole sordid affair was somehow her fault and she had dragged him into it. She knew that wasn’t how it really was, but she couldn’t help but feel it.
She also felt sad for poor Woodrow Wilson, who had been cooped up with Woollcott for three days, and she hadn’t even visited him to take him for a walk or pat him on the head. She assumed Woollcott would have it in his heart to care for the poor dog.
Her thoughts turned back to Benchley, and now she felt sad for herself. But she silently cursed herself for feeling this way. What right did she have to feel sad for herself when she caused so much trouble for everyone else? She curled up on the carpet and put her hands over her eyes.
Still, she wanted to see Benchley. She felt at loose ends now, but seeing him—being around him, with his easygoing, cockeyed confidence—would make her feel like herself again.
Well, she would see him soon. She would see him at the ’Gonk for lunch—
Oh, shit!
She sat up and looked around for the clock.
Oh, shit!
It was ten minutes past noon! They gathered for lunch at one o’clock.
She dragged herself up off the floor, her head swimming. She staggered into the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face.
Today of all days!
she thought. Today, when everybody would be there as she and Benchley would—somehow—bring forth Mayflower’s murderer. . . .
She hurried into the bedroom. Faulkner was still out cold on the bed.
Let sleeping dogs lie,
she thought.
She tore open the closet door, hoping she had brought at least one decent dress that was something close to clean and unwrinkled. ...
“Is it time to get up?” Faulkner muttered. He lay still, one eye open.
“Not for you,” she said. “You stay put.”
She had only two outfits to choose from. One of the two she had worn the day before, so she picked the other—a violet frock with a matching belt. She also grabbed her black cloche.
“Where are you going?” he mumbled.
“Lunch at the Algonquin. Today’s the big day. Will you be all right here alone?”
He cocked his head to look at her. “I won’t be.”
“You won’t be all right?”
“I won’t be alone.” He sat up and winced. “I’m going with you.”
“Forget it. You won’t be able to hold your lunch, much less hold your end of a conversation. Just sleep it off.” She went back into the bathroom to get changed.
By the time she came back out, Faulkner stood swaying by the front door. He had changed his jacket and had put on another one of Woollcott’s florid neckties. She went over to him and straightened it. His eyes were sunken and his skin was pasty. She felt ill just looking at him.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” she said.
“I need to be there.”
She was too tired, and in too much of a hurry, to argue with him. “It’s your funeral.”
She took his arm, opened the door and pulled him out.
On the street, they realized that neither of them had any money for a taxi or even five cents each for the subway. So they began to walk the sixteen blocks to the Algonquin Hotel.
It was warm outside, especially for April, and beads of sweat trickled down Faulkner’s face. They didn’t speak much, each one lost in thought. About halfway along, Faulkner turned to her.
“Is this a typical Friday morning for an average writer in New York City?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I don’t know any average writers. Why do you ask?”
His heavily lidded eyes fluttered. “I’m beginning to think New York is not for me.”
She looked at him. His skin was fish-belly white. “Nonsense. You fit right in. Just don’t think of yourself as average, no matter where you go. Come on. We’re almost there.”
She pulled him along. Faulkner’s skin was so pale that he was almost green. And her head was pounding.
They reached the Algonquin just after one o’clock. A small crowd had gathered under the awning at the hotel’s front door. As she and Faulkner approached, the cluster of people turned to stare. Dorothy took a deep breath, gripped Faulkner’s arm and pulled him through the knot of onlookers and in the door.
Inside—instead of the usual welcoming cool, dark and quiet atmosphere—the lobby was now crowded, loud and brightly lit. Undaunted, she elbowed her way forward, her hand clutching tightly to Faulkner to keep from losing him in the crowd. Expectant faces that she didn’t recognize turned to look at her.
A hand tapped her shoulder. She spun around, ready to launch a nasty remark.
But it was Benchley, smiling as ever. As reliable as Christmas. She would have hugged him—but it was too crowded, of course.