Dorothy Parker Drank Here (13 page)

C
an I offer you a cognac, Didi?” Pete asked.

Didi?
Ted looked at Dorothy Parker to see her response to the strange nickname, but it didn't seem to register.

“I certainly hope so,” she said.

Pete went into the bathroom to rinse out another glass and Ted leaned in toward her. “Why did he call you
Didi
?”

“Get rid of him and I'll explain.”

“I'd rather get rid of
you
,” he said, though he didn't exactly mean it. For the moment, at least, he was glad for the company.

“Sorry we have to use bathroom glasses,” Pete said, coming back into the room. “Next time I'll bring snifters.”

“Don't worry about her,” Ted said. “She'd drink straight from the bottle if she had to.”

“True,” she said. “I've sipped whiskey out of everything from a gold flask to a stained teacup. I'll drink from anything but a slotted spoon.”

Pete poured a glass of cognac and handed it to her. “Did you know that during Prohibition people in speakeasies hid their liquor by drinking it from teacups?”

Ted leaned back and smirked, curious to see how Dorothy Parker would handle Pete's misapprehension.

“You don't say,” she muttered, her expression unchanged.

“It's true.”

“Why, the poor things. How awful it must have been for them.”

Pete pulled out the desk chair and sat, and Ted could tell he hadn't picked up on the sarcasm. And why would he? As far as Pete was concerned, she was just an ordinary woman.

“I imagine it was pretty exciting,” Pete said.

“Like being tied to the railroad tracks,” Mrs. Parker responded.

“I take it you don't romanticize the Prohibition era?”

“My dear Mr. Salzberg,” Dorothy Parker said as she sipped her drink, “there is nothing romantic about living with the constant fear of having your skull cracked open by a billy club during a raid.”

“Come on—it was postwar and pre-Depression. There's plenty of photographic evidence to suggest the revelers were having a grand old time.”

“They were drunk, dear, there's a difference.”

“What do you think, Ted?” Pete asked. “Are
drunk
and
happy
mutually exclusive?”

“
Life
and
happy
are mutually exclusive,” he said, rubbing his head. At the moment, speaking took more energy than he could comfortably manage. Still, he hoped they would stay awhile. It wasn't that he was hungry for company, but sometimes he felt like the quiet would swallow him whole.

“There's my boy,” Dorothy Parker said.

Pete shook his head. “I'm outnumbered by cynics.”

She put down her drink. “The best thing I can say about Prohibition is that poisonous gin didn't always blind you. Sometimes it finished the job and killed you.”

Pete laughed. “Isn't there anything about the Roaring Twenties you admire?”

“Admire? I admire a poem that leaves me speechless. I admire New York on a shiny blue and white autumn day. I admire the simple love of a dumb animal . . . especially if he dresses well and picks up the tab. But I most certainly do
not
admire a ten-year party filled with fools who were overly impressed with themselves.”

“But the
writers
,” Pete said.

“The worst of the lot.”

“I have to disagree with you,” Pete said. “A lot of brilliant authors came out of that era.”

Dorothy Parker took a pack of cigarettes from her bag. She pulled one out, put it to her lips, and placed a lighter on the table in front of Pete. “Far outnumbered by ghastly ones, I assure you,” she said.

Pete picked up her cue and lit the cigarette for her. “You have the most interesting friends,” he said to Ted.

“She's not my friend.”

“Nevertheless,” Pete said, finishing his drink. “I'd better be going.” He stood. “I'll be back tomorrow, Ted.”

After Peter Salzberg left, Dorothy and Ted sat in silence for several minutes.

“I suppose you want me to explain why he called me Didi,” she said.

Ted shrugged. “My curiosity has waned. You can leave now, if you want.”

“I'll do nothing of the sort.”

“I'm not signing that book. And I'm certainly not going on that talk show. So we have nothing to discuss.”

“You know, Norah and I found your original manuscript, as well as the one Audrey altered.”

Audrey
. Her name was a storm and its aftermath. That was how he thought of her—like dark, angry clouds and hurricane winds. Like a home with its roof blown off. Like the frail kitten found shivering under a chair.

The worst part of it—the part he tried so hard to capture in the novel Pete had read—was his own black heart. Aviva found his boozy callousness despicable. She assumed that getting blind drink for days and cheating on Audrey again and again was selfish and irresponsible. But it was worse than that. His real crime wasn't indifference—it was cruelty. He had hurt Audrey intentionally. He wasn't aware of it at the time, but later, when he examined himself in the same harsh light he shone on his characters, he knew. Her pain had lit him up, made him feel alive. It excited him.

And for that, he had to be punished.

“So I heard,” he said.

“You understand what this means,” she said.

“Yes, you're going to finish the job I started and destroy Audrey completely.” His head began to throb and he welcomed the pain.

“That is not our intent.”

“No? Didn't you pay her a visit that nearly scared her to death?”

“I think you got that backward, my dear.”

“Aviva told me. But what did you expect? You can't ambush someone who's that unglued and assume they're going to keep it together.” Ted closed his eyes, picturing Audrey as that kitten trembling under a chair. Only, he was the storm that blew the roof off the house. And now these women were stomping through the wreckage without watching where they planted their feet.

“You don't understand her,” he continued. “You don't even know how frightened she felt. She's been carrying the secret for a long time.”

“You think I don't understand desperation?”

“Is that how she seemed? Desperate?”

“Indeed. She thought we had come to offer her work. Apparently, she is in need.”

So Audrey was out of work and probably strapped. Ted finished the last drops of cognac in his glass and poured more. He wished
there was some way to get her to cash the post-alimony checks he had sent. She didn't need to be broke on top of everything else.

“Can't Aviva help her find work?”

“I suspect she has tried.”

God. How he'd ruined her. And now everyone was trying to convince him to stick around for Audrey's sake, when the best thing he could do for her was vanish forever.

He imagined what it must have felt like for Audrey to open the door for these women, assuming they were there to offer her a job, only to discover they had come to tell her they knew the terrible secret she had been keeping.

Then another thought occurred to him and he looked around, confused. “How did you get in here? I thought you couldn't go anywhere without that guest book.”

She held up the tote bag. “It's in here,” she said. “I can't carry the book itself, but if it's inside something, I can bring it with me. In a manner of speaking, I've been liberated. I can now cross a threshold from room to room.”

“And this is where you choose to be? Of all the places in the world?”

“Teddy dear, consider what this could mean for you. Audrey is going to fall to pieces once the story of her plagiarism comes out. And where will you be? Dead and gone—of no use to her or anyone else. And she will
never
stop blaming herself. But if you sign the book—”

“Stop,” he said.

“If you sign the book, you can go see her.”

He sighed. “This conversation is over.”

“Think about it, Ted.”

“Time for you to leave.”

“What about Norah's television show?”

He rose, grabbed the tote bag, and headed toward the door.

“I've been thrown out of better places,” she said, following him. “But I'll leave you with this to think about: Why abandon her now, when she needs you the most? Haven't you hurt her enough?”

“The best thing I can do for her,” he said, “is drop dead.” Then he opened the door, threw the tote bag into the hallway, and Dorothy Parker disappeared from his room in a cloud of dust. He watched for a moment as the particles hovered outside his room, but before they could take form again, he slammed the door.

N
orah believed
Simon Janey Live
still had a chance. The discovery of those manuscripts could convince Ted to do the show so he could mitigate the damage to Audrey. Still, she knew she had to do the responsible thing. And so she had reached out to the five most influential television people she knew, sending off her current résumé.

Norah opened her laptop to check her e-mail. Two had written back, saying they didn't have any openings. One said she would keep her résumé “on file.” Another simply ignored her. The last one—a network showrunner—told her he forwarded her e-mail to the executive producer of a new reality show about people who have overweight pets. Seriously? Chubby Chihuahuas? Dumpy dachshunds? She'd rather go back to accounting.

Norah tried making a list of other contacts she could reach out to, but her heart wasn't in it. She loved working on
Simon Janey Live
. And it wasn't just her coworkers. She believed in the show. She loved being in the studio and watching it live, that heart-pounding moment when Simon put his hand to his mouth just before letting out
the
question—the one nobody had dared ask. Sometimes it was the
question you didn't even realize was important until you heard it. But there it was, on live television. And as the camera closed in on the guest, you could tell if they were trying to come up with a way around the answer. Then came the best moment of all—that tiny sigh. And you knew they were going to give it all up, right there on live TV.

There was a knock on the door and Norah opened it. Dorothy Parker had returned. As always, her expression was inscrutable.

“Any luck?” Norah asked.

“I was unceremoniously dismissed,” Mrs. Parker said, walking past her.

“But you told him about the manuscripts?”

“Apparently, Peter Salzberg beat me to the punch.”

“And?”

“He's intractable.”

Norah paced the room, thinking. There had to be another way in. “Did you learn anything?” she said.

“That, my dear, is a question people asked me my whole damned life.”

“You didn't get a single fresh insight?”

“I can tell you he seems quite convinced Audrey wants him dead.”

Norah considered Audrey's unequivocal reaction when they brought up Ted's name. “He might be right,” she said, sitting. Still, there was something about Ted's feelings for Audrey she couldn't quite understand. It was as if she were missing the center gear that made the whole machine run. “Did he talk about her? What did he say?”

“He's worried about her lack of employment.”

“I wish he was worried about
mine.
I may be days away from being unemployed.”

“My dear, this could be helpful information. Teddy longs for Audrey to get work. If you could facilitate that—”

“I don't have those kinds of connections, Mrs. Parker. I work for a
TV show that's about to be canceled.” Norah knew Dorothy Parker was right—at this point, their best chance at getting Ted's cooperation would be to come up with a plan that would help Audrey. But what could they do for this pathetic woman?

“Perhaps you can entreat your boss to make a recommendation.”

“First of all, it's kind of hard to get behind a recommendation for someone who pulled a gun on your associate producer. Besides, Audrey's not a TV writer. Her career is in print journalism.”

Mrs. Parker lowered the tote bag onto the floor and took a seat. “Pity.”

Norah stared down at the bag containing the guest book, and an idea hit her right in the throat. “My God,” she whispered.

Dorothy Parker followed Norah's eyes to the tote bag. “What exactly are you thinking?”

“I know how we can help her.” Norah smiled. It was perfect. She reached into the bag and pulled out the Algonquin guest book, which was still held open by the piece of cardboard tied in place. “This,” she said, “is our answer.”

“Norah, dear—”

“Listen, if we promise Ted that we can catapult Audrey's journalism career by giving her the lead of a lifetime, he'll agree to anything. I bet on it!”

“Someone already wrote a story about the guest book. It was not that long ago, and it certainly didn't change anyone's career.”

Norah leaned forward. “That was just a story about a book of signatures. This would be a story about the book's power. It would be about
you
.”

Dorothy Parker tightened her lips. “That, my dear, is simply not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Even a benign article about the book had devastating consequences. That awful Edie Coates showed up, claiming ownership.
And someone had the nerve to tear the last page from the book, depriving me of my dearest companion.”

Norah understood. Dorothy Parker had explained to her about losing her dear little poodle. After that, her loneliness became unbearable.

“But this could fix everything,” Norah insisted. “We can tell Ted we'll give Audrey the story only under two conditions—he has to agree to go on
Simon Janey Live
, and he has to sign the book.”

“Your little plan would leave me completely vulnerable. Anyone could claim possession of the book, and then where would I be?”

“I'll protect you,” she said, holding tight to the open book in her lap. “I'll talk to the hotel management and make sure the book is kept someplace safe.”

“That will never work.”

“Of course it will.”

“If you think I'm going to show up and do parlor tricks for Audrey Hudson or anyone else, you are very much mistaken.”

Norah untied the shoelaces from the guest book and removed the cardboard. She stared down at the brittle pages, browning at the edges.

“Leave that alone,” Mrs. Parker said.

“Don't you trust me?” Norah said.

“I trust no one.”

Norah thought about all the people who could attest to the existence of the book's famous ghost—Angel the staff member, Tiny the bodyguard, Edie Coates the upholstered. Even Peter Salzberg and Aviva Kravette could be interviewed about the woman they had believed was Didi Dickson. And with a little more digging, who knew how many others could turn up? The truth was, she didn't need a cooperative spirit. In fact, the story might be even sexier without hard proof. The air of mystery would invite controversy and speculation. It could grow and grow until Audrey herself was a celebrity.

Norah didn't want to be unfair to Dorothy Parker, but what other choice did she have? This was her last chance to save
Simon Janey Live
 . . . and to connect with Ted Shriver. She would do her best to protect the book and keep it out of the wrong hands. And if Dorothy Parker one day found herself in an untenable situation, perhaps it would be the motivation she needed to go into the white light. And that was where she belonged, wasn't it?

“My dear,” Dorothy Parker said, “I believe we can find a better way of accomplishing your goals.”

“I believe,” Norah said, “that we've exhausted every other possibility.”

“Then our journey has reached an unhappy end, because your proposal is simply not acceptable to me. I will not go along with it. Now, get me a drink.”

Norah rose, went into the bathroom, and applied the plum-red lipstick that made her look formidable. She coughed and cleared her throat. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this,” she called as she inspected her hair and fluffed her dark curls, “but I don't believe this journey is over.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Mrs. Parker asked as Norah emerged.

“I mean,” Norah said, “that I don't need your permission.” Then she closed the book and Dorothy Parker vanished.

—

I
know you can hear me,” Norah said as she knocked on the door of Ted Shriver's room. “I wouldn't have come back if I didn't have something very important to tell you . . . about Audrey.”

“What about her?” Ted said through the closed door.

“I have a lead for her—a story she'll be able to sell to almost any magazine or newspaper in the country.” Norah moved closer and put her hand on the door, envisioning Ted right on the other side, just inches away. “She'll never be out of work again.”

Ted opened the door a crack, leaving the latch in place. “Why would you do that?”

Norah stared through the small space at his tired eyes. They were bloodshot and pained. “To get you to agree to come on
Simon Janey Live
,” she said. “That's the condition.”

He went quiet for a moment. She waited, searching for hope in the silence. If he didn't tell her to fuck off, he might agree. That is, if he was actually listening.

“What's the story?” he finally said.

Norah swallowed, relieved. “Dorothy Parker,” she said, holding up the Algonquin guest book. “That's the story. I'm going to tell Audrey the truth about this book.”

“Why would anyone believe it?”

“Witnesses. Me, you, that frightened hotel employee, your monster bodyguard, Pete and Aviva. I'm sure there are others, too.”

“People will think she's crazy.”

“People already think she's crazy. The point is, some will buy it, some will be skeptical, and
everyone
will be talking about it. She'll wind up on talk shows. She'll get a book deal. It'll be huge.”

He looked down, and Norah waited, listening to him breathe as he contemplated her offer.

“It's what she's always wanted,” he finally said.

“So you agree? You'll do the talk show if I give her what she needs to write this story?”

“How do I know you won't pull the rug out from under her?”

He was looking right at her. Couldn't he sense her devotion to him?

“I wouldn't do that to you,” she said, and felt sure he would understand how loaded those words were. Her affection was complicated but formidable. Surely he could feel that.

“TV people are the scum of the earth.”

“Don't you trust me?” she said, and realized that her voice came
out small, like a little girl's. Her eyes dampened but she wouldn't look away. She stared straight at him, willing him to trust her, to understand that there was a bond between them that she never would break.

“Why should I?”

She swallowed against a tense tangle of nerves in her throat, and knew she had to offer something real. “I know what it means to carry a secret around for someone you love . . . to protect someone who can't protect themselves. I've been doing it my whole life.”

He blinked, and she felt something change. He knew she was telling the truth.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“What?”

“Who are you protecting?”

This time, Norah had to look away. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, ashamed of herself for losing control.

“Look at me,” he said.

She took a jagged breath and stared back at him. “My mother,” she whispered. The confession took so much energy from her that she had to hold on to the doorframe to keep from collapsing.

“I'll do your stupid show,” he said.

“You will?” Norah almost couldn't believe it. She told him about her mother and he had softened. It was almost too good to be true.

“I just told you, didn't I?”

She looked into his eyes so he would understand the depth of her gratitude. “Thank you,” she said.

“Don't flatter yourself. I'm not doing it for
you
. Just get Audrey to agree to write the story, and we'll talk.”