Dorothy Parker Drank Here (24 page)

“Straphangers,” Norah repeated, smiling. The term wasn't exactly archaic, but it wasn't something she heard very often.

Dorothy Parker looked up. “Dear me, they've done away with the straps, haven't they?”

Norah glanced around, trying to imagine how it all looked to Dorothy Parker. This had to be her first time on the subway since the 1960s, when most men wore suits and hats and women didn't dare wear pants to work. And certainly, the seats weren't made of orange plastic back then. “I guess all the charm is gone,” she said.

A large man in an olive-green jacket walked down the car and stopped, grabbing the overhead bar in front of them.

“The subway never had
charm
,
my dear,” Dorothy Parker said. “It was dreadful then and it's dreadful now.” The subway car lurched and the man's open jacket swung into her face. She batted it away. “Speaking of which, I would be remiss if I didn't thank you for rescuing me from that ghastly house.”

“It was like something from one of your short stories,” Norah said.

“How did you know I would be there?”

“An educated guess. I was in a panic when I discovered that the book had disappeared. At first I thought Audrey had taken it. Then I realized it had to be Edie Coates. I wound up finding her in the phone book, listed under her full name. A lucky break.”

“I'm surprised you even knew the book was missing. I thought you left the hotel.”

“Did. But I came back to talk to you. Mrs. Parker, something extraordinary happened. Ted agreed to do the show. He's being interviewed tomorrow.”

“Well, that's happy news for you. Congratulations, my dear.”

“I thought it was all over,” Norah said. “The show was shut down and we were all let go. Then Audrey showed up at my apartment. She said the editor who's interested in her story about the guest book insisted on seeing you before giving her the green light. She wanted to strike a deal—if I could get you to appear, Ted would do the show. I refused, but made a counterproposal. I said that Ted had to do the show first. I honestly didn't think he would bite, but it looks like it's actually happening.”

As the subway rounded a curve, the man's green jacket swung toward Mrs. Parker's face again. “Do you mind?” she said to him, and Norah froze. The man was at least three hundred pounds, and looked like a suspect in a police lineup.

He stared down at Dorothy Parker, and Norah broke out in a sweat, certain they were in trouble. But the man shrugged sheepishly and apologized, as if overpowered.

Norah looked back at Mrs. Parker, who was smoothing her skirt, oblivious. Norah made a mental note about commanding respect. The trick, it seemed, was assuming you would get it.

“Listen,” said Norah, who really did have respect for Dorothy Parker. “You don't have to do it. We don't owe them anything. I can tell Audrey I tried my best and you refused. Actually, it would serve them right for how they treated me.”

Mrs. Parker got very still for a moment as she considered it. “I shan't give an answer right now,” she finally said. “Let's wait until tomorrow and see what happens with the show.”

“I'm surprised you would even consider it.”

“My dear, I don't want Ted angry with you.”

“Why not?”

Dorothy Parker gave her a loaded look.

“You're not still stuck on the idea that I should tell Ted he's my father?” Norah said.

“It's imperative.”

“Mrs. Parker—”

“Norah, dear, you will not get another chance.”

“So what? He doesn't deserve any consideration.”

“What about yourself?”

“Don't worry about me,” Norah said. “I'll be fine.”

“I beg to differ. If you don't tell that man he is your father, you will regret it . . . perhaps on the very day he takes his last breath.”

“That's a chance I'm willing to take,” Norah said.

Dorothy Parker sat quietly for a moment. “You said he's doing the show tomorrow?”

“That's right.”

“And you'll be there?”

“I'm always in the studio during the broadcast. Why?”

“No reason, really. Be sure to send Teddy my best.”

P
eter Salzberg made sure to arrive at the Algonquin at least an hour early, hoping he had left enough time to deal with whatever mess Ted might be in. He knew that anything was possible. Ted could be drunk or stoned on painkillers. He might be in a fury that needed an outlet. Or he could just be too dirty and disheveled to appear in public. At Aviva's suggestion, Pete had brought along a sports coat and tie in case Ted didn't have anything clean and pressed to wear for his big television appearance.

He knocked on the door to Ted's room and when it opened, he stepped back, astonished. Ted was clean-shaven and neat, dressed in a halfway-decent dark suit, a tie draped around his neck. He even smelled good.

Pete recognized the aftershave—it was the same one Ted had worn the first time they met back in 1968. Pete had finished reading
Dobson's Night
and asked Ted to come to his office. After the introductions, they went out to lunch—on Litton's dime—and spent an hour talking about the book. Then Pete got ready to launch into his pitch to convince this young author to sign with them. He was well prepped with a list of reasons, from the company's reputation to their
marketing plans for the book. He was even prepared to discuss money. But Ted cut him off.

“I don't want to hear it,” he had said. “Just shut up and give me the contract.”

“Why?”

“Because I trust you.”

And that was it. They had been friends ever since.

Now Pete wondered what force of nature had convinced his stubborn friend to shave and primp and join the living.

“You look good,” Pete said. “What happened?”

“I haven't forgotten how to shower and dress. Not yet, anyway. Come in.”

“You feeling okay?” Pete said as he looked around the room.

“Hell, no. But unfortunately, I'll probably live through the interview.”

“Nervous?”

“I'm actually looking forward to it.”

“You're looking forward to being on TV?” Pete asked.

“No, I'm looking forward to dying.”

Pete walked to the window and looked down toward the street. “Dying is easy,” he said. “TV is hard. We should talk about what you can expect.”

“I think I can handle myself.”

“What's this?” Pete said, pointing to a room service cart. “You ordered coffee?”

“Courtesy of your publicity department. And the TV people sent a fruit basket. It's a conspiracy.”

“Well, I'm having a cup,” Pete said as he poured. “You want one?”

“I don't need sobering up.”

“I just asked if you wanted a cup of coffee. Don't turn paranoid right before a live interview.”

“I'll take it black.”

Pete poured the coffee and handed it to him. “They're going to press very hard on the plagiarism.”

“And all this time I thought we'd talk about baseball.”

“I mean it might get . . . heated.”

Ted laughed. “And you think I can't handle that?”

“I was just wondering if you planned to tell the truth.”

“You'll see.”

“Ted—”

“You have to trust me, Pete. I'm going to keep things interesting.”

He sighed. “That's what I'm afraid of.”

“I promise I'll give the publicists plenty to work with. You'll sell lots of books.”

Pete put his hand on his friend's shoulder. “I know this was a tough decision. For what it's worth, I think you're doing the right thing.”

“That would be a first.” Ted walked to the mirror and threaded his tie beneath his collar. “There's something I need to tell you.”

Pete walked behind him and looked at Ted in the mirror. “I'm listening.”

Ted raised his chin and looped the wide end of the tie around the top. “I've decided to go ahead with the surgery.”

“What?”

“I'm scheduled to go in tomorrow.”

Pete stared at his friend's face to see if he could detect a trace of sarcasm. He was serious. “You're having brain surgery? What changed your mind?”

“Does it matter?”

Pete shook his head. It
didn't
matter. His friend was going to live. He took a moment to compose himself. “Ted, this is great news!”

“Is it? I'll probably die on the table.”

“Don't say that.”

“The tumor's grown, Pete. I don't know what my chances are.”

“I'm sure you'll be in good hands. I'm just . . . I don't know what to say.” Pete felt his eyes sting and turned away.

“If you start to cry, I'll punch you in the throat,” Ted said.

“No crying,” Pete said, and turned around to embrace his friend.

Ted glared. “And if you hug me I'll break both your arms.”

“Fuck you,” Pete said. He gave his cantankerous friend a backslap version of a hug and pulled away.

He assumed the dramatic reversal had something to do with Audrey, but he didn't want to press it and risk derailing this change of heart. “Who's taking you to the hospital?” he said.

“Whoever's driving the cab.”

“Absolutely not,” Pete said. “I'm taking you.”

“You have a job.”

“Screw the job,” he said, quite sure that the reason Ted even told him about the surgery was because he wanted someone there with him. “I'll cancel everything for tomorrow.”

“Suit yourself.”

There was, Pete knew, a lot of bluster in Ted's attitude. But if his friend didn't feel at least a little positive about the surgery, he wouldn't be going through with it. If nothing else, it showed that there was a will to survive.

“Who else have you told?” Pete asked, eager to figure out the reason for the change of heart.

“No one.”

“Not even Audrey?”

“Audrey has nothing to do with this.”

“You just changed your mind?”

“I didn't say that.”

Pete waited a beat but Ted didn't elaborate. “You're not going to tell me what happened?”

“It's not your business. It's not anyone's business.” Ted opened his bottle of Vicodin and poured two into his hand.

“Should you be taking painkillers now, before the show?”

“It's either that or kill myself this minute.”

“The pain's that bad?”

“Worse,” he said, and slipped the medicine bottle into his pocket. “Let's go.”

They left the hotel and got into the back of the Town Car Pete had hired. Ted closed his eyes, leaned his head against the window, and rode in silence. Pete imagined he was counting the minutes until the surgery.

They were stopped at a red light when Ted mumbled something Pete couldn't quite make out.

“What did you say?” Pete asked.

“Never mind.”

“No, tell me.”

Ted closed his eyes for so long that Pete thought he had fallen asleep. “You all right?” he asked.

Ted didn't open his eyes. “I have a daughter,” he said.

“What do you mean you have a daughter?”

“I mean, there is a woman on this earth who carries my DNA.”

“I don't understand. You never told me this.”

“I never knew.”

Pete watched out the window as a woman pushed a stroller across the street. “So this is why you're having the surgery?”

Ted shrugged.

“Did she just call you out of the blue?” Pete said, worried that some fraud had emerged. News about the manuscripts was starting to leak, and that kind of information was bound to shake vermin out of the woodwork.

“She doesn't even know I know.”

“The mother called you?”

“The mother's dead.”

“Who was she?” Pete said, trying to recall past girlfriends Ted had mentioned.

“You never met her. Though you might know a bit about her if you read
Genuine Lies
. I based a character on her.”

“It's sitting on my desk,” Pete said. “I'm almost finished with it.” The book was about a mother and an adult daughter who both get mixed up with the wrong men. The mother just keeps trying to replace her ex-husband with someone she can fix. The daughter has a palsied hand and is too embarrassed by it to let anyone she really values get close to her.

“April?” Pete said, guessing it was the younger woman.

“It's not a true story,” Ted said. “But someone I knew a long time ago inspired that character. I haven't seen her in all these years. I didn't even know she died.”

“So how did you find out?”

“Not important.”

“But you're sure? I mean one hundred percent?”

Ted winced in pain. He held up his hand to indicate he needed a minute to regroup. “She has my eyes,” he said, and Pete noticed his friend's face was pale and sweaty.

“You okay?” Pete asked.

Ted dropped his head. “Never better,” he said, looking like he might pass out.

“Did you eat anything today?”

“I don't know.”

“Are you supposed to take those painkillers with food?”

“What are you—the interviewer? How the fuck should I know?”

“Let's get you something to eat,” Pete said. “There's a hot-pretzel cart on the next corner.” He leaned forward. “Driver, pull over.”