Dorothy Parker Drank Here (7 page)

1968

T
here were dozens of names in the Algonquin guest book, and eventually they would all die. When they did, she would be in the Blue Bar, waiting for them.

For now, she had Johnny B., the young bartender she had months ago convinced to stick around most nights after closing. He was humorless, but at least he no longer fainted at the sight of her. And he was pretty to look at.

Dorothy Parker sat at the bar, a fresh gin and tonic before her. As she took her first sip, something near the display case caught Johnny's attention.

“That's funny,” he said, staring past her.

She turned and saw a cloud of glowing pink dust particles hovering above the guest book. Was this the sign she had been waiting for?

The particles traveled to the doorway and began to merge, taking on the shape of a sylphlike woman in a diaphanous gown.

Dorothy grinned.

“What is it?” Johnny asked.

“Pour a double bourbon.”

“Why?”

“You'll see.”

As they watched, the form became more real. And then, there she was—a lithe and glamorous star, draped in liquidy satin.

“Well,” said Tallulah Bankhead, “that was quite a ride. And how perfect that it ends here, where it all began.”

“Welcome to hell,” said Dorothy Parker.

Tallulah approached and kissed her on the cheek. “Darling,” she said in her famously throaty voice, “if this were hell, Louis B. Mayer would be tending bar. Give me a cigarette, and tell me who this divine creature is.”

“Johnny,” Dorothy Parker said, “say hello to Tallulah Bankhead.”

“Charmed,” said Tallulah.

“Miss Bankhead.”

“Johnny sticks around after closing to make me drinks,” Dorothy Parker explained. “And he only fainted the first four times I appeared. Now we're old friends, aren't we, dear?”

“Yes, Mrs. Parker.”

“Fainter or not, I think he's perfectly lovely.”

“Save your breath, Tallulah. He's not our type.”

She paused for a moment as it sunk in. “I see. Pity.”

“He's already made you a drink. Bourbon, right?”

“You are divine, Dot. And Johnny darling, don't put away that bottle. I plan to be tight as a tick before I make my final exit.” She sat down with a dramatic sweep of silk.

“Exit?” said Dorothy Parker. “Please don't tell me you plan a hasty retreat.”

“Daddy's been waiting a long time.”

“Let him wait a little longer.”

“I'm not sure how long I can resist, darling. It's an awfully powerful tug.” She put a hand on her heart. “Oh! Mother is there, too. I can feel it. How glorious.” She closed her eyes. “And my grandparents . . . everyone. They're all waiting for their Tallulah to come home and throw tantrums again. Isn't it grand?”

Dorothy frowned. She would have to distract her old friend.
“Remember when you first walked into the Algonquin? You couldn't have been more than nineteen.”

“Sixteen, darling. I was sixteen. Insult me if you like, but don't make me older than I am. I can take anything but that.”

“Alexander Woollcott took one look at you and said, ‘That girl is going to be trouble.'”

“That's
one
review he got right.”

“You were his pet for a time.”

“And I would have bit him on the ass if I had the chance.”

Dorothy nodded. Aleck could be quite a pill. Still, he had a remarkable heart when it came to his friends. “He got us all to chip in and buy you a new dress.”

Tallulah laughed. “Oh, yes! I came to New York with only one dress I would dare to be seen in, and hadn't a dime for food, let alone new clothes. Oh, Woollcott—he was a ghastly critic, but he could be generous.” She picked up her glass. “To Aleck, then.”

“To Aleck.”

They tapped glasses and Tallulah sipped her drink. “Have you seen him here?”

“He was gone by the time I arrived. They all were, the louses. Only dear Mr. Benchley waited. But he left me pretty quickly, and I suppose you will, too. So much for being the life of the party.”

“Now, Dot, don't get testy. It's nothing personal. We are summoned.”

“Since when did you ever do what was expected of you?”

“Never, darling. Never. But this is different. I'm sure you understand—you must have your own white light beckoning.”

“My white light can be damned.”

Tallulah picked up the pack of cigarettes on the bar and extracted one. “Would you be a dear, Johnny?” she said, putting it to her lips. He lighted it for her and she took a long drag. “I admit, it's divine to have this little stopover. It's been ages since I've been able to enjoy a smoke, and even longer since a drink could offer me any sort of pleasure. Do you know
what my last word was?
Bourbon!
Can you imagine? Couldn't get a breath of air and all I wanted was a belt of Wild Turkey.”

“Not a bad parting line. I'm sure they'll quote it in your obituary.”

“And one day they'll attribute it to you.”

“My curse. Of course, if they immortalize you in a play, it'll stick, and everyone will know it was the great Tallulah Bankhead who said it.” She was appealing to Tallulah's ego. Surely the actress would want to stay around for such a thing. She stole a glance at her friend's reaction as she took a cigarette from the pack. Johnny lighted it for her.

“I'm afraid my life was too scandalous for the stage,” said Tallulah.

Dorothy Parker took a long drag of her cigarette. “Not anymore,” she said. “I understand there are naked hippies singing and dancing at the Biltmore this year. I think they call it
Hair
.”

“I've seen it, darling. Those messy young people think they invented sex. They should have seen us when we were young.”

“We had our share, I suppose.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Tallulah, you're not honestly saying you didn't have enough sex?”

“
Enough?
Heavens, there's no such thing as
enough
. In fact, I wouldn't mind finding some sweet young thing to fool around with one last time before I go.”

“Yet another reason to stay. Maybe you'll get lucky.”

Tallulah looked around. “It seems rather deserted, Dot.”

“A temporary setback. Tomorrow night at eleven p.m. the place will be swimming in boys.” She paused. “And girls.”

“Ah, yes, girls. I suppose my reputation precedes me. But c'est la vie, darling. My tastes are eclectic, my desires uninhibited. I make no apologies.”

“Nor should you.”

“What about others like us? Can I expect to see any of the old gang?”

“Eventually. Everyone who signed the guest book makes a stop here. Percy got signatures from most of our crowd . . . and dozens of others, too.”

“Do tell.”

“Writers, mostly—but a few delicious actors and actresses. See for yourself.”

“I suppose I will, after my drink.”

Dorothy smiled. She could see that Tallulah was interested in the possibility of a rendezvous with another notable or two before her final curtain. “Johnny, dear,” she said, “bring us that guest book. We'd like to find a suitable date for Tallulah. And pour her another bourbon. She might be sticking around for a while.”

A
s Norah carried the guest book back to her room, she explained to Dorothy Parker that if they could find Audrey and convince her to let Ted off the hook for his infidelity, they might both have a chance of getting what they want.

“My dear, don't you think she would have come forward by now if she had any interest in clearing his name?”

“Maybe if she learns he's dying.”

“She probably won't give a damn.”

“So we'll find another way to convince her.”

Dorothy Parker pursed her lips, and Norah wondered if she was formulating an argument against searching for Audrey Shriver. Not that it mattered. Norah's mind was made up.

“You're a relentless sort, aren't you?” Mrs. Parker said.

Norah smiled. Her new friend had her pegged. She slipped her key card into the door and opened it.

“I suppose we could start with the Manhattan phone book,” Mrs. Parker said as she followed Norah into the room. “After all, if she has any sense at all, she still lives in New York.”

“We don't need a phone book,” Norah said. “It's the twenty-first century.”

“Oh, yes. The
Internet.
I've been hearing about that for years.” She took a seat.

“You know what it is?”

“From what I understand, it's like a massive party line, only with computers instead of telephones—the whole world available to anyone with one of those little machines.” She removed her hat and placed it on the dresser.

“That's an elegant way of looking at it,” Norah said.

“And what's the inelegant way of looking at it?”

“That it's mostly about porn.”

“Pornography doesn't bother me,” Mrs. Parker said. “There are other things far more obscene—war, politics, the desecration of the English language.”

“Irregardless,” Norah said, and waited a beat for a laugh. Nothing. “You know that was a joke, right?”

“My dear, explanation is the enemy of wit.”

Norah furrowed her brow conspicuously. “What do you mean, exactly?”

Dorothy Parker parted her lips to respond and then closed them. She gave the younger woman a gracious nod.

Satisfied, Norah opened her laptop computer and pressed the space bar, bringing the screen to life. She typed
Audrey Shriver
into Google search.

“How long will this take?” Mrs. Parker asked.

Norah hit enter. “There's an Audrey Shriver in Oklahoma, but she's a twenty-two-year-old marathon runner. There's also an Audrey L. Shriver who died in Glendora, California, in 2002.” She clicked on the obituary. “Not her, either. She was ninety-eight.”

“Astounding.”

“I'd be more impressed if we actually found her.”

“Anything else?”

Norah found an Audrey Shriver on Classmates.com, but since it was her maiden name, she knew it was a false lead. “All dead ends,” she said.

“Don't give up,” Mrs. Parker said. “I've learned that dead ends aren't always what they seem.”

“Did I say anything about giving up?” Norah searched images to see if she could uncover any other clues. She found the picture she had shown Didi and studied it a moment. It yielded nothing, but the story it told seemed so personal that Norah couldn't help being drawn in.

“What next?” Dorothy Parker asked.

“Still searching.” Norah clicked on a scanned photo that seemed to have been taken at some kind of celebration. It showed two couples seated at a dinner table, wearing clothes that dated the snapshot by several decades. She read the caption aloud: “‘Ted Shriver and his wife, Audrey, attend a Columbia University fund-raiser with Litton Press publisher Peter Salzberg and his wife, Aviva Kravette, 1979.'”

Norah studied the picture, taken a year after she was born. She imagined her mother in Audrey Shriver's place, looking young and healthy in that sleeveless dress, her head tilted toward Ted. It was a scenario she could never stop herself from playing out. What if her mother hadn't died? What if she had never been sick?

Dorothy Parker looked over Norah's shoulder. “Heavens, but she's attractive. Like a young Elizabeth Taylor.”

Norah couldn't argue—Audrey was striking.

“No wonder Teddy fell in love with her,” Mrs. Parker continued.

“You think he's that shallow?”

“He's a man, isn't he?”

“But he's Ted Shriver,” she said.

“Ms. Wolfe,” Dorothy Parker said, “I, too, would like to believe the old wives' tales about the way some men will instantly forsake a beautiful woman to flock around a brilliant one. It is but fair to say that, after getting out in the world, I have never seen this happen.”

“I have to believe she's more than a pretty face. He's protected her all these years.”

“One would hope. Can you find her maiden name?”

“Trying,” Norah said, navigating to Ted Shriver's Wikipedia page, which she had already read several times. She hadn't recalled seeing anything about his ex-wives, but it was worth checking again. As before, the page focused on his books and the scandal surrounding
Settlers Ridge.
The only biographical information said that he was born in Yonkers in 1937 and that his last known address was in Wilton, Connecticut.

Norah tried another tactic. She typed
Ted Shriver
and
married Audrey
into a search. One click and there it was—a bio that provided actual details of his life.

“Listen to this,” she said. “‘In 1979 he married his second wife, Audrey Brill, a reporter for
Newsweek
magazine.'”

“Grand,” said Mrs. Parker. “Two clues for the price of one.”

Norah typed
Audrey Brill
into the search field, and spent several minutes following false leads until something caught her eye. “There's an Audrey Brill who works as a writer for a public relations firm on Forty-second Street. I think that could be her, don't you? Should we call?”

“I think,” said Dorothy Parker as she reached for her hat, “that we should pay a visit.”

—

T
here were practical considerations. First, Norah worried about Dorothy Parker's appearance. Would her dress attract too much attention? She studied her for a moment, and decided that on the
streets of Manhattan she could pass for a stylish woman with an eye for vintage clothing.

The more important consideration was the guest book. Norah had to figure out a way to carry it in an open position, as it was the only way to leave the hotel with Dorothy Parker at her side. She looked around the room until she found a piece of cardboard in the desk drawer. She laid it across the open pages of the book, then tied it in place with shoelaces she had pulled from her sneakers. Norah put the open book in a tote bag and carried it as they walked through the Algonquin's glass doors onto West 44th Street.

“Give me a moment,” Dorothy Parker said as she placed a hand on Norah's shoulder.

“What's the matter?”

“I've not seen the sun in all these many years.”

“Are you okay?”

“It's just a little . . . jolting to be about among all this humanity.”

Norah looked around. “What do you think?” she asked.

A stooped homeless man pushed a shopping cart past them, and the smell of fermenting urine hung in the air.

“That we've learned absolutely nothing,” said Dorothy Parker.

Norah looked at her companion, who seemed genuinely grim. “It's all right,” she said gently.

“It most certainly is not.”

“Do you want to stay behind?”

Dorothy Parker straightened her posture and arranged her hat, a valiant soldier ready to face the wide world of a new century. “Which way?”

“East,” Norah said, pointing toward Fifth Avenue.

The weather was mild for May, and Norah wondered if Dorothy Parker enjoyed feeling the late afternoon sun on her back. She glanced over, and could tell her companion's anxiety had eased. She seemed almost happy.

A young couple, sleeveless and heavily tattooed, were so deep in conversation as they walked by that they didn't notice the small woman in a hat staring at them.

“Circus performers?” she asked Norah, who laughed.

“It's the style now,” she explained.

“And what happens next year, when it goes out of style?”

They walked on, and a large transvestite in a bright red wig came up from behind.

“Have you ever seen anything like that before?” Norah whispered.

Dorothy Parker sized up the cross-dresser, who wore a clingy low-cut wrap dress in a bold print, with no falsies and a bit of chest hair showing above the deep V-neck. His purse and shoes were pink patent leather. Clearly, this was a man more interested in getting attention than in passing as female.

“Love your ensemble, dear,” Mrs. Parker said. “It's inspired.”

“Yours, too, honey,” he said. “Retro chic.”

As they continued on, Dorothy Parker looked up at the skyscrapers and down at the passersby. She read the signs in the windows and marveled at all the brisk walkers talking into their cell phones.

They reached Fifth Avenue, where Best Buy, Staples, and Duane Reade met at the corner, and she stopped. “I recognize nothing,” she said. “And yet . . .”

“It's still the same?”

“No. It's different. But I'm still helplessly beguiled. Isn't that the damnedest thing? This cruel and wonderful city has always owned my heart. It's like a daring lover who conquers each sunrise with a brand-new passion. And despite everything—the years, the crime, the dirt, the extra pounds”—she paused as a group of tourists eating souvlakis passed by—“it still feels exciting, like something is about to happen. That is New York's magic. I believe it will always be the most hopeful place on earth.”

She stood quietly for a moment, taking it in, until a man on his phone jostled them as he rushed by.

“Could you fucking
move
?” he said.

Dorothy Parker put her hands to her heart. “You see?” she said to Norah. “It never disappoints.”

They walked on until reaching the East Side address of Tyler & Lowell, the public relations firm that employed Audrey Brill. Norah explained to Dorothy Parker that they would be stopped at the security desk.

“People used to come and go as they pleased,” Mrs. Parker said.

Norah nodded, thinking about how much the city had changed in even her lifetime. “That was before nine-eleven,” she said. “Since then, the whole city has been much more cautious. I don't know if you're even aware—”

“They had the television on in the hotel that day. Some poor souls covered in ash stumbled into the lobby that afternoon.”

“A dark day,” Norah said.

Mrs. Parker looked grim. “Worst part is what happened afterward.”

“What do you mean?”

“Terrorist propaganda,” she said. “It's been embraced worldwide—anti-Americanism throughout the Middle East, anti-Zionism everywhere.” She held up a flyer that had been handed to her on the street.
THE HOLOCAUST IS A LIE,
it said
.
She crumpled the page into a ball. “They got exactly what they were after.”

“But you're still hopeful,” Norah observed.

“Isn't that a kick in the head? Now then, let's go find Teddy's ex.”

They entered the building and approached the security desk. Norah told the guard they were there to see Audrey Brill.

“Do you have an appointment?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” Norah said, producing her business card. It was, she knew, her ace in the hole. No PR person would ever turn down a
chance to talk to an associate producer from a major TV show. “But I think she'll want to meet with us.”

A few minutes later, a young secretary came down and led the two women to the sleek reception area of Tyler & Lowell.

“Ms. Brill will be right with you,” she said.

Norah and Dorothy settled into the firmly cushioned waiting room chairs, watching the hallway through the glass doors. A few minutes later a woman appeared at the far end of the corridor, walking briskly toward them. She wore a black sweater stretched over massive breast implants and had ultrablond, ultrastraightened, ultrafine hair. Even from a distance, Norah could tell her face had been stretched, pulled, and injected. She was completely transformed.

“I have to warn you,” Norah whispered, “that some women go way overboard with plastic surgery.”

The woman pushed open the glass door. “I'm Audrey Brill,” she said, extending her hand.

“I'm Norah Wolfe and this is my friend, Mrs.—”

“Campbell,” Dorothy Parker said, using her second husband's name. “Dorothy Campbell. Nice to meet you.”

“What can I do for you?” Audrey asked, arranging her mouth into something resembling a smile. The rest of her waxy face remained corpselike.

“It's actually a personal matter,” Norah said.