Dorothy Parker sat demurely at the bar, waiting. It didn’t take long for a man to approach her. He had white hair and the ruddy complexion of a drinker. That was the good news. The bad news was that he wore a brown suit, heaven help her.

“Hi,” he said in a voice that was likely a full octave lower than he normally spoke. “I couldn’t help noticing you sitting there. You look like the consummate New York lady—sophisticated and confident.”

“And you look like a mattress salesman from Idaho.”

He laughed heartily. “You’re not that far off, darling. I’m from Nevada and I rep a line of commercial bathroom fixtures.”

“How enchanting,” she said. “You sell toilet bowls.”

“That’s about the size of it,” he said. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“I would say you’ve met my expectations rather neatly. However, if you tell me I have a porcelain complexion I may not take it kindly.”

He looked perplexed, and then straightened his tie, as if it would help him think about what to say next. “Are you interested in politics, by any chance?”

“Only after a few drinks.”

“I’d love to buy you one, if you’d let me.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He summoned the bartender and they both ordered drinks. The man introduced himself as Cliff Calder and she said her name was Liz Bathory. She asked pointed questions about his career for as long as it took her to finish her drink, and he ordered her another. She repeated this trick until she’d had four gin and tonics and heard more about toilets than any human should have to endure. As he continued on about state-of-the-art industrial fixtures and sales records and how important it was to “stay one step ahead of the other guy,” she thought she would sooner dry out than listen to another word.

And then, just as she was about to grab a bottle of gin from the bar and crack it over her own skull, he invited her up to his room.

“That sounds perfectly lovely,” she said.

“It does?”

“I’ll tell you what,” she said, “you go on up and I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

Excited, Cliff Calder rubbed his hands together, gave her a key to his room, and left. She remained at the bar, nursing her drink and hoping someone less dull would come along.

After a few minutes, a man in glasses sat down heavily on the stool beside hers. She recognized him as the fellow Norah had been ready to exterminate.

“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said. “I must have been pretty sloshed the last time I saw you, because I thought you were a ghost or something, materialized out of nowhere. But here you are—flesh and blood and pretty as a picture.” He stuck out his hand. “Russell Hetterich.”

“Lucy Borgia,” she said. “Charmed.”

“Can I get you a drink, Lucy?” he asked.

“What a thoughtful idea. I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

Russell snapped his fingers at the bartender and ordered them both drinks. He leaned toward her. “Tell me all about yourself, lovely Lucy. What brings you to the Algonquin—business or pleasure?”

“Are those my only choices?”

He laughed and put a meaty hand on her shoulder. “You’re a funny one, aren’t you?”

“That’s my reputation,” she said, removing his hand.

“Don’t you want to be my friend?” he asked.

“Ask me again after a few drinks.”

“That’s my kind of girl,” he said, slapping her on the back.

The bartender put their cocktails in front of them and she drank hers quickly. This fellow was even worse than the last.

“What do you do for fun, Lucy?” he asked.

“I walk on hot coals,” she said.

“Is that fun?”

“By comparison.”

“You tease!” he said. “What do you really do for fun?”

“I drink.”

“Is that all?”

“I’m afraid I’ve given up most of my hobbies,” she said.

“And why’s that?”

“I was never very good at them. Falling in love, for instance. I always picked the most loathsome men.”

“I could give you some good loving,” Russell said, running a finger down her neck.

She batted his hand away. “And then there was suicide. Boy, I was lousy at that. But I’d give it another shot now, if I thought it would do any good.”

“Last call!” the bartender announced.

“Buy me another drink, would you, dear?” she said.

“And what do I get for it?” he said, leaning in to kiss her.

She backed away. “Are we negotiating?”

“You seem like a lady who drives a hard bargain.”

“I’ll tell you what. Buy me that drink and I’ll meet you up in your room just as soon as I finish.”

“You’re not going to disappear on me, are you?”

“I might. It’s my last remaining talent.”

“Last call!” the bartender repeated.

“What the hell,” Russell said, “you’re worth the risk. I like a frisky gal.” He ordered her another drink and told her his room number. Then he gave her a sloppy kiss and left the bar.

Dorothy Parker nursed her last drink, and by the time she finished, everyone but the bartender had left. At least that’s what she thought. But just as she drained the last drop of gin from her glass, she became aware of a familiar presence on her right.