2007

It was late—well past closing—and the Algonquin Hotel’s Blue Bar tavern was shadowy and still. Angel Ruiz hesitated at the doorway, but only for a second. So what if there was a strange shimmer below the one dim light on the wall? And who cared if the Haitian guys in the kitchen had sworn they’d seen le fantôme sitting by the bar late at night? It was his first day on the job and he refused to be scared. Besides, the staff at these old hotels always believed the places were haunted.

He clicked on the soft neon bulb over the bar and unlocked the cabinet. The drunk in room 1207—some famous writer in hiding, they said—had ordered three martinis and the night kitchen manager had instructed Angel to mix and deliver them. “The old man,” she had promised, “tips big.”

Angel stopped and listened to the deserted quiet, feeling the silence deep inside his ears. He went back to work, gently placing what he needed on the bar.

After pouring the carefully measured gin and vermouth into the metal shaker, he held the lid tight and turned it over and back, over and back. He gave it one last shake, then filled the three fancy glasses he had placed on the tray.

The darkness played tricks on his eyes. Was that a swarm of gnats hovering near the bar or just floating dust particles? He blew them away and focused on his task.

Las aceitunas, he thought. Olives. He looked around and saw a mini refrigerator under the bar. He had to kneel to see inside and found a large round jar in the back, the green orbs floating in liquid like detached eyeballs.

Angel hated olives and hoped he wouldn’t have to fish them out with his fingers. As he rose, he was thinking about finding a fork he could use to pluck the slimy orbs from their cold bath and how his grandfather used to pop them in his mouth like candy. Disgusting.

And then he saw something. The tiny swarm had grown. It was now a mass of swirling dust particles floating over one of the barstools. As he stared, transfixed, they took on a recognizable shape, joining together until they weren’t separate specks but one solid image.

The jar fell from his hand and crashed, shattering the silence. It was her—the phantom. And right before his eyes, she became a real woman, with dark impish eyes and a small hat.

Angel jumped back, almost slipping on the wet floor. He grabbed on to the bar and froze, unable to do anything but blink at the space that had been empty only seconds ago.

“Just as well,” she said, peering over the bar at the olives rolling across the floor. “He likes his martinis with a twist.”

He rubbed his eyes. She couldn’t be real, could she?

The apparition picked up one of the drinks he had just made and took a sip. “Not bad . . . Angel. You may have a future here.”

“You . . . you know my name?” A chill danced down his spine.

She pointed a dainty finger at his name tag.

“What do you . . . want from me?” he asked.

She tipped back the martini and finished it. Then she picked up another. “You’ll need to make more of these. Cheers.”

Angel watched as she sipped the drink, closing her eyes in delight. “I hope you have cigarettes in that pocket,” she said. “I’m positively desperate.”

“Cigarettes?”

“If you tell me they’re bad for my health, I may scream.”

Angel pulled a pack of Marlboros from his jacket, placed it on the bar, and stood back. She looked down at the cigarettes as if she expected him to do something. Finally, she extracted one and put it between her lips.

“A light?” she said.

He swallowed hard and took a disposable lighter from his pocket, but his hands were so damp from fear he couldn’t get it to ignite. He tried again and again.

“I have all the time in the world,” she said. “Literally.”

Finally, a short flame rose and he carefully leaned forward to light her cigarette. She took a long drag.

“Delightful,” she said, exhaling. She took another puff and blew smoke rings. Angel stared as she continued smoking and drinking. What was she?

The ghost flicked ashes into the empty martini glass, then shot him a glance and sighed, as if bored by his awe. Still smoking with her right hand, she held her left hand toward him, palm down. He looked at it, wondering what she wanted him to do.

“Go ahead,” she said.

“Miss?”

“You’re wondering if I’m real,” she said. “So touch me.”

Her hand was small and feminine, with fingernails filed into points. Angel lightly poked it, hoping she was nothing but air, light, and dreams. But she was solid—flesh and blood.

“Now that we have that out of the way,” she said, “my request. You see that book over there, inside the case?” She pointed to the dim wall light, and Angel noticed that the shelf it illuminated held some kind of antique book inside a glass display box. “Please bring it here.”

He did as he was told, stepping over the olives to approach the shelf and examine the case. It was a heavy piece, with a mahogany platform and frame. The glass panels afforded a clear view of the book inside, which was open to a page of old-fashioned signatures written with the thin ink of a fountain pen. He lifted the hinged top, removed the book, and carried it back to her, placing it carefully on the bar.

“This,” she said, pointing over the open page, “is me.”

Angel scanned the names. They were all men except for one.

“Dorothy Parker?” he said.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard of me?”

He shook his head.

“Lucky you,” she said. “Now, when you deliver the drinks to Mr. Shriver you will bring him this as well.”

“You want me to bring the book to him?”

“Am I not being clear?”

“No. I mean, yes. But why?”

“My dear,” she said, “where this book goes, I go. And I need to have a little chat with Ted Shriver. We are old acquaintances.”

“I’ll get in trouble.”

“Nonsense. You’ll come back in an hour and return the book to the shelf. No one will ever know. But first, clean up this nasty spill; it’s never a good idea to leave a mess behind. Trust me on that.”