teemed with an astonishing assortment of human beings in various stages of inebriation. Lance Worthington was nowhere to be seen, but numerous blondes in skintight dresses seemed to be acting as official hostesses or, at least, were being rather athletically friendly to a number of the male guests. There was hardly a man in sight without a blonde draped over his shoulder or sitting upon his knee. A pair descended upon them at once and pulled them into the fray, shrieking welcomes, snatching their coats and guiding them toward a long bar that dominated the one wall with a picture window. Outside, the lights of New York City glowed serenely and T.S. wanted very much to escape back into the night.
Behind the bar stood a dignified, elderly black man dressed in a tuxedo. He looked as if he would rather be enslaved in some pre-Civil War enclave than forced to perform for a party of such obnoxious white heathens. His cool eyes swept over T.S. and Lilah, and his shoulders relaxed. Perhaps here were people who actually had manners, his hopeful expression implied.
"Something from the bar, sir?" the bartender inquired evenly. T.S. had to lean over an ice bucket to catch even a hint of the words. My God, whoever was in charge of the music must be stone deaf. It drowned out even the bartender's deep voice.
T.S. ordered a Dewars and soda for himself while Lilah opted for a white wine spritzer. They clutched their drinks and searched around for a quiet haven. A small alcove that led into the kitchen seemed their best bet. They sought refuge beside a large potted palm (that T.S. suspected was artificial) and surveyed the raucous party.
The sunken living room area was lined on three sides with long black leather couches. A mirrored coffee table dominated the center of the common space and was littered with spilt drinks, metallic pocketbooks and the rather large head of a man who had passed out while sitting on the carpet nearby. The couches were occupied by a half dozen plump middle-aged males, who looked like a contingent of modern gingerbread men so alike were they in well-tanned coloring, thinning hair and softened body shape. Most of them held a drink in one hand and a giggly blonde in the other.
"I must be seeing double," Lilah murmured.
"I'm seeing quadruple," T.S. decided. "What does he do? Make the girls dye their hair before they get an invitation?"
"Wait. I see a redhead over there." Lilah nodded discreetly toward a short hallway. Sure enough, an extremely tall redhead slouched into view, tugging at her waist in an effort to keep her pantyhose from riding down her long legs. Her face was elongated and drooped with stupor or boredom. She started to the right, stopped abruptly to get her bearings, then lurched to the left and perched on the edge of one of the leather couches where she proceeded to absently ruffle the thinning hair of a tubby businessman. His existing blonde companion looked up indignantly, ready to squawk, but kept silent when she spotted the redhead.
T.S. stared more closely at the balding businessman. His face— red and perspiring from too much drink and too many female hormones hovering nearby—looked oddly familiar. But T.S. could not pinpoint why. Surely they had met previously. Perhaps before T.S. had retired? Or had it been more recently? It was maddening not to be able to recall.
"No one looks very happy at this party," Lilah said suddenly. "Am I right or am I insane?"
"No, you're definitely right," T.S. agreed. "Everyone seems a little bit too desperate for another drink. Even those men on the couch, clutching those women, don't seem particularly thrilled to be here. And the women are clearly bored. They're patting those men on the heads like they're puppies." He searched the interior of the apartment carefully. "I wonder where Lance Worthington is?"
"Lilah Cheswick! What on earth are you doing here?" It was the first cultured voice of the evening and it belonged to an extremely distinguished-looking man who had apparently been hiding out in the kitchen behind them.
"Albert!" Lilah was two parts shocked at seeing someone she recognized and one part embarrassed at being caught at such a freewheeling party. "I'm here with my friend, Theodore. He's looking into backing one of Mr. Worthington's plays. Something about Davy Crockett. What on earth are you doing here?"
Albert shrugged apologetically. "I got roped into backing it, too. I thought I'd better check out what