“I have two, one in fine condition, one not so fine. You don’t see many of them these days.”

“Any interesting purchases lately?” Phoebe asked.

Other than the Fitzgerald manuscripts stolen from Princeton, Mercer thought to herself, but would never be drunk enough to blurt it. Her eyelids were getting heavier.

“Not really,” Bruce said. “Picked up a copy of The Convict recently.”

Not to be outdone, Mort—and there was probably no one in the history of New York publishing who had either lived through as many drinking stories or heard them from reliable sources—charged in with a windy tale about a drunken brawl in his apartment at two in the morning when Norman Mailer couldn’t find any more rum and began throwing empty bottles at George Plimpton. It was hilarious to the point of being hard to believe, and Mort was a seasoned raconteur.

Mercer caught herself nodding off. The last sound she remembered was that of the blender revving up for another batch.

8.

She awoke in a strange bed in a round room, and for the first few seconds she was afraid to move because any movement would sharpen the pounding in her forehead. Her eyes were burning so she closed them. Her mouth and throat were parched. A gentle rolling in her stomach warned that things might get worse. Okay, a hangover; been here before and survived, could be a long day but, hey, what the hell? No one made her drink too much. Own it, girl. The old saying from college: “If you’re gonna be stupid you gotta be tough.”

She was lying in a cloud, a deep, soft feathery mattress with layers of fine linens all around her. No doubt Noelle’s touch. With her newfound cash, Mercer had invested in prettier lingerie, and at that awful moment she was relieved to be wearing it. She hoped Bruce had been impressed. She opened her eyes again, blinked a few times, managed to focus, and saw her shorts and blouse arranged neatly on a nearby chair, his way of saying that there had been an orderly undressing, not a rip-and-tear dash for the bed. Eyes closed again, she dug deeper into the covers.

After the fading sounds of the blender, nothing. So how long had she slept in her chair on the porch while the others swapped stories and kept drinking and winked at each other as they grinned at her? Had she been able to walk away, unsteady and perhaps with a bit of help, or was Bruce forced to lug her up to the third-floor tower? Had she actually blacked out, college style, or had she merely gone to sleep and been put to bed?

Her stomach rolled again. Surely she had not ruined their little porch party with some indescribable upchucking scene that neither Bruce nor the others would ever mention? The thought of such an awful episode made her even more nauseous. Another glance at her shorts and blouse. They appeared to be free from stains, no signs of a mess.