Over four decades, Madame Restell was indicted, imprisoned, and vilified as “the Wickedest Woman in New York.” She salved her wounds with the traditional American balm—money. She and her husband built a spectacular four-story brownstone on Fifth Avenue, stocking it with servants and the latest European furnishings.

By 1878, though, on the eve of a trial in which her conviction was assured, Madame climbed into her bathtub and slit her throat.

“A fit ending to an odious career,” was the judgment of the New York Times.

I stayed in the stacks, thinking. With the vote on the abortion-reform bill scheduled in Albany and abortion a hot topic nationally, why not do a piece on Madame Restell for the Long Island Press? Then, when I mailed my writing samples with the query letters proposing articles to Esquire and Harper’s, I could show the editors something beyond my profiles of geeks. I called Mack Grunch from a pay phone in the library and did an abbreviated song and dance for him on Madame Restell.

“Amazing,” he said.

“Amazing, hunh?” I replied, figuring he was going for it.

“Amazing you call a newspaper with crap that happened a hundred years ago. We do today, kid. And the future if we can figure it. Your Uncle Jerry’s a guy knows the future. Talked me into betting the Jets against the Colts. You know the future, kid?”

“I’m not winning a Pulitzer?”

“There ya go.” He took a ferocious bite of what sounded like a stale bagel or plate-glass window. “But even if you’re no genius, you gotta live. Here’s what we’ll try. Sarah Dunlop, who edits the Sunday magazine, has been buggin’ me to recommend her writers. I’ll pitch her you and Madame Restell, and you get in touch with her in an hour.”

Sarah Dunlop was as nice as pie when I phoned, saying that she had enjoyed my profiles. She assigned me the article and promised a $250 fee, the most I’d ever earned for a piece. As if that didn’t elevate her in my estimation to the greatest editor in the Western World, Sarah said that if I did a good job, she’d consider the story for the May 4 cover of the magazine.

WHEN I got back to the house, I didn’t have a chance to tell Glenna about Madame Restell because preparations for the party were in full swing. Robin had set up a brass hookah with eight stems in the alcove off the living room, and she was slicing an ounce of black opiated hash into squares small enough to fit into the bowl. Glenna was screwing black-light bulbs into lamps, and Palmer was roasting Cornish game hens, which he set on the kitchen counter to cool, their butts raised as though waiting for a gang of roosters to stop by for an orgy. My job was to pick up the soda and beer at Waldbaum’s. After I returned from the supermarket and unloaded the GTO, I showered and changed into my corduroy suit and cashmere turtleneck.