Murray had a byline, describing his interview with Lacey Dowell. It was the first time he’d been on the front page in ten months. First time in the paper in three. “Just haven’t been covering the right stories until now, Murray,” I muttered. First the paper spends four days hyping Global’s new television network. Then the network makes its debut. Then they write up what they showed on television. It made a neat loop, but was it news?

Even Regine Mauger’s column had been moved to a prominent spot because she was covering the television launch. Teddy Trant was glowing last night, and not only from the soft lights of Sal Barthele’s original Tiffany lamps, she cooed. With House Speaker Jean–Claude Poilevy on one side and Lacey Dowell on the other he has every right to be pleased with the impression he’s making on Chicago.

Regine went on to describe the other players, including members of the Illinois Commerce Commission, the mayor and his wife, whom I’d missed in the throng, and of course the denizens of the town’s TV studios, whose feelings get hurt if they’re overlooked.

Murray Ryerson, whose trademark red beard disappeared for the occasion, took to the camera like a duck to water. His chosen escort—or did she choose him?—was Alexandra Fisher from Global’s front office, stunning in an Armani evening ensemble. But don’t let that cleavage fool you: when she puts on her power suits she’s as invincible as Dick Butkus.

Of course some problems always erupt at occasions like this. A bird tells us that Lucian Frenada, from Lacey’s old neighborhood, finagled an invitation in the hopes of holding Lacey to a boy–girl romance, but Officer Mooney, on loan from Chicago’s finest, muscled him outside before he could make a full–scale scene. Lacey had no comment, but Alex Fisher says the star is troubled by the misunderstanding. Other hangers–on, like Chicago investigator V. I. Warshawski, who used to be an item with Ryerson, probably were hoping for crumbs to drop from one of the richest tables to be set in town for years.

That last sentence jolted me out of my chair so fast that Peppy barked a warning. Damned scrawny bitch with her fifty face–lifts, annoyed because I’d tripped on her Chanel trousers. Me, hoping for crumbs from a Hollywood table? And still pining for Murray? I didn’t know which suggestion offended me more.