I stayed in bed in my penthouse for a month over that one, he told himself, recalling that dismal time in his life. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and the film fucking tanked. It was history in less than a month. And it had big stars. Julia Roberts. Drew Barrymore. George Clooney.

Gone in a month, if that.

Why did it disappear so fast?

But then I know why, don’t I?

Stop! he told himself. Stop thinking about it. How many years ago was it? Ten. Still not enough time has gone by. If I let myself think about the Confessions fiasco it’ll make me totally miserable, and I’m feeling miserable enough as it is.

And now my life has come full circle, he mused, and I’m back on a cheap cot staring at a ceiling again because a jerk-off producer leaves my room without saying a word after he finishes watching my pilot. What a loop-de-loop life I’ve led, thought the old cripple. A bunch of memories is what I have left. Just a bunch of mem—

The telephone down the hall began ringing.

The cripple limped out of his room as fast as he could. He picked up the receiver on the ninth ring.

It was the producer!

“Well, hello!” said the cripple cheerfully. “I’d all but—”

“Come to my apartment tonight. I’ll send my driver. He’ll pick you up in front of your door at eight o’clock sharp.”

Chubby Billy Constable had gained fifteen pounds during his stay at Grossinger’s. He was beginning to enjoy the resort and forget about Billie Berry. The cause of Billie Berry’s sudden demise was the appearance of a cute, plump, sexy little redhead named Rosie Feinstein.

Rosie came from a highly respected German-Jewish family. Her grandparents and great-grandparents used to live in sumptuous apartments on Riverside Drive in Manhattan. A large number of German Jews used to live in sumptuous apartments there, but not anymore.

Now the Feinstein family lived in the West Village. Rosie’s father, Myron Feinstein, was a noted psychiatrist. Rosie’s mother, Sylvia Perchick Feinstein, was also a noted psychiatrist. Both were driven with ambition from early childhood to become noted psychiatrists. The doctors Feinstein shared a suite of offices in a brownstone at Charles and West Fourth streets, catty-corner from a restaurant called Mary’s Fish Camp. The brownstone was also their home.

Rosie’s younger brother Milton was a sophomore at Harvard. The skinny four-eyed boy was driven too, destined to attend medical school and become a noted psychiatrist. Rosie Feinstein wasn’t driven. She hadn’t any intentions of becoming a noted anything. Nor did she have high expectations or the need to win awards or recognition. All she wanted to do was live.

Rosie Feinstein tried but couldn’t stay in college for the life of her. She had been asked to leave three Ivy League universities. Not for doing anything wrong, mind you, or for poor scholarship (her grades were surprisingly good). Rosie was asked to leave for lack of interest. Which in turn resulted in poor attendance. Which in turn prompted various deans to point Rosie Feinstein toward the open road.