I froze. If I turned tail and scurried away without answering, it would look worse, like I wasn’t meant to be there. Play it big, I told myself. Be bold. There’s no way he remembers you from the St. Leo. He barely noticed you.

In the dark, Klein’s face lit only by a flashlight held by one of the Harlows, he looked like a helpless old man. Eyes shrunken into the blue half-moons of his sockets. Long hairs curling out of his ears. Not so very many years removed from his own enormous mausoleum. He looked feeble. Not capable of getting it up, much less slapping anyone around.

I pictured the sharp pink marks on Ellen’s face at the St. Leo. Looks can be deceiving.

“Sorry,” I said stiffly. “I must’ve gotten turned around.”

Audrey the Second glared at me. She’d cornered the market on brunettery and she wasn’t looking for a rival. The blondes were staring gloomily at Bugsy. Klein raised his eyebrows and extended a hand, indicating I could remove myself anytime I wanted, or maybe offering me the chance to kiss a ring. I picked the former. As I left them behind, I felt a surge of hatred and thought: Be careful, Mr. Klein. Be careful, and when it all goes tits up, remember: cherchez la femme.

A jet crash wouldn’t have disturbed the partygoers collected in the foyer of the mausoleum. The pianist was still plunking notes on the piano, ignoring the man leaning against it. The birthday girl burped vodka in her seat. Wexler had left, presumably off to hunt peacocks.

I stepped out of the mausoleum, glaring into the cemetery. Even in the near-dark, I should’ve been able to see some flicker of that bright pink dress.

Then I heard it: Ellen’s voice, sharp and tearful. I followed the sound and found her slumped over Toto’s shrine, sobbing into the puppy’s metal fur. Not too far away, I could see the shadowy outlines of a small group of revelers, among them both Joel Klein, who wasn’t even looking back at his date, and Wexler, who caught sight of me and gave me a small half salute. I glared at him and knelt next to Ellen, trying to be gentle.

“Ellen,” I said softly, one hand on her heaving back, noting that the fuchsia monstrosity was already muddied and ripped near the hem, no chance for her to return it and get my money back now. “Ellen, come on, get up. Let’s go home.”

Ellen raised her head—I don’t think she even registered my presence—and shrieked, “I don’t even want to screw that old fuck—they’re paying me to do it!”