"Greg, honey? Did the Wizard give your brain to the Scarecrow?"
"You said it was a black and white party."
"Make yourself useful, dear, and get me some punch."
Greg sauntered off in his tuxedo, looking confused.
"My! My! Look whoās here!"
I recognized the slurred voice behind me, but pretended not to.
"Hugo, darling! Turn around! Ah know itās you. Ahād recognize that hairline anywhere!"
It was Eugene Jennings, a fat lush in an ill-fitting Armani suit who affected a Southern accent and pretended to be a writer. He thought he was the next Truman Capote, but Iād never read anything that heād written, nobody I knew had, so we all assumed he was a liar. I hadnāt seen him since the funeral two years ago.
I could have waited a little longer.
"Gene. How nice to see you, ć I said, plastering a quick, pinched smile on my face. ćYouāre holding your weight well."
"Ah wish Ah could say the same for yāall," he answered, sounding like a bad imitation of Tennessee Williams.
Bitch. I sucked in my stomach.
Gene continued, "Ahām so surprised to see you. Ah thought yaāll were..." His hand went up to his throat, hovered around it like a butterfly on speed and then made a knife cut across it.
I fought the urge to grab his champagne glass and smash it over his head.
"No, Gene. Iām still around."
"Well, you look great considering-" I held up a hand, angrier than I remembered being in years. "Two words for you, Gene. Betty. Ford."
Greg arrived, carrying two flutes of champagne on a small tray. He looked like a waiter. "I got our drinks," he said, softly, noting Geneās face getting redder and rounder by the moment.
"Youāre a fine one to talk about the former First Lady, Hugo." He turned to Greg. "There was a time when he and Ah closed every after-hours bar in this city. Hell, we had to mop this old queen off the floor."
"Timeās change. I donāt drink, anymore."
Gene grabbed one of the flutes off Gregās tray.
"So whatās this, then?"
I grabbed the other glass and poured it over Geneās head.
"Bath water?" I asked.
