The elevator stopped, opened its doors. Ashland stepped out, uncertainly, into the hall. The softly lit passageway was long, empty, silent. No, not silent. Ashland heard the familiar voice of a party: the shifting hive hum of cocktail conversation, dim, high laughter, the sharp chatter of ice against glass, a background wash of modern jazz . . . All quite familiar. And always the same.
He walked to 9E. Featureless apartment door. White. Brass button housing. Gold numbers. No clues here. Sighing, he thumbed the buzzer and waited nervously.
A smiling fat man with bad teeth opened the door. He was holding a half-filled drink in one hand. Ashland didn’t know him.
“C’mon in fella,” he said. “Join the party.”
Ashland squinted into blue-swirled tobacco smoke, adjusting his eyes to the dim interior. The rising-falling sea tide of voices seemed to envelop him.
“Grab a drink, fella,” said the fat man. “Looks like you need one!”
Ashland aimed for the bar in one corner of the crowded apartment. He did need a drink. Maybe a drink would clear his head, let him get this all straight. Thus far, he had not recognized any of the faces in the smoke-hazed room.
At the self-service bar a thin, turkey-necked woman wearing paste jewelry was intently mixing a black Russian. “Got to be exceedingly careful with these,” she said to Ashland, eyes still on the mixture. “Too much vodka craps them up.”
Ashland nodded. “The host arrived?” I’ll know him, I’m sure.
“Due later – or sooner. Sooner – or later. You know, I once spilled three black Russians on the same man over a thirty-day period. First on the man’s sleeve, then on his back, then on his lap. Each time his suit was a sticky, gummy mess. My psychiatrist told me that I did it unconsciously, because of a neurotic hatred of this particular man. He looked like my father.”
“The psychiatrist?”
“No, the man I spilled the black Russians on.” She held up the tall drink, sipped at it. “Ahhh . . . still too weak.”
Ashland probed the room for a face he knew, but these people were all strangers.
He turned to find the turkey-necked woman staring at him.
“Nice apartment,” he said mechanically.
“Stinks. I detest pseudo-Chinese decor in Manhattan brown-stones.” She moved off, not looking back at Ashland.
He mixed himself a straight Scotch, running his gaze around the apartment. The place was pretty wild: ivory tables with serpent legs; tall, figured screens with chain-mail warriors cavorting across them; heavy brocade drapes in stitched silver; lamps with jewel-eyed dragons looped at the base. And, at the far end of the room, an immense bronze gong suspended between a pair of demon-faced swordsmen. Ashland studied the gong. A thing to wake the dead, he thought. Great for hangovers in the morning.
“Just get here?” a girl asked him. She was red-haired, full-breasted, in her late twenties. Attractive. Damned attractive. Ashland smiled warmly at her.
“That’s right,” he said, “I just arrived.” He tasted the Scotch; it was flat, watery. “Whose place is this?”
The girl peered at him above her cocktail glass. “Don’t you know who invited you?”
Ashland was embarrassed. “Frankly, no. That’s why I—”
“My name’s Viv. For Vivian. I drink. What do you do? Besides drink?”
“I produce. I’m in television.”
“Well, I’m in a dancing mood. Shall we?”
“Nobody’s dancing,” protested Ashland. “We’d look – foolish.”
The jazz suddenly seemed louder. Overhead speakers were sending out a thudding drum solo behind muted strings. The girl’s body rippled to the sounds.
“Never be afraid to do anything foolish,” she told him. “That’s the secret of survival.” Her fingers beckoned him. “C’mon . . .”
“No, really – not right now. Maybe later.”
“Then I’ll dance alone.”
She spun into the crowd, her long red dress whirling. The other partygoers ignored her. Ashland emptied the watery Scotch and fixed himself another. He loosened his tie, popping the collar button. Damn!
“I train worms.”
Ashland turned to a florid-faced little man with bulging, feverish eyes. “I heard you say you were in TV,” the little man said. “Ever use any trained worms on your show?”
“No . . . no, I haven’t.”
“I breed ’em, train ’em. I teach a worm to run a maze. Then I grind him up and feed him to a dumb, untrained worm. Know what happens? The dumb worm can run the maze! But only for twenty-four hours. Then he forgets – unless I keep him on a trained-worm diet. I defy you to tell me that isn’t fascinating!”
“It is, indeed.” Ashland nodded and moved away from the bar. The feverish little man smiled after him, toasting his departure with a raised glass. Ashland found himself sweating.
Who was his host? Who had invited him? He knew most of the Village crowd, but had spotted none of them here . . .
A dark, doll-like girl asked him for a light. He fumbled out some matches.
“Thanks,” she said, exhaling blue smoke into blue smoke. “Saw that worm guy talking to you. What a lousy bore he is! My ex-husband had a pet snake named. Baby and he fed it worms. That’s all they’re good for, unless you fish. Do you fish?”
“I’ve done some fishing up in Canada.”
“My ex-husband hated all sports. Except the indoor variety.” She giggled. “Did you hear the one about the indoor hen and the outdoor rooster?”
“Look, miss—”
“Talia. But you can call me Jenny. Get it?” She doubled over, laughing hysterically, then swayed, dropping her cigarette. “Ooops! I’m sick. I better go lie down. My turn-turn feels awful.”
She staggered from the party as Ashland crushed out her smoldering cigarette with the heel of his shoe. Stupid bitch!
A sharp handclap startled him. In the middle of the room, a tall man in a green satin dinner jacket was demanding his attention. He clapped again. “You,” he shouted to Ashland. “Come here.”
Ashland walked forward. The tall man asked him to remove his wristwatch. “I’ll read your past from it,” the man said. “I’m psychic. I’ll tell you about yourself.”
Reluctantly, Ashland removed his watch, handed it over. He didn’t find any of this amusing. The party was annoying him, irritating him.
“I thank you most kindly, sir!” said the tall man, with elaborate stage courtesy. He placed the gold watch against his forehead and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. The crowd noise did not slacken; no one seemed to be paying any attention to the psychic.
“Ah. Your name is David. David Ashland. You are successful, a man of big business . . . a producer . . . and a bachelor. You are twenty-eight . . . young for a successful producer. One has to be something of a bastard to climb that fast. What about that, Mr. Ashland, are you something of a bastard?”
Ashland flushed angrily.
“You like women,” continued the tall man. “A lot. And you like to drink. A lot. Your doctor told you—”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” Ashland said tightly, reaching for his watch. The man in green satin handed it over, grinned amiably, and melted back into the shifting crowd.
I ought to get the hell out of here, Ashland told himself. Yet curiosity held him. When the host arrived, Ashland would piece this evening together; he’d know why he was here, at this particular party. He moved to a couch near the closed patio doors and sat down. He’d wait.
A soft-faced man sat down next to him. The man looked pained. “I shouldn’t smoke these,” he said, holding up a long cigar. “Do you smoke cigars?”