by J. J. Murphy
She spoke to everyone, but she had her eyes on Benchley.
As expected, he stood up and chivalrously offered her his elbow. “I’ll drink to that.”
Historical Note
The members of the Algonquin Round Table didn’t usually let the facts get in the way of a good story. Following their example, this book uses fact to fabricate fiction. But here, allow me to set the record straight of this somewhat crooked tale.
The Round Tablers were all real, though this story takes several liberties with the chronology of their jobs and residences in order to enhance the “anything goes” sentiment of the Roaring Twenties.
For example, Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley and Robert Sherwood did work together at Vanity Fair magazine. And, Dorothy and Benchley did put postmortem photos, clipped from mortician journals, above their desks in order to shock their coworkers. They stopped working at the magazine just months after Prohibition began—yet this story extends their stay at Vanity Fair and takes for granted that Prohibition had been in effect for quite some time. (Interestingly, when Dorothy and Benchley first met, she was a infrequent imbiber and he was a staunch teetotaler. But by the end of Prohibition, they were both heavy drinkers.)
Likewise, although Dorothy Parker did in fact live at the Algonquin, she did not live there while working at Vanity Fair. Similarly, Alexander Woollcott did have an apartment at the end of East Fifty-second Street, which Dorothy Parker dubbed “Wit’s End,” but Woollcott did not live there at the time Dorothy Parker lived at the Algonquin.
Although much is known about these famous figures in the public eye, we can only speculate about some aspects of their private lives. Nevertheless, by all accounts, Robert Benchley and Dorothy Parker did not have a romantic relationship, though their close friendship is legendary.
Not surprisingly, these people were quite complicated personalities in real life. And, since there were so many unique real-life characters, for most of them I was required to simplify their complexities in order to tell a rousing story. A complex case in point (skipping right past Dorothy Parker) is Heywood Broun. He was indeed a boozy, slovenly sportswriter—but he was also an erudite columnist, critic and champion of civic causes. He founded the American Newspaper Guild, which continues to bestow an annual award in Broun’s name to journalists who rail against injustice.
Another complex person was Alexander Woollcott. Although quite a character (and once described as “improbable”), Woollcott was quite real. He was the drama critic for the New York Times, but he then wrote for the New York Herald and the New York World during the Round Table years. In 1939, Woollcott was the model for the insufferable lead character in The Man Who Came to Dinner, a hit comedy play by George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart. True to form, Woollcott played the part himself onstage.
Also, every effort was made to portray locations as true to life as possible as my story allowed. The Algonquin Hotel is very real and is still catering to the toast of the town. (The hotel is a designated literary landmark, and a replica of the Round Table sits in the center of the dining room. You can even reserve the table for lunch, if you want.) Dorothy Parker did have a small suite on the second floor of the hotel, but again, this was not at the time that she worked at Vanity Fair.
Tony Soma’s speakeasy was a favorite hangout for Dorothy and Benchley, although all the action happened in the basement and not on the ground floor, as depicted in this story. It was indeed located on West Forty-ninth Street near Sixth Avenue. In 1930, Tony’s and all the other brownstones on this quiet street were torn down to make way for Rockefeller Center. The GE Building (or “30 Rock”) stands directly on top of where Tony once served his bootleg liquor.
Interestingly, William Faulkner did indeed visit New York City as an unknown writer in the early 1920s—although there’s no reason to believe he met anyone from the Round Table at this time. He did work in the Doubleday bookstore inside Lord & Taylor for a few months, and then went back south. (Elizabeth Prall, the bookstore’s manager, married Winesburg, Ohio author Sherwood Anderson, who later became Faulkner’s mentor.)
By 1930, Faulkner was a literary success. He returned to New York and it was then that he actually met the members of the Round Table, but the group was at its sunset and its members were going their separate ways. Dorothy Parker did express a motherly tenderness for Faulkner, saying, “You just wanted to protect him.” This statement formed the basis of the relationship between Dorothy and Faulkner for my story.
Over the years, Faulkner continued to visit the Algonquin Hotel as he rose to fame. In 1949, he was honored with the Nobel Prize for Literature. Before he headed to Stockholm, Faulkner started writing his legendary speech at a room in the Algonquin.
After the Round Table years, the lives of its members were never the same.
Benchley eventually put down his pen and took up acting. He starred in one of the first short films to use sound, and followed that with a string of short comedic films and feature film roles.
Dorothy Parker continued to write. She contributed to the New Yorker and Esquire, and even earned two Academy Award nominations for screenplays. She took up pet political causes, and numerous pets, and eventually bequeathed her literary estate to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. After his assassination, her estate passed to the NAACP.
Her collection, The Portable Dorothy Parker, has never been out of print. Yet she was largely forgotten at the end of her life. After her death, her ashes sat unclaimed for fifteen years in a filing cabinet drawer in her lawyer’s office. (For her tombstone epitaph, she suggested “Excuse My Dust.”) Eventually, the NAACP buried her ashes in a memorial garden at its headquarters in Baltimore.
Acknowledgments
I owe considerable thanks and recognition to:
Dorothy Parker, whose genuine wit, insight and humanity far surpass my middling version of her.
Robert Benchley and the rest of the Algonquin Round Table, whose contribution of humor and intellect toward twentieth-century popular culture should not be forgotten.
Marion Meade for her superlative biography of Dorothy Parker, What Fresh Hell is This?
Kevin Fitzpatrick, founder of the Dorothy Parker Society, for his essential guidebook, A Journey into Dorothy Parker’s New York.
James R. Gaines for his encyclopedic handbook of the Round Table, Wit’s End.
Editor extraordinaire Sandra Harding for her patience, enthusiasm and willingness to take a chance.
Ace agent John Talbot for his hard work and perspicacity.
Mary Logue and Michael Gibbons for their editorial assistance and contributions (and deletions) to the first draft.
Big Bill Murphy and Barbara Beasley Murphy for my first introduction to the Round Table and for their cheerleading and helpful comments.
My sharp-tongued, wisecracking sisters—Cathy, Mary, Barbara and Liz—for showing me what it’s like to sit at a dinner table of merry vipers, and my pop, who instigated “pop quizzes” at the dinner table.
My mom for sitting me in her lap as a child and reading countless books to me.
Karin for her optimism, her undying support and for giving me the time to write this book.
About the Author
J. J. Murphy, an award-winning health-care writer in Pennsylvania, has also been a lifelong Dorothy Parker fan. J.J. started writing the Algonquin Round Table Mysteries after the birth of twin daughters, as an escape from toddler television. Please visit J.J. on his Web site at www.roundtablemysteries.com.
Read on for a sneak peek at the next Algonquin Round Table Mystery,
you might as
Well Die
Coming soon from Obsidian.
“Have you ever wanted to kill yourself?”
Dorothy Parker looked up to see the eager face of Ernie MacGuffin, hovering just inches away. MacGuffin was a third-rate illustrator and a first-rate nuisance.
“Mrs. Parker,” he whispered again, only more urgently. “Have you ever wanted to kill yourself?”
�
��Matter of fact,” she sighed, “I’m thinking about it right now.”
It was just after lunchtime at the Algonquin Hotel. Dorothy sat at the Round Table in the hotel’s dining room. She had been searching in her purse for a cigarette when MacGuffin suddenly appeared. Her usual lunch companions, sometimes called the Vicious Circle, had gotten up from the table. They were saying their see-you-laters and heading back to work for the afternoon. Helplessly, she watched them go.
“Seriously,” MacGuffin said, hurriedly taking the seat next to hers, “I want to know.”
She looked at him. He was a skinny scarecrow: messy nut-brown hair, cheap necktie, paint-stained fingers, dirty fingernails. She felt both pity and disgust for him.
“Suicide?” She lit her cigarette. “Sure, I’ve tried it. Who hasn’t these days? It’s like the Charleston—everyone’s doing it.”
“I knew it!” He leaned closer. “What happened?”
“What happened?” Her cigarette almost fell from her mouth. “Can’t you guess? It didn’t stick.”
He nodded as if he was about to suggest how she could get it right next time.
“What’s this all about?” she asked.
MacGuffin inhaled deeply. He was clearly debating whether he could trust her with something.
MacGuffin was a poor man’s Norman Rockwell. He aspired to paint covers for Collier’s, Vanity Fair and The Saturday Evening Post, but most of his works were for pulp magazines like True Crime or Old West. He was not an invited member of the Round Table. Instead, he rode on the coattails of Neysa McMein, a first-rate illustrator and one of the few women, besides Dorothy, who was welcome at the Round Table.
Unlike Dorothy, Ernie MacGuffin took this conversation very seriously. “Your suicide—were you afraid?”
“I was afraid I would wake up.” She brushed aside the brunette bangs that shadowed her pretty face. “Again, what’s this all about?”
He seemed to come to a decision. “I knew you knew all about it. Now I know I can trust you. Here.” He handed her an envelope. “Don’t open it until midnight. Promise me.”
No one took Ernie seriously. Not his friends, not the art world, not the public. She looked at the plain white envelope and handed it back.
“Nothing doing,” she said. “If you mean to commit suicide, don’t get me involved. If you go toes up, I don’t want that on my head.”
He looked disappointed and confused.
She softened. “Don’t kill yourself, Ernie. Take it from me. Attempting suicide after lunchtime will simply ruin your whole day.”
Ten minutes before midnight, Dorothy and Robert Benchley, her closest friend, were at Tony Soma’s, their favorite speakeasy.
Earlier in the evening, Tony had been waltzing around the loud and lively crowd, chatting with all the customers, singing opera and pouring drinks. Now he approached Dorothy and Benchley. His smile had disappeared.
“Mrs. Parker. Mr. Benchley. There’s just a little matter I’d like to discuss. It’s about the bill.”
“Ah, yes,” Benchley rocked back on his heels, nearly spilling the drink in his coffee mug. “Our cups and our tab runneth over.”
“Tony, you know we’re good for it,” Dorothy said, gently swatting him on the arm. “We’ll pay in full next time.”
Tony’s deep-set eyes turned darker. “That’s what you said last time. It’s been weeks since you paid.”
He slid his hand inside his vest pocket. Dorothy, less than five feet tall, instinctively edged behind Benchley.
Tony pulled out an envelope. “Your bill.”
Benchley glanced at Dorothy. He reluctantly took the envelope and gingerly pried it open.
This prompted Dorothy to remember MacGuffin’s envelope. She hadn’t given him a single thought since lunchtime. She didn’t care much for Ernie, but she hoped he had gotten over whatever itch had been bothering him.
Benchley gasped when he read the bill. Dorothy grabbed her purse and quickly pulled out her horn-rimmed glasses. She scanned down the long column of numbers to the total. . . .
Four hundred and eighty-five dollars! Her big dark brown eyes grew wide. That was more than she earned in a month.
“Have we really drunk all this in a matter of months?” Benchley asked her.
She silently returned his glance. Of course they had. The bill was only a column of prices. It didn’t list the many different types of drinks. But she could imagine—double scotches, whiskey sours, gin martinis, gin rickeys, gin and tonics, sidecars, orange blossoms, Tom Collinses, Rob Roys, old-fashioneds . . . and more Manhattans than they could remember.
Dorothy felt weak. She needed a cigarette—and another drink. She reached into her purse for her pack of Chesterfields, but her hand touched paper. She pulled an envelope from her purse—MacGuffin’s envelope.
“What’s that, Mrs. Parker?” Benchley asked, his thin mustache twitching. “Another bill?”
“You pay mine first,” Tony said, folding his arms over his barrel chest.
“Might be nothing,” Dorothy said, holding it in her quavering hand. “Might be something.”
MacGuffin must have slipped it into her purse after lunch. He had told her not to open it until midnight. She grabbed Benchley’s arm and looked at his wristwatch. Just a few minutes ’til midnight. Something told her to open it right now.
She ripped it open, unfolded the plain white paper and skimmed through the handwritten note.
To whom it may concern. At midnight tonight . . . Will meet my fate in the waters beneath the Brooklyn Bridge . . . My last will and testament . . . Once I am dead and gone in this life . . . A new and better life awaits me. Good-bye, cruel world.
“Oh, crap!” She clutched Benchley’s arm. “It is a suicide note. That damned Ernie! Come on, we have to go.”
She stepped forward, but Tony blocked her way. “Sorry. I cannot let you leave until you pay.”
“Tony, what is this?” she said. “A friend of ours—well, a man we know—is about to kill himself. We have to stop him. We have to leave now.”
Tony shook his head. “Nobody leaves until the bill is paid up.”
Benchley was puzzled. “We don’t carry that kind of money around with us. How can we get you any money if you won’t let us leave?”
Tony merely kept his arms folded and jutted out his round chin.
“Please, Tony,” Dorothy said. “A man might be dying. Right at this moment.”
He shrugged, indifferent.
“Oh, Tony, old pal—” Benchley began kindly; his eyes were merry and twinkling.
Dorothy interrupted. She had had enough. “Don’t make me make a scene,” she said quietly, but Tony heard every word. “Really, is that what you want—a short, hysterical woman shrieking in your speakeasy?”
Underneath it all, she knew, Tony was a softie. His tough facade cracked. His eyes changed from unforgiving to apologetic.
“My friends, I’m so sorry,” he sighed, his hands cradling his sagging cheeks. “It’s the wife, Mrs. Soma. She’s on my back day and night. No more freeloading, she says.”
“Freeloading?” Dorothy gasped. “Well, I never.” She eyed Mrs. Soma across the room. Mrs. Soma returned Dorothy’s glance with an icy glare.
“Look around,” Tony said, exasperated but with a touch of pride. “We’ve paid for a lot of improvements. In case we get raided, we put in trapdoors behind the bar where the bottles can drop out of sight.”
Benchley nodded approvingly.
Tony continued, “See all these new potted plants with the big ferns? If the cops bang on the door, you dump your drink in there, and we fill up your cup with tea or coffee. And don’t forget all the palms that need to be greased—the patrol cops, the lookouts, the city officials. I can’t run the place on goodwill!”
“Of course,” Benchley said. He held out a few bills. “Take this for now. We’ll pay you the rest as soon as we can.”
Tony took them and stepped aside. “Go on. Go help your friend. But please bri
ng in the money soon, okay?”
“Sure,” Benchley said, patting him on the shoulder. Dorothy kissed him on the cheek.
They hurried outside and down the steps of the brownstone. They looked in vain for a taxi. The darkened street of town houses was quiet as usual.
“Stop right there!” Mrs. Soma shouted from the doorway. “You pay your tab or you’ll never drink in this club again!”
Tony grabbed her arm to drag her back inside. She shook him off easily and pushed him away.
Dorothy and Benchley paused only a moment. Then they turned and ran.
Mrs. Soma yanked off her apron and threw it back inside. “Tony Junior! Get your backside out here and catch these scroungers! Now!”