The Groaning Board

while ago. What is everyone drinking here?” He began
passing the wine.
    “Leslie, darling, it’s wonderful to
be working with you again,” Mort said with false heartiness. He made kissy-poo
across the table at her.
    A disparaging noise came from Poppy,
and Mort turned crimson.
    “Thank you, Mort dear,” Wetzon said
sweetly.
    “So you’re coming to Min’s and my
anniversary party, Wetzon,” Hem said. “Laura Lee told you?”
    The glare Minnie Wu fixed on Wetzon
was raw with hatred.
    Jesus, Wetzon thought, what did I
ever do to you?
    A hand touched her thigh, then moved
off.
    “Oh, he likes the ladies, my husband
does. Don’t you, Hem?”
    “I like interesting people, Min. So
do you. Admit it.”
    “But you favor the women, don’t you?”
    “Excuse me.” Hem rose. He mumbled
something about a phone call and left the room, threading around guests and
tables.
    The veal roast arrived looking superb
next to the mush-room-rice mold. Mort poured the wine.
    “What’s the new project, Min?” Bill
Veeder asked.
    “Project?” Minnie seemed distracted.
“Oh, yes. Cooking show. The Groaning Board. We just sold twelve episodes to
PBS.”
    “That ought to be fun,” Mort said.
“Let’s do it as a musical. Ha, ha.”
    “I want to go home,” Poppy said. “Now.“
    Wetzon had had enough. “Excuse me a
minute.” She got up, began to make her way around the tables. She stopped at
Smith’s; Smith’s bosoms were roller coasters as she cut into the veal. Every
man at the table seemed transfixed. “Lovely cleavage, dear,” Wetzon whispered
in Smith’s ear, then moved on.
    Hem must be on one long phone call,
she thought, because there was no sign of him. She stuck her head into Smith’s
bedroom. No one. Used the bathroom and touched up her lipstick. Came out of the
bedroom and bumped into a harried A.T. Her hair was kinking out of its pins.
    “It’s going very well, A.T.”
    “I guess, I guess.” A.T. dried her
hands on the towel tucked into her belt and ducked past Wetzon, heading for the
bathroom. “Don’t go into the kitchen, it’s a mess. If you need anything, I’ll
send Ellen to your table.”
    Now that was silly. Wetzon pushed
open the kitchen door. The kitchen was steamy and chaotic. A man whose back was
toward her was making incautious love to the bare breasts of a woman whose head
was pitched back on the counter. The woman’s hands were inside Hem’s pants.
    “Jesus!” Wetzon said.
    Hem jumped back.
    Wetzon made to get out of there, but
someone had come in behind her, then pushed her aside roughly.
    “Bitch!” Minnie Wu shouted.
    Ellen righted herself. Slowly, almost
defiantly, she pulled her silk turtleneck over her perfect breasts.
    Which is when Minnie lunged for her,
taking her by surprise, hands closing on her throat. “Die, bitch!” Minnie
screeched. “Die! Die! Die!”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

     
     
     
    Minnie Wu
would have murdered Ellen Moore right then and there in Smith’s kitchen had it not been for Bill Veeder’s
timely arrival. Bill sized up the situation at once and, taking one of the open
bottles of champagne lined up on the counter, poured its contents over Minnie’s
head. When the icy champagne hit her, Minnie stopped in mid-shriek. She began
to sob. Dreadful, dry sobs.
    Hem zipped up his fly as if it was
all in a day’s work. He gathered the red-fringed, wet, wasted figure of his
wife, and as Bill ran defense, rushed her out of the apartment before anyone
really got wind of it.
    The party was in full toot. Sixties
music covered the near-calamity. “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” and Marvin
Gaye rocked into the kitchen through the opening and closing door.
    Wetzon hurried to Ellen. The girl was
hunched over, quivering like a terrified animal. Her hair was soaked, as was
the turtleneck. She arched away from Wetzon, nipples thrusting through the wet
silk.
    Don’t touch me!” Ellen’s upper lip
curled over her teeth like Izz’s when Izz got hold of a fresh bone.
    “I just want to help.”
    “Keep your help to yourself.”
    The kettle whistled. Ellen turned her
back to Wetzon, shut down the gas. With trembling hands, she measured coffee
into two oversized Krups coffeemakers, then poured the water through.
    A.T. appeared, charging through the
swinging door as if she’d sensed trouble. “What’s happened here?” she demanded.
    “Long story,” Wetzon said. She tried
to edge around A.T.
    “Ellen?” A.T.’s face was drawn; her
clothes were