Murder Your Darlings by J.J. Murphy Page B

apartment.
    Despite the bright lights and gaudiness onstage, and despite the blaring orchestra and the dancers’ tapping feet—a clamor like a team of old horses crossing a rickety wooden bridge—she drifted into a fitful doze.
     
    Dorothy awoke to an urgent whisper. “Mrs. Parker.”
    She was still in her velvet-upholstered seat next to Benchley. The conflagration onstage and the cacophony in the orchestra pit were still in full swing. She felt a tug at her sleeve, and again someone whispered her name.
    William Faulkner crouched by her side in the aisle. Rain had drenched his battered old hat, his thin scraggly beard and his oversized threadbare trench coat.
    “Billy! What are you doing here? I told you to stay hidden at my apartment.”
    “I wish I had, Mrs. Parker. I wish I had.”
    Across the aisle, Woollcott peered at them. “By Jupiter!” he grumbled. “Put the pooch back in his kennel and let the rest of us watch the show.”
    She grabbed Faulkner’s hand, and with an apologetic look to Benchley, who now saw what was going on, she led Faulkner up the darkened aisle and through the double doors into the brightly lit, ornate theater lobby.
    She was prepared to give the young man a piece of her mind and set him straight. But when she got a better look at his bedraggled appearance and the hapless, even frightened, look in his eyes, she softened.
    “What happened? Why did you come here?”
    He sighed. “I came to New York because—”
    “No, I didn’t ask why you came to New York. I asked why you came to the theater when I told you to stay put—”
    “I’m getting to that. I came to New York to experience life, not to hide myself away. So I was sitting in your apartment at the Algonquin, and I was thinking, even if it is a bit dangerous, even if the police are looking for me, I should take the chance and go out. Why not? There are good experiences and bad experiences, but in any case, I need to have some experiences. Otherwise, why did I bother to leave Mississippi?”
    “Experience?” She frowned. “You know what I think? Writers are like fry cooks in a greasy spoon. No experience necessary. You know what else I think? You ought to listen to me.”
    “Well, I wish I had, because that’s only part of it.”
    “What’s the rest?”
    He looked over his shoulder, then stepped closer. “On my way here, I was followed.”
    “Followed? By whom? The police?”
    He shook his head. “The man I saw at the Algonquin this morning. The one who probably killed Mayflower.”
    At that, the music within the theater swelled and came to a noisy end. The audience applauded mildly, very mildly. In a moment, the double doors opened and the theater patrons swarmed into the lobby.
    “Intermission,” she said, and pulled Faulkner by the elbow and drew him toward the far wall, out of the way of the emerging flow of well-heeled theatergoers. Many in the burgeoning crowd lit up cigarettes and cigars and sipped surreptitiously from hip flasks.
    Dorothy, a full foot shorter than most of the crowd, looked anxiously for Benchley, but instead she picked out another Algonquin member from the throng.
    “Heywood!” she called. “Heywood Broun. Come here.”
    A bear of a man approached them. Despite his rumpled tuxedo, or perhaps because of it, he looked like a big pile of unwashed laundry.
    “Heywood, you remember Mr. Dachshund from this afternoon, of course?”
    “Of course!” said the man. His big paw shook Faulkner’s delicate hand. “Heywood Broun. Sportswriter for the New York Tribune .”
    She said, “I wonder if you could do us a favor or two, Heywood.”
    “Of course!”
    “Wonderful. First, do you have your flask?”
    “As always.” He winked and reached in his jacket for a well-worn silver army flask, which he handed to her. She unscrewed the flask’s cap.
    “Second, do you think you could escort us back to the Algonquin?”
    She tipped the flask to her lips. Then she frowned. She held the flask upside