Текст книги "Ice Blues "

Автор книги: Richard Stevenson

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He looked at me and said, "I know about you."

"What do you know?"

"That you were at Herb Brinkman's pool party last summer. With your lover.

You made a big impression on Jack."

I said, "I'm very sorry about Jack."

He gazed at me levelly for a few seconds, then said, "Yes. I am too." He sipped his beer.

"You never expect someone you've been close to to be killed."

Watching me steadily, he said, "What do you have to do with this?"

"I'm not sure. I'm trying to find that out myself. That's why I've come out here to talk with you. At first I thought Jack's body being left in my car was just possibly a coincidence. But I don't believe that anymore." I thought, should I show him the letter, tell him about the suitcases? I decided no, I would spare Slonski my guilty knowledge for the time being in order to protect him-or myself-from-I didn't yet know what.

"I didn't believe for a minute that Jack's dying in your car was a coincidence," Slonski said. "In July Jack told me you were a private detective. He seemed unusually interested in that-as if he might have occasion one day to employ your services."

"Did he say why?"

"He never actually said even that much. Now that he's been killed I can see that that's what he must have meant. That he was in some kind of trouble that a private detective might help him get out of. Trouble with-I can't imagine who, if it's not dope sellers, which I am certain it is not. But that's hindsight. Last summer I was sure Jack's interest in you must have been sexual." He watched me.

"No. Not that I was aware of. And I usually pick right up on that."

"Do you?"

"Oh, sure."

More beer. "Jack was the most important person in my life for almost two years. In many ways, the only important person in my life. I don't see my family anymore, and before I met Jack I had always been largely self-sufficient emotionally."

"Some people manage to pull that off."

He shook his head. "I regarded my self-sufficiency as a character flaw. I worked systematically to overcome it and I succeeded. That's the way I do things, logically and systematically. "

"I understand that you're a chemical engineer at GE. What kind of stuff do you work on?"

He kept studying me. He hadn't looked away once. The tension in the room was terrific and I wasn't sure where he was heading. He said, "It was very hard for me when Jack left."

"I'm sure it was."

Now he gazed down at the mug in his fist and said, "Were you sleeping with Jack?" No.

His face came up with a hard quizzical look. "Then what were you doing with him?"

"Nothing. Until Wednesday evening, when I discovered his body in my car at Faxon Towing and Storage, I hadn't seen Jack since the Fourth of July.

When I first saw his body I didn't even realize who he was. Was sexual jealousy the reason you and Jack split up?"

He sighed, shook his head, and looked perplexed but a little less tense. He swigged down more beer, which he was taking in a little faster than he might have. "No, that wasn't the problem," he said. "That's just an idea I came up with at the time. It was an explanation that made sense."

"Explanation for what?"

"Jack's behavior. His brooding, his quitting school, his shutting me out.

This is getting crazier and crazier. You don't know anything about this, do you? You really don't."

"Not much, no. I have my own reasons for gathering the facts about Jack's final months, some obvious, some not. You thought maybe there was another man who was affecting Jack's life?"

He took another drink and slung a shapely thigh over the arm of his chair.

"Jack was so irritable and hard to get along with. Naturally I thought it was guilt. I arrived at that naive conclusion because in my other past relationships-the few brief ones I'd had-that's the way I acted when I was feeling guilty about something. Men, usually. Except, Jack swore there were no other men. He said his sex life with me was everything any man could possibly ever desire."

He spoke these words as though they comprised a mere point of information. I said, "Uh-huh."

"And then I–I shouldn't have brought it up, but I asked him if he was dealing drugs again. I suppose you know, he used to."

"I know."

"Jack went right through the roof when I mentioned drugs, because he'd promised me when we moved in together that he wouldn't do that, and Jack's word was important to him. I think I can say that Jack valued honesty above all else. It's probably because of his grandfather's shady past, but he had what I would consider an almost neurotic need to be open and direct about the most important things in his life. And when I asked about drugs-and all I did was ask – Jack was terribly, terribly hurt."

"And he explicitly denied it?"

"Oh, he denied it, all right. You know, I've built a career, I've worked hard for what I accomplished, and I value that. Work isn't everything-I think that's one of the valuable lessons I learned from Jack. No man on his deathbed ever said, 'I wish I'd spent more time at the office.' Jack had broader values and that's one of the things that attracted me to him, the way he could put our life together in a larger perspective. I even went to a gay-lib type of meeting with him one time. But the thing was, I just couldn't afford to become connected in any way with illegal drug activity. So, stupidly I asked Jack about the drugs. I should have known better. I knew Jack's word was good, and I shouldn't have asked. But I did."

Slonski sat there squirming in his regret. He had made a mistake of a not uncommon type in human relations and now the hurt was deepened because he knew he would never be able to undo it. I said, "And that's when you and Jack broke up?"

"It was the beginning of the end. That was midsummer, and Jack stayed with me until mid-October-October sixteenth, to be precise. But he was moody and difficult all summer and fall, and he refused to tell me what the real problem was. He said I was too conventional-too 'straight arrow' was how he put it-to understand. And that hurt me."

"In some circles it's a dreadful thing to accuse a person of. Anyway, if Jack prized openness and honesty as much as you say, he must have been feeling guilty himself for not confiding in you, not trusting you, and that would have accounted in part for his rotten state of mind. Maybe his conscience was bothered by the thing itself-whatever it was he was involved in."

He sipped at the beer and thought this over. "I doubt it. Jack had his own moral code. He was arrogant that way. He could break the law with no compunction if he thought the law was wrong. He was a child of the sixties in that respect. I stayed out of Vietnam by getting an essential job in a defense industry while Jack was out in the streets burning his draft card.

That's how he could rationalize the drug dealing he'd done. He said as long as you didn't sell it to the kids, it was just another popular consumer item you were providing."

"Right. Like alcohol-which killed his father and must have made Jack's young life miserable."

"That's what I said," he said, and set the beer mug on the floor. "But Jack just said any habit could be abused, and then refused to discuss it any further. He didn't like talking about his father. It was just too loaded a subject for him. Though I think he thought about his family a lot. They were always a strong presence in his mind and could set off some powerful feelings."

"Right. Family has always been important to the Lenihans."

"When I look back to last summer and fall, I keep thinking there must have been some point where I missed something, where something happened to Jack and I didn't recognize its importance. Or that I'd closed myself up, or been preoccupied with work. We'd had such a good thing going, and I just can't understand what I might have done to foul it up."

"Maybe nothing. Nothing at all."

"One of the characteristics that attracted me to Jack when we met was his ambition, the way he was working so hard to put some order in his life.

Enrolling in business school, planning for the future, putting his past behind him, even getting close to his family again. What happened that changed all that so suddenly? I've racked my brain, but I cannot for the life of me put my finger on what it might have been. Of course-it's all academic now. Even if somehow the misunderstanding could be cleared up-if that's what it was-Jack's not coming back. That's a fact I'm trying to face, and I'm having a very hard time with it."

"Had you thought he might come back?"

"Of course," he said with a little shrug. "No one had ever left me before. I've always been the one to do the leaving. I'm known as the irresistible Warren Slonski.' People call me that."

"What a nice compliment."

"So, the thing is, I wasn't used to a situation like that. Men are usually trying to get into my bed, not out of it."

I said, "Hell, I know exactly what you mean." If he'd looked suddenly queasy, I'd have shot him through the heart. But he didn't blanch, or laugh.

He just put his hands behind his head, gazed at the ceiling tragically, and flexed his biceps.

I said, "Maybe Jack's volatile reaction to your question about drug dealing was a result of his being confronted with the awful truth. Maybe he was back in the business and exploded out of guilt. Isn't that a possibility?"

He shook his head. "No. I knew Jack. He would have admitted it. I was wrong to suspect him and wrong to bring it up. It had to have been something else. I knew Jack."

"You mentioned that Jack was getting close to his family again. Was he seeing a lot of them?"

"For a while he was, and they all seemed to be hitting it off fairly well.

During the summer and into the fall Jack was even doing some work around the house for his grandfather in the North End. And he'd see his sister Corrine while he was out there. I went with him a couple of times and Corrine was nice to me, even though we had a hard time finding things to talk about. Her husband wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs though. 'Dreadful Ed,' Jack and I called him."

"Did you meet Jack's grandfather?"

"No, but I was curious about him. He's apparently some type of famous political figure in Albany-I'm from Water-town and don't know much about that. I know he was part of the Boyle brothers' machine here for fifty years, and it would have been fascinating to meet him. But Jack never offered and I didn't push it." He picked up his empty mug. "Say, how about a refill on the Beck's? It looks as if the well is about to run dry."

"I'll pass, but you go ahead."

He did and returned with another beer for me too. "Just in case," he said.

"Thank you."

He flopped back in his chair, throwing one leg over the arm again.

"I understand Jack was close to his mother," I said. "Did he see her often?"

"They talked on the phone once a week, and that's where Jack went when he first left me, out to LA. By the time he actually packed up and moved out, he was in bad shape, a real nervous wreck. I guess he went out to his mom's to wind down. She and Corrine were really the only people in the family who never gave Jack a hard time about being gay, and his mom had been supportive in a lot of other ways over the years. She had her own troubles, of course, raising two kids with an alcoholic husband who couldn't hold a job more than a day. I think she left Albany behind a long time ago, but she did stay close to Jack and Corrine. She kept trying to convince Corrine to move out there, or at least to visit, and offered to pay her way, but Corrine seemed unable to make any kind of break from the North End, even for a week. I never met Mrs. Lenihan, but Jack made her sound like a very strong and exceptional person."

"What about you? When did you last see Jack?"

He grimaced. "As I told that idiot Bowman from the Albany police department this morning, I've seen Jack once in three months. On Christmas Day we had dinner at the Quackenbush House. It was my stupid idea. The afternoon was so tense and Jack was so uncommunicative we skipped dessert and went our separate ways, and I never really expected to see him again. Of course, now I won't."

"Then I suppose Jack didn't mention-either then or last fall-a particular project he was working on?"

He frowned across his beer mug. "Project?"

"Something that might be considered immoral by some people but not by others. Something that would right a wrong."

"No, I'm sure I'd remember. Why do you ask that?"

"It's come up, but specifics are lacking. There might be a connection between this project and Jack's death."

"I can't imagine what. No, business school was Jack's only project until he quit last fall. That and learning about opera. I was helping Jack gain access to the very considerable pleasures of opera, and I think he was really beginning to love it. Opera has been important to me since I was fifteen. It's been a way to experience the passion of human life without getting my own hands too dirty, if you know what I mean. Opera has always been my chief emotional release. Along with sex, of course."

"Of course."

"But Jack never mentioned any other project, no. Could that have been what was eating away at him?"

"I think so, yes."

"Something some people might consider immoral? I suppose I was one of those people. Is that what you're thinking?"

"There's a good chance that that's the case. What could Jack have been involved in that you would have found immoral?" He thought this over, then shook his head. I said, "Run through the Ten Commandments. Which ones do you feel most strongly about?"

He smiled sheepishly. "This is embarrassing. I can only remember a few.

It's been a while."

"Go for the hard-core stuff, the foundations of Judeo-Christian ethics."

Without hesitation he said, "Stealing."

"Thou shalt not steal."

"I've always believed strongly that people should earn anything of value they received, or be given it because they need it or deserve it. For a person to take something that doesn't belong to him disgusts me. It's the beginning of anarchy. Jack knew how deeply I feel about that. Is it possible? Do you think Jack stole something?"

"Could be," I said. "Though if he did, he didn't consider it stealing, I think.

Not in the usual strict sense of the word."

"But I would have. And he knew it."

"There's a good possibility of that."

"What was it that you think he stole?"

"Money. There is evidence that it was money." Now he placed both feet on the floor and leaned forward. "But how could that be right? How could Jack consider stealing money a moral act?"

"I don't know yet. I'm curious too. Did Jack know anyone who owned a lot of money, or had access to it?"

"How much money?"

"A vast amount. A fortune."

"Not that I can think of-no one in Albany. Except drug dealers perhaps.

But it wouldn't be that, I'm sure."

"Did any of Jack's former business associates ever come here, or phone?"

"Absolutely not. I was firm about that. Anyhow, I think they were all in jail."

"All of them?"

"As far as I know. According to Jack, he was the only one of that bunch who wasn't convicted. The rest of them were locked up for twenty years."

"Jack must have had a terrific lawyer."

"Oh, he did-the best. Thomas Pelligrinelli came up from New York to handle his case."

"Really? Pelligrinelli has to be one of the most expensive criminal lawyers in the state of New York. Jack must have been paying him off right up to the day he died."

"Oh no, Jack's mother paid for the lawyer. He told me that. I think it was one of the reasons he never intended to get in trouble with the law again.

His acquittal had cost his mother so much."

"Is she wealthy? What does she do?"

"Mrs. Lenihan's a nurse. I don't know, maybe she took out a loan, or has rich friends. Jack never went into that. But the day after the trial ended she wired him twenty thousand dollars and he paid off Pelligrinelli."

"She didn't attend the trial?"

"No, Jack said she detested Albany and never intended to set foot in it again. Her life here was awfully unhappy. Though I got the idea she's doing much better now."

"It sounds that way."

"She must be taking Jack's death very hard."

"Corrine told me she was, yes."

"I guess Ill finally meet her at the funeral," Slonski said, and lifted his mug.

I said, "She's not coming."

"She isn't?" The mug hung in the air.

"She's gone to bed, sick with grief."

"That's terrible, just terrible. Jack told me his mother had never been sick a day in her life. She never missed a single day of work. He said she was made of iron."

"She sounds like quite an unusual lady."

"The Lenihans are an unusual family," Slonski said, and I was only just beginning to understand that that was putting it mildly.

I told him I had to leave for my dinner engagement, thanked him for his candid remarks about Jack and their relationship, and said I understood his initial skepticism about me.

"Oh, no problem. But you still haven't explained to me exactly what your connection with Jack was."

"It was professional on my part, which makes it confidential. I'm sorry I can't tell you more."

"You know, I miss him more than ever," Slonski said in a shaky voice. "I still can't quite believe that he actually left me. And that he's never coming back."

"I'm wondering about something, Warren. What was it about Jack Lenihan that evoked such an emotional response in you? He was sweet-natured and had his other virtues, but he wasn't a particularly attractive man physically. You seem to have a keener than normal appreciation for that which appeals to the senses. I would have expected you to bed down with a man who was-well, more like yourself."

He flushed and looked away. "The thing is," he said after a moment, "I've always gone for men who are less attractive than I am. I guess they-make me look better. And feel better. And the chances are, they're not going to leave me. It's a way of controlling the situation, I suppose you could say, of protecting myself. For instance, you really turn me on. But I would never make a direct move with somebody like you. You might turn me down."

Now it was out in the open, a slight relief. "But if I did turn you down-and reluctantly I would-it wouldn't have anything to do with you. It would be the fact that I have a lover, my deep and entirely rational fear of AIDS, and my already-too-elastic professional ethics. It wouldn't be personal at all."

His face fell. "There. You see what I mean?"

I started to laugh, but didn't when he didn't. I would have liked to hang around and attempt first aid on Slonski's damaged soul. Five years earlier, such acts of warmhearted crisis intervention were not uncommon for me, and I always got as much as I gave, often more. But my life had its complications now, and Slonski's needed a few, none of which I was in a position to provide.

He put some Wagner on the stereo, and I went out and rubbed snow on my face before driving off. The islands beckoned again briefly, but that was not where I was headed. From a pay phone I reached a friend at the Times

Union who provided me with background information on the three men I was about to dine with. By the time I hung up, I thought I had figured out what Jack Lenihan's morally ambiguous project was.

If I was right, then Lenihan had been correct in his prediction that I would approve of it. We had spent only ten minutes together one summer afternoon, yet he knew me that well. I would have liked to ask him how he'd done that.

EIGHT

I was led to the last available table for four at Queequeg's, a restored artrdeco diner-all streamlined aluminum glitz on the outside, goldenly glowing carved wood paneling on the inside, as in a wagon-lit-that had been turned into a kebab, salad and beer joint for the youngish trendies who lived and worked around Albany Medical Center.

The food at Queequeg's was good and cheap, and the owners had managed to conjure up an illusion of authentic fast-lane city life by packing a large number of eaters and drinkers into an area of severely constricted square footage. The music-jazz, disco, fusion-was sufficiently loud, as were frequently the customers, so that, amidst the atmosphere of boozy congestion, it was possible to converse without being overheard, or even, if your diction was sloppy or you were a little bit shy, heard at all.

Sim Kempelman was the first to arrive at five till seven. I'd never met him, but I watched for a middle-aged lawyer in the throes of mild culture shock, and I spotted him right away and signaled for him to join me.

"Mr. Strachey?"

"Attorney Kempelman, I presume."

"That's me, kiddo. And how are you today? This establishment reminds me of my student days at the University of

Pittsburgh. There was a place just like this one just off Schenley, near Forbes Field, before it went the way of the rest of my youth. Do you know Pittsburgh?"

"I've only passed through. It's somewhere near St. Louis, isn't it?"

He navigated his physical amplitude onto one of the chrome steel chairs.

"It's not quite that far beyond the New Yorker's pale. I take it you're a Manhattanite, Mr. Strachey. You must find Albany to be somewhere near St.

Louis too."

"I'm from New Jersey, so I'm adaptable. It's not quite a real place to most people-like saying you grew up on an offshore barge. But it was real enough for me."

"And how are you enjoying Albany? Is it real enough for you?"

"More than enough."

He had a big amiably droll face whose weight seemed to pull his head forward, and the brownest eyes I had ever seen. "I'm an attorney,"

Kempelman said, bending toward me, "but sometimes I think I would appreciate this city better if I were an anthropologist. In many ways Albany is like a museum display of American urban political folkways during the first half of this century. It's the powerful few snuffling at the public trough with the not-so-powerful many picking up the tab when it comes due each year. It's an outmoded system-like Havana before Castro, or Prague after Dubcek. You don't find patronage-and-payoff politics in the more prosperous, future-oriented cities-Atlanta, San Diego, Denver. It's outmoded, it's unfair, it's too expensive, and it doesn't work."

"How long is it going to take you to change it?"

"Another twenty-five years at the rate we're moving. Two years if my organization can find a way to tap the support we know is out there. Are you familiar with Democrats for Better Government in Albany? Or maybe you're even a dues-paying member, could that be so?"

"I'm not a member, no. But I've read about your group."

"But you are politically progressive, I take it. I received the distinct impression from a number of colleagues that you might be."

I said, "I'm an old-fashioned liberal, Mr. Kempelman. I'd be a socialist if I thought governments could be counted on always to do the right thing. But they can't, so I'm not. I am sort of fond of the social democracies. I like to think of Denmark with all those cheese fields waving in the northern sunlight. Of course, I've never been there, so that makes it easier. In this country I work for the Democrats in national elections, and in Albany I vote Republican, which makes me an anarchist. I'm gay, too, so around here that makes me pretty much of an outlaw if I do much more than leave the house, which I often do. I suppose my brazen behavior in that respect automatically confers on me 'progressive' credentials. But I don't know, you're the president of the club."

He had listened carefully to this, and now he gave me a little half-smile. He said, "You know why I wanted to speak with you, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Jack Lenihan told me that if anything happened to him, I should contact you."

"I guessed that."

"You didn't know?"

"No, but you are merely one of the legions Jack seems to have mentioned my name to."

He frowned. "I think poor Jack died horribly on account of some money he had-a great deal of money. That's my opinion."

"Jack Lenihan was murdered. Have you gone to the police with your opinion?"

"Yes. This afternoon, after much soul-searching, I spoke with Detective Lieutenant Bowman. I had no choice but to report my knowledge to him.

You understand that, don't you?"

"I do. Did my name come up?"

"It had to, naturally. I believe Officer Bowman would like to speak with you, in fact. He is searching for you at this very moment."

"I'll give him a call when I get a chance. I already saw him once today, which was plenty. What did you tell him?"

"That Jack Lenihan had offered my organization two and a half million dollars to finance a campaign to elect a progressive mayor of Albany."

"Oh."

"And that you were involved in his plans in a manner which Jack did not spell out to me."

"You told Bowman all that?"

"I had to."

"Crap."

"You said the word, Mr. Strachey, Jack Lenihan was murdered. Under the circumstances, there is no way I could have withheld information that is clearly relevant to the police investigation. My duty as an officer of the court is both legally and morally clear."

I said, "But you hesitated, didn't you?" I watched him squirm. "You waited half a day before you went to Bowman trying to figure out a way to get hold of Lenihan's cash before you did your moral duty."

"Yes, I did take time out to mull over the ramifications of any action I might take."

"Good for you, Kempelman. I think I'll join your club." He chuckled mildly.

"But first I have to tell you that Jack Lenihan used my name without permission. Before he died, I knew nothing of his money or his plans for it.

That sounds like a line for the cops, and you can take it or leave it, but it's true." He shrugged. I said, "When did Jack first approach you?"

"January third."

"Was he making an offer, or was he just feeling you out?"

"It was a feeler. Jack made it plain that other political organizations might possibly become the recipients of his public-spirited largesse. He said he would be in touch but that he was having unspecified problems with some people whose identities he did not reveal, and if anything happened to him I should get in touch with you."

"Jack Lenihan was a waiter on Lark Street who was not independently wealthy. Where did he say he got the money?"

Kempelman smiled and shook his head. "From his godfather. He inherited two and a half million dollars from his godfather in Los Angeles."

"No."

"That's what he said. He showed me documents-Jack was prepared for a certain skepticism on my part, you see– and he sat in my office and dumped a pile of documents on my desk. A probated will, tax-payment receipts, the whole lot of it, and all entirely on the up and up. I photocopied the papers, made some calls to attorneys of my acquaintance in Los Angeles after Jack left, and was convinced in my mind and heart that the whole business was legit."

"What was the godfather's name?"

"Albert Piatek."

"May I have copies of the documents?"

"Of course. I have already provided Lieutenant Bowman with copies, and there is no reason I shouldn't do the same favor for you. Now I have a question for you, Mr. Strachey." He looked me carefully in the eye and said,

"Where's the money?"

"Good question."

"Jack left the impression that the money would be in your possesssion. For safekeeping, he seemed to be saying. Did you kill him for the money?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. I've asked around about you-discreetly, mind you-and your reputation is that of a pain in the ass but not a murderer."

"Thank you."

"Lieutenant Bowman-a man in love with the obvious if I ever met one Officer Bowman may have other ideas about you. He is not fond of you and this interferes with his objectivity, I think."

"Oh, hell."

"So, where's the money?"

A waitress charged up to our table and rapidly recited the menu, which consisted of four items. Kempelman picked the chicken teriyaki and I ordered the beef teriyaki rare. I asked him if he'd like to split a pitcher of beer, but he said a glass of white wine would suit him better. I went ahead and ordered the pitcher.

When the waitress left, Kempelman said it again. "Where's the money?"

"It's safe," I said. "But I have no instructions as yet concerning its disposal."

"Did Jack leave a will?"

"I don't know. I thought you'd know. You're the lawyer."

"No will has been filed in Albany County. Or Los Angeles County. I've looked into that."

"Did you tell Bowman you were meeting me here tonight?"

"No, I am giving you that much. I think it's what Jack Lenihan would have wanted. So, where's the money?"

"As I said, it's safe."

"What will become of it?"

"I don't know. That's kind of a confused area."

I had been looking over Kempelman's shoulder at a man elbowing his way through the bar crowd, and when I signaled to him, Kempelman turned around. His two bushy eyebrows shot up.

Kempelman said, "Him too?"

"I'm afraid so. He's Creighton Prell, right?"

"That's Creighton, sure enough."

The Republican county chairman was a tall dewlapped man in an alpaca coat with puffy hazel eyes and a wind-burned patrician nose. I guessed he was the man with the fifty-dollar haircut who'd been looking for Jack Lenihan at Annie's Quiche Quorner on Friday. When Prell saw Kempelman with me, he winced, hesitated, then moved toward us with a look of despair.

"Mr. Strachey?"

"I am he."

"And Sim-Sim, what a delightful surprise."

"You look more surprised than delighted, Creighton."

Prell eased himself onto his little seat. "I had no idea you were involved in this business, Sim. Or are you?"

"Involved in what business, Creighton?"

"May I speak frankly?" The question was for me.

I said, "I'm all for it."

Instead of speaking frankly, Prell went gray as his eye caught the eye of another man making his way into the dining area.

I said, "That must be Larry Dooley. Hey, over here, Lar!"

Dooley, a low heavily ballasted primate in a shiny blue suit and wet cigar in his paw, pummeled his way toward us and scowled down. "What is this crap? You Strachey?"

"Yeah, I Strachey. This Creighton, this Sim."

"I know these two buggers. What are they doing here?"

"Sit down, Larry," Kempelman said. "Come on, kid, take a load off your feet."

"You might as well join us," Prell said. "May I inquire, Mr. Strachey, if you have invited still other guests to this little fete? It's already awfully crowded in here, if I may offer an opinion."