I crashed a fancy book party in a private home on Park Avenue. I was not much interested in the author, or her book, or even the free comestibles. Truth is I had heard of this domicile, and I was curious. The owner, Oliver, is a rich man, a businessman, respectable. He is known as a philanthropist. He is older, he is serious, he has a splendid home, people frequently remark on it, “Get yourself invited to one of Oliver’s parties,” people will recommend. But they don’t know the half of it.

I was watching Oliver as he entertained a coterie. All slightly stooped, and bobbing, like they were bowing. Their drinks glasses held out in front of themselves, like begging bowls. I watched Oliver. He was paying close attention to a sleek lady talking at him. Without much of a plan I strode toward him. I gained on him, and then I was standing next to him. He continued nodding enthusiastically at the woman. She went banging on. I moved closer to Oliver, so I was right up on him. I leaned in close to his ear.
“I know everything about you,” I half whispered. “I know Vera Voluptus.”
Oliver spun like a well oiled ball bearing. He gripped me at the elbow, and steered me away.

“What news of Vera?” He spoke staring at the persian carpet. Vera was one of those girls who can hook a man for life. Vera claimed to be South American. She looked the part, with a lot of glossy black very long wavy movie-star hair. Gossips liked to say she was a liar, and she was really Vera Weener, from Weekawken. Since we live in a results oriented atmosphere I say it d

oes not much matter the provenance. Her results were good. She had some very pale skin, and a passion for party outfits. Vera always looked divine, even after a week of cocaine. Word was her makeup was tattooed. Vera was book smart, and stunning. She could ski bumps, could serve an ace, was disciplined about maintaining “the outline” as she called it.

The first time I met Vera was in a bathroom. There she was, bent over the sink, her face close to the mirror, applying makeup. In between sniffing from a tiny brown bottle. “I like you,” she said. “But my mother always told me never trust girls.”

One time, at a party, Vera quietly asked me to spot her twenty dollars, for a taxi home. I upped the money, never gave it much thought. Until hours later, Vera long gone, somehow the topic cropped up. Apparently Vera had asked every one of us in the room for twenty bucks to get home. We could only chortle, reluctantly impressed.

From the start I wondered what happens to girls like Vera.

Way back then, Vera would tell stories about Oliver, and his Park Avenue house. Despite his baggy oatmeal colored corduroys, and his shapeless navy cashmere crew neck with the merest hint of a stiff white collar peaking over, I knew that the nebbishy philanthropist was a wild drug and sex animal.

“I heard she’s living with her crack dealer,” I told Oliver. He stared at the floor. He shoved a hand into his corduroy pocket, produced a business card, and thrust it at me. “Call me,” he commanded. And then Oliver took a few steps and returned to his gaggle.