The phone rang so loudly that Mr. Chatterbox could have heard it in Palmetto. He opened his eyes, then shut them tight. He'd gone crazy last night. A pizza, a bag of chips, some Tasty Kreme, some Entenmann's, some Mars bars and an entire coconut cream pie from Yoders. Why was he doing this to himself? Why? Why? What time was it, anyway? He squinted at the red digits. 11:35.

"I am reminding you about the Women in Power Luncheon. Noon at Michael's On East. Good-bye." It was his boss. She knew better than to engage him in conversation this early in the morning.

Mr. Chatterbox calculated that he didn't have time for a shower, which was a shame as he didn't seem to have a clean shirt or socks or underwear. So he poured on some Versace cologne-a Christmas gift from a realtor he had all but kissed and hugged in his column-and ran out the door. A strange car was driving around his trailer park, Enchanted Acres, still in tatters from Hurricane Zelda. Something in his gut told Mr. Chatterbox it was the guy from the collection agency.

He parked in the doctor's office parking lot across from Michael's On East and then, just to be on the safe side, limped across the street. At a table set up outside the ballroom sat an old biddy with a blue rinse. "You're at Table 39," she said, giving him a nametag. "And you're late."






"Where have you been?" she asked. "I haven't seen you since the Wine Fest tasting party."

"I've been laying low."

They arrived at valet parking. "Will I see you at Hermine's?"

asked Marjorie.

"Of course," said Mr. Chatterbox.


Hermine's? He had no idea what she was talking about.


"Shall we start with a cocktail?" said Marjorie.

"No, I don't want one. Really. And besides, they give me free food if I mention them in my column but they don't give me free drinks."


"Who's that fat woman who just waddled in?" said Marjorie. "She seems to know you."

"Yes, that's my mother, actually."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"No, no, that's quite all right. She slipped off her Atkins."

After a while he said with an air of deadly carelessness:

"Everybody's talking about Hermine's party tonight. The one for Katherine Harris."

He had done his research.

"Yes, aren't they," said Marjorie. "I love Hermine's parties, don't you?"

"Yes. . . Marjorie, I'll tell you a very odd thing. She hasn't invited me."

"I'm sure she will."

"The invitations went out three weeks ago."


"The thing is," Mr. Chatterbox said after a moment, "I don't think she is. Going to invite me, that is. She's mad at me about something."


"But it means ruin for me," said Mr. Chatterbox. "Isn't that Janet Kane?"


"It's so unfair. If I miss this party I may as well leave Sarasota for good. They'll replace me with John Karl."

Great tears stood in his eyes waiting to overflow.

"My last column was Eight Great Meals under Eight Dollars ... And they wouldn't even reimburse me . . . No one invites me anywhere anymore."

"I'll tell you what," said Marjorie. "I know Hermine very well. She had the next suite on the Wall Street cruise. We bonded. If you like I'll call her up and ask if I can bring you."

"Would you? Would you, Marjorie? If only you really would. Here, let's do it at once. Put down that roll. Use my cell phone. Quick, quick. Oh, damn, I've lost the number. Here it is!"


"Well, Marjorie, I really don't think you can," said Hermine. "I can't imagine how he's going to fit in. There are far too many people coming as it is. I'm terribly sorry. Who is it?"

"Mr. Chatterbox. He's very anxious to come."

"I'm sure he is. I don't care for that pompous fool. He wrote about my face lift."

"Please, Hermine."

"No. I won't have him inside my house. I've only asked you because I trust you. This is a private occasion to honor Katherine Harris. To reaffirm our support. To celebrate our values."

"My dear, how Republican you sound."


Back at the offices of SARASOTA Magazine, Mr. Chatterbox wandered into his boss's office.

"Get your invite?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Good, because your copy is so late you'll have to dictate it directly to the printer. You do know how to do that, don't you?"



Though Mr. Chatterbox had worked at SARASOTA Magazine over 20 years, he still had no idea what "white lines" were. But he did know them when he saw them, and there was a stack of them right on his boss' desk. He glanced at the top one. It was a preview of the upcoming social season. How strange, he thought. He didn't remember writing that. He looked closer at the by-line.

It was by John Karl.




"You two!" screamed Guido Fabrini as he walked into the kitchen. It would have to be a very important party to have Guido there himself. He was Sarasota's most prominent caterer. "Wipe the spots off those *&%$ trays! Polish those %&$# glasses. And you with the beard-what's your name?"




From the window Pancho and Mr. Chatterbox could see the guests beginning to arrive. In spite of the rain a crowd of neighbors had collected near the gate to criticize the gowns and tuxedos with appreciative "oohs" and "ahs" or contemptuous sniffs. Wendy Mann Resnick's cleavage drew particular applause, as did Patricia Laughlin's sequined gown and Elle McComb's daring plunge at her rear. Rita Greenbaum wowed the crowd with a languid glance, brushing her hair back with a hand ringed in diamonds. Some gate-crashers were detected by the security guards. They hurried home to change for a second assault.

No one wanted to miss Hermine Bagwell's party.

Mr. Chatterbox snuck away for a moment. Never had he been more depressed. He wandered upstairs and began to snoop around. It always made him feel better. He checked out the shoes in Hermine's closet. Then he went through her lingerie drawer. Then he looked in her medicine chest.


Katherine Harris rose to speak. A hush fell on the room, beginning at the back and spreading among the guests until only the voice of Annette Scherman could be heard, articulating some details of the hostess' first marriage, until she too was silent.



"It was a hard campaign. My opponent was a real little pit bull. But I want you to know one thing. I could not have done it without you. Just look at yourselves. Sarasota's best and brightest. You inspire me to do my best. You give me your energy. You make it all worthwhile. Thank you, thank you . . . Sarasota."




"Hello," he told the printer. "It's Mr. Chatterbox and I'm ready with my story."

He cleared his throat and began.


Lie after monstrous lie sprang from his addled brain.






Now she'd be up for hours. And there were so many servants and masseuses and personal shoppers going through her house that she had no idea who to accuse first. Damn! You're so rich and you can't even fall asleep. What was the point?



Another night was fading into tomorrow.