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honey," she hums with a vaguely southern intonation. "Got a steak?"
    "Lois, Lora. Lora, Lois," Alice says tightly as she opens the refrigerator. Alice, being Alice, does have a steak on hand. She hands it to Lois, who slaps it across her cheek and slumps down at the kitchen table.
    Not sure what to make of the scene, I mentally reject a series of things to say. Each one sounds ridiculous, given the circumstances.
    It is at this point that I remember Alice's story about her friend Lois: Where there's smoke there's fire.
    As I try to find my voice, I notice a starburst of broken blood vessels between Lois's lid and temple.
    "I got socked," she burbles, smiling lazily under the steak.
    "I didn't mean to--"
    "It's okay. I'd stare, too. It's a peach." She doesn't move as she speaks, as if determined not to let the steak budge an inch. As if doing so might allow her face to fall off.
    Die a Little -- 21 --
    "Lois is a friend from the studios. She's an actress."
    "I'm an actress, all right," Lois slurs, staring straight at me with a sad smile.
    "In pictures?"
    "That's right."
    "Have you been in any I might know?'
    "You can see me jerk a soda next to Dana Andrews in one. In another, I wave a big peacock feather over Maria Montez. And if I knew how to swim, I'd be wearing a tiara in a tank right now over at MGM in the new Esther Williams picture."
    "That's great," I say. "I mean, so many actresses can't get any work."
    "They don't know the right people," she replies, still smiling. Alice looks at her, turning the water off at the sink.
    "I guess it's connections along with the talent," I say, removing my apron. "And luck."
    "Lois makes her own luck," Alice says.
    I turn to Lois, who looks back at me with a wink.
    Die a Little -- 22 --
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    One Sunday, I receive a message from my building manager that Alice called while I was out and is desperate for me to come over.
    When I arrive, feeling a twinge of trepidation, what I find is both less and more worrying.
    There are huge platters of food everywhere--on the large Formica table, leaves out, on the kitchen counters, on the seats of the chairs, even on the top of the refrigerator and the windowsills. Round plates of deviled eggs, quivering tomato aspic, large glass bowls of seven-layer salad, smudgy glass tureens of trifle, copper molds filled with fruit-studded Jell-O--where is the suckling pig, I wonder. And then Alice amid all this, hair pulled tightly back, flushed almost obscenely, glassy sheen of sweat on her face, neck, collarbones. The radio, teetering precariously on the windowsill next to a dish of creamed spinach with bacon, blares jazzy Cuban love songs. Her eyes, my God, her eyes are very nearly radiating, blinking spasmodically, pupils pulsing.
    "It's a surprise party, Lora! A party for our darling, our Bill." I gather my breath. "What's the occasion?"
    "I had this revelation, Lora." She tears out at me, smile like a pulled rubber band. "You don't even know. I woke up with it. He works so hard. And that story you told me. Oh my God."
    She clutches her hand to her chest before continuing. "He carries this crazy city on his shoulders, and what does he get? We take him for granted. Well, I do. Look at what he does, each and every day.
    "This is for him, Lora. I just leaped out of bed and headed for the grocery store. I still had my slippers on, Lora. The store manager followed me around the whole time. He was afraid I might fall. He carried my groceries to the car. I've been cooking, baking all day. All day. I hope Bill doesn't get home before it's all finished.
    "I need you, Lora. I need you to hang those decorations in the bags over there. And make the phone calls.
    "We need to hang the lights, arrange the tiki torches, pass out the ashtrays, the bamboo coasters I bought. These wonderful coconut tumblers that I'll fill with daiquiri. Can you make daiquiris, Lora? I don't know how, but I bought ten pounds of ice."
    She can't stop moving, stop talking. She is like a