Friday, October 18th....

The phone rings early on Friday morning: it is Tim calling from New York, probably in retaliation for the year I got confused about time zones and phoned him at Left Coast in Anchorage.... at 6:00 in the morning. But he is too much of a gentleman to repay the favor entirely and after I pry my eyes open, I find it is nearly 9:00 AM. Tim wants to know all the dirt.

"I refuse to tell you," I answer, "because you would not come to Austin." But I weaken when I hear that the reason for his staying behind -- his book-in-progress -- is going well and so I spill all I have learned the night before. He is a good enough friend to appreciate all the karmic nuances of my many strange interludes. "How did your panel go?" he asks when I am done.

"My panel?" I think blankly. Then it hits me. "Jesus, I better go. I think it's this morning. Maybe even now."

I hang up and frantically paw through a stack of brochures and print-puts, finally locating a 2-inch square of paper that calms me. I have at least an hour to go before the panel begins. Enough time for a bath and a pot of coffee... and is it too early for a margarita, even in Texas?

I can't believe I have agreed, at the last minute, to be on a panel. I have not been on one in years. I am anal-retentive about panels, or maybe just a little too hungry to discuss the game of writing in all its intricate glory. And so, long ago, I became irretrievably frustrated at the tendency of some writers to talk endlessly about themselves on panels, rather than discussing the topic at hand. Worse, after I started the Casey Jones series, I always got put on panels that involved either the topic of sex or breasts in some way and I was a little tired of being known for either Casey's 44DD's... or my own. After one near altercation with a bombastic male author some years past who had hijacked an otherwise fabulous discussion, I realized I had to make a choice: I could act like a total bitch in public or I could avoid all panels and cultivate a reputation for being mysterious. Bitch vs. mysterious. It was a tough choice, and possibly too late... I was certain there were at least a few people who had already decided I was simply a mysterious bitch. But, no matter, I chose the mysterious route and swore off panels forever.

I have agreed to come out of retirement for this year's "Tough Chicks" panel, however, chiefly because no men are on the panel -- at least I don't think they are, I wouldn't put it past some of them to try and climb on board -- and because the conference organizer has flattered me with tales of his wife (obviously a brilliant woman) being a big fan. So now I have to drag my tough chick ass out of bed and fire my brain synapses by 10:30. I think I can. I think I can.

I look in the mirror: I think I can't.

"Carol!" I yell into the bedroom. "Is the lighting in the bathroom really, really horrible or do I look this bad all the time?"

"Both," she replies with a cackle.

I make it to my panel just in time, locating the room in some far corner of a god forsaken lower level. The room is packed. Good god. I hope they don't think we are going to talk about sex.

I get my first glimpse of Stella in a year and flash her my best smile. I have had a wild crush on Stella ever since she stole a Tart Noir reading out from under my feet in New York City by twisting one leg (clad in a tailored pant suit and black ankle boots, no less) all the way behind her neck while reading out loud from her latest book. I suspect this happens to Stella a lot: both men and women melt in her presence. Alas, she is the most married among us and so remains a sort of delicious enigma for us all. She has softened in looks since the last time I saw her and has adopted a sort of early Ann Margret-meets-young Blanche du Bois look. The effect is devastating: a heart-shaped face, freckles sprinkled over creamy Irish skin, strawberry blonde curls. She has always depended on the kindness of strangers.

I don't have a name tag or an official place to sit, so I seize the opportunity to sit on top of Stella. "You look like a vanilla ice cream cone," I say -- and the moderator overhears me indulging in blatant same-sex flirting. She gives me a look that lets me know that no one has bothered to tell her I am a last minute addition to the panel, so I cool it, figuring total anarchy could follow if I don't behave.

One of our panelists is M.I.A. so I take her spot, finding myself next to Lauren. This gives me a fighting chance at the microphone (we will actually have a tug-of-war over it several times in the hour ahead). Lauren looks different to me and I can't quite put my finger on it, then I realize I have never been sober in her presence before. She is simply in focus. It is a new and not unpleasant experience. We have three seconds to gossip and catch up before the panel begins. We cover a lot of ground in that time.

Do people really want to hear what we have to say? I think as I look out over the crowd. I am acutely aware that Tart Noir has pissed off a hefty percentage of the counting-peas writer population because of the strong media coverage it has gotten both in the states and in the U.K. People have uttered astonishingly indiscreet comments about it in my presence, maybe because I am not as visible or identified with it as Lauren and Stella have become. I have wandered the halls of Bouchercon, seemingly invisible, and heard some nasty cracks about the Tarts from the in-need-of-estrogen crowd. But I have taken no prisoners over it, simply made a note of their names (those name tags sure come in handy) as it is always good to know who your friends are.... or aren't.

Nonethless, I am also acutely aware that an earlier Tart Noir panel at a recent U.K. conference resurrected the timeless male authors vs. female authors brouhaha. And I am hoping this panel does not turn into any such sort of discussion as there are far too many cute guys in the crowd -- and I am in far too good of a mood to want to start a ruckus. I am also feeling a bit slippery on the issue of male vs. female author recognition these days, having served on two award committees in the past few years -- committees that out of a total of nine nominations, gave only one to a female author. The reasons for this, I have decided after much soul searching, were numerous, complex, discouraging and disturbing to me on some surprising fronts. But none of the reasons for this were the fault of the male authors and I am just not in the mood to go there.

Naturally, Stella and Lauren bring the awards thing up immediately. On the very first question. Mostly out of habit: they have been out on the frontline flogging a heavy duty media tour for months now, talking about Tart Noir across the land. Today, with the morning so young and our minds so tired, they are probably just trying to warm up. But I am not in the mood.

"Look, you guys," I want to say. "I have a hard enough time getting a date without you pissing off all the men." But that, of course, would be very shallow. Instead, I grab the microphone from Lauren and mumble some happy horseshit about Tart Noir being a marketing tool then suggest we broaden the focus of the panel since not all the panelists are Tarts and blah, blah, blah. It is a terrible, rambling answer but it turns the tide. Lauren picks up on the nuances of what I am trying to do immediately, god bless her, and soon we not only off and running -- we are on-topic. We begin to disgorge the stew of utter bullshit peppered with occasional brilliance that tumbles forth at most Bouchercon panels.

Nonetheless, the brush with the male vs. female thing leaves me a bit shaken and I take a moment to figure out what the hell is going on. Have I lost my feminist edge? Have my raging hormones steered me to the other side? No, I decide, it's a lot more complex than that. After years of rather vocally bitching about many things -- the treatment of women by the hardboiled status quo, in particular -- I have grown weary of that fight.

It's a little like trying to teach gorillas string theory: it ain't gonna get you anywhere. In addition, many of my closest author friends have turned out to be men and so I have personally witnessed the depths of the frustrations they, too, must endure in trying to bring their writing to the attention of readers. I have, in fact, come to suspect that all of our little in-fighting episodes are nothing more than distractions we visit upon ourselves to avoid facing the hard facts: that we can turn on each another all we want, but the sorry truth is that we are not each other's enemies. We are, in fact, all taking it up the rear together. And blaming each other for what's wrong in our genre today is only a sign of the frustration we feel at a broken system that chews up good authors and grinds us down book-by-book. We have, in short, been divided and conquered by the "publishing is a business" apologists and illiterate bean counters who now call the shots. Until we recognize this and find a way to work together to change -- or get around -- the broken system, we will never get anywhere by fighting each other.

I do not deliver this speech in public, however. Not once, not even over too many drinks in the bar. People got tired of hearing me say parts of it two years ago and they don't want to hear it now. But these thoughts are never far from my mind over the days ahead. It is impossible to ignore them when the evidence surrounds me every moment of Bouchercon. It is written in the shell-shocked faces of authors who are just now absorbing the reality of how many of us writers there are vs. how many readers and marketing dollars are out there to respond. They have done the math and realized that most of us are doomed to fail, or at least fail by traditional standards. No wonder we all head for the bar.

These gloomy thoughts are, fortunately, not a part of the "Tough Chicks" panel. Instead we, naturally, talk about sex. Stella wastes no time letting the crowd know she is a tough chick who prefers chicks and I amuse myself counting the disappointed faces among the crowd. But I have, of course, underestimated the power of male fantasy. I spot a man or two adjusting his dreams to include both Stella and her girlfriend at the news. And why not? If we weren't all lovers of fiction, none of us would be here in the first place.

After the panel ends, we sit behind the table signing copies of the Tart Noir anthology. I decide, with no small satisfaction, that we Tarts have, by far, the youngest and best-looking readers in the universe. A beautiful young girl named Lola approaches, a small teddy bear tucked under one arm. She can not be more than seventeen years old. She has pale, perfect skin, glossy straight black hair and a patient, somewhat shy demeanor. "You rock my socks," she tells each of us in turn as we sign her books. I ponder the implications of this: is there really a whole generation of young women out there who are reading our words, my words, and making choices in their lives because of them? The thought is frightening. And overwhelming. Here I have been fretting about how my own daughter will turn out and wondering if I have the skills to shape her into a strong, independent, loving woman. I have been feeling pretty much naked on that front all along. Yet, all this time, without even knowing it, I have already been setting an example. The deed has been done. Maybe I just need to relax?

I wade back into the crowded hallways to find everyone bitching about the lack of organization, chiefly the fact that they can not figure out who and what each panel may be about. I find myself supremely disinterested in adding my energy to theirs. First of all, who the hell wants to go to panels all day anyway? I will go to exactly one and a half over five days: mine plus half an interview with another author. Secondly, given the amount of work required to pull off a convention this size and the fact that it has been organized using volunteers, I can not muster the inclination to complain. Some of them have probably devoted months of their lives to our little soiree without any payback -- while I have done Bumpkiss -- and so I do not feel entitled to complain. At least for now.

I wander off for lunch with Lauren, Lise and Bill -- a writer I last saw two years ago on the Bouchercon basketball court. He was planting a foot on my breasts at the time while going in for the dunk. He had the gall to be in great shape and to play aggressively and well. I have lumped him in with the testosterone-plus crowd ever since. But as I chat with him now, I notice two things: one, he is an extremely nice guy and very funny, plus he has the mesmerizing voice that I just love in men from the South. Two, he's very cute. How has this escaped my attention until now?

"Aren't you a woman?" I ask him as we walk toward Manuel's.

He looks at me, confused.

"Don't you write as a woman, too?" I explain.

Lise, who is used to my insane name dyslexia, attempts to straighten things out. "You're thinking of someone else," she says as Bill stares at me like I have grown four breasts.

"That's right," I concede. "Ruth is that Walter guy."

"The guy with one arm?" someone interrupts.

"Walter Satterwhite!" I say triumphantly, finally remembering the name.

Now Bill looks really confused. "Walter Satterwhite only has one arm?" he says. "When did that happen?"

"Stop the madness," Lise says firmly. "Walter Satterwhite has both of his arms and is a man. Now, let's go eat lunch."

We, technically, drink lunch more than we eat it. I am really starting to love my frozen margaritas. I find that brain freeze is an excellent antidote for a lurking hang-over. It is all part of my carefully thought-out Bouchercon alcohol consumption strategy. A non-drinker at home, I am what is known as a day drinker at conventions. I like to go to bed sober so I sleep well and feel good the next day. Thus, I sprint at the bar in the afternoons, slow in the early evenings and stop altogether at night. It's important to be disciplined, I have found, if you hope to make the most of your convention experience.

Thus lunch becomes a delightful hour of frozen drinks, untouched spinach salad and endless stories involving roadkill, perhaps inevitable as Bill is from Mississippi, after all. I wonder if Lauren, a Brit, views Bill and I as a strange species, the Southern American, the last remnants of the Daniel Boone school of cornpone revolutionary spirit. I hope so. I'm in the mood to be exotic. Lauren, on the other hand, is naturally exotic. She is also on some weird diet: she can't eat corn, which, as a Southerner, strikes me as a fate worse than death. I also know there must be a joke in there somewhere, but I am too thirsty to exhume it. My margarita is calling my name in a distinct Southwestern accent.

Lise and I collapse in laughter many times during lunch, she is the only person who I can count on to dissolve in giggles at a dumb joke, then get the giggles even worse when she realizes we are both laughing -- which only escalates the merriment until we are often quite literally falling off our chairs. And thank god for that. One middle-aged woman giggling hysterically is a twit, but two doing the same thing constitute a party. As a co-conspirator, Lise saves me from being seen as insane. I think. Some people believe we are nuts when we are together, I know, as I've already seen a few stunned looks this time around. But mostly we encounter bemused tolerance and the old "Well, you gals certainly are fun together!" comments. They have no idea. They should be there at the end of the night when we're alone and discussing the day's absurd high points. We need oxygen masks just to get through it.

After lunch, I head to the dealer room to share a chair with Lise while she signs books at a booth. It is really just an excuse to sit and gossip, which we do for an hour. Enough people stop in surprise when they see me then pull out copies of my books from their bags to make me feel as if my 2-year break from writing has not caused me to drop off the radar completely. I am particularly pleased to see a face I first spotted at a fabulous reading in San Diego a few years ago, the woman's kindness and good mood is contagious. Although older than me, her skin is incredibly smooth and pink and I wonder how she gets it that way. Not by drinking margaritas for lunch, I suspect.

I see Joe from Black Orchid and congratulate him on his marriage to Bonnie. He looks at me, perplexed. "We're not married," he says. "But this explains why so many people are mad at us for not being invited to the wedding."

"What?" I say. I am going to kill Tim. I am absolutely positive the rumor started at one of his readings. (He will later deny this vigorously, leaving me with the uneasy knowledge that somehow I have been the unwitting spreader of a wild rumor up and down both coasts.) "No wonder everyone looked at me strangely when I asked them about the wedding yesterday."

Joe takes it all in good humor, laughing heartily as I describe Margaret Marons' chagrin at not being told about the wedding, given the key role of one of her books in their romance.

"But now if you guys really do get married," I protest, deeply ashamed, "it will have ruined the surprise and it will take all the wind out of your sails and you'll just be doing it because everyone already thinks you did and now I've gone and spoiled every -"

"Katy," Joe says confidently -- cutting me off at the pass before my apologies turn into War and Peace -- "I really would not worry about it."

Hmmph, I resolve for the ten millionth time, this is why one should not repeat rumors. My resolution lasts five seconds. "So," I say to Joe, hoping to change the subject. "Got any good dirt for me?"

Hey, what can you do? We're all writers. We write about the human condition. We live in front of computers. The walls of our world press in on us at times. Can I help it if I remain insanely curious about the other humans around me?

I wander up to the lobby, where people are gathering for basketball. My delusions of 30-year old grandeur on the court always surface just before the Bouchercon basketball game. Unfortunately, ever since I had my daughter, I feel like I am carting around two extra basketballs at all times on the court. Two years ago, when Lauren and I both played, we almost suffocated the men we were double-teaming (not that we heard any complaints). But it is maddening when the spirit is willing and the flesh is weak. I am no longer fast on the court and I tire easily. I don't like the reminder that I am growing old. I also heard rumors that last year's game was testosterone-infused and very competitive. Shira, who practices her shot all year in a NYC league, can definitely keep up under such circumstances. I can not. Still, I decide to survey the players to see if maybe it might be worth donning the gym shorts I have brought along just in case. A little fresh air might take care of the lingering margarita buzz I have rather unwisely accumulated at lunch.

I check out the assembled players. We make a somewhat motley crew as we wait in the lobby, forgotten by the organizers, passing a basketball back and forth on the marble floor, wondering what to do. I see that Shira is the only female committed to playing. Maybe I should lend my support?

Mindful of last year's competitive battle, I idly ask the crowd, "How many of you are doing this just for fun and how many of you are really serious about playing?" In my present condition, this strikes me as a subtle way of asking: "How many of you men would be complete assholes to an incompetent female player on the court?"

A large man with a shaved head and a broad body that looks like it is made out of granite fixes his eyes on mine. "I take my basketball very seriously," he says in a voice that holds more than a hint of a Yankee accent.

"Oh yeah, well I am from North Carolina," I brag. "So I could probably kick your ass blindfolded."

"Really? Well, I am from Brooklyn," he shoots back without hesitation. "So you are certainly welcome to try to kick my ass."

Hmmmm, I think, as I check him out. A smart ass who lifts weights. I like that in a man. Plus, he looks like the only person at this entire convention who could actually hoist me over his shoulder and march me upstairs. The thought is not unappealing. I smile at him and he smiles back. I wonder who he is. (I will later hear all sorts of rumors about him, most of them sparked by his broad build: he is a fireman; he is Superman; he dug people out from under on September 11th; no, he just has a lot of friends who are firemen; he is an ex-cop. The truth: he is a writer, just like the rest of us.) I become thoroughly confused as we stare each other down. All I know is that he is the only one about to play basketball who looks remotely in shape. And he has a killer smile and very nice eyes.

"Maybe I should play?" I muse out loud.

Beth, webmistress to the stars, overhears me. "Take pictures," she suggests a little too brightly.

"A little fresh air would do me good," I counter.

"Maybe you should just take pictures," Beth says sweetly, her eyebrows contorting in some sort of secret signal that probably means, "Katy, every year some out-of-shape forty-something who had too many beers at lunch blows out a major piece of his or her anatomy and do you really want it to be you this year, you drunken slattern?"

"Hmmm," I think to myself. "I still have those moves that let me snake around four opposing players for the easy lay-up. I did it all the time when I was fifteen and I just know I can still do it now."

"I have my tennis shoes upstairs," I hint out loud.

"Taking pictures would be nice," Beth says again, staring at me intently. It dawns on me, at long last, that Beth does not drink and that when you do drink, it's probably a good idea to follow the instincts of those who do not -- instead of your own tipsy impulses.

"I know," I say, as if a great idea has just occurred to me. "I'll go get my digital camera and take pictures."

"Good idea," Beth says, looking relieved.

It takes almost an hour for the players and fans to determine exactly where we are headed. This gives me the time I need to sober up enough to drive. We put the top down on my convertible and Carol and Parnell climb on board. I have not spent much time with Parnell in the past, though of course I have heard his ballads at past conventions. He is a pleasant surprise as the afternoon ticks away, and proves to be slightly demented, though in a fun way. He has the knack of looking quite crazed at times -- especially when he is sitting in the front seat of a convertible with his hair blown straight back and a look on his face that says, "Just how fast are you going exactly?"

We zoom down the highway, become embroiled in a high school clusterfuck, discover the courts there are occupied, then zoom down more roads in search of a place to play. It becomes a snipe hunt. Steve Hamilton, who is inexplicably driving a fabulous Jaguar, leads us through a labyrinth of Texas streets and we end up in what I suspect must be a middle school somewhere in Oklahoma. The children watch in astonishment as people who look old enough to be their grandparents begin to play a heavy duty game of basketball. It is the first time I have ever really used my digital camera and I become obsessed.

Unfortunately, there is a 2- to 3-second delay between the time you press the button and the time the photo is taken: this is not good for a sports event. I end up with dozens of shots of blurred faces, backs of heads, people with their hands on their knees gasping for breath.

I decide to get local color instead and the die-hard B'con basketball fans who gather in a cluster at a nearby picnic table oblige with cheering-them-on poses . I review my photos, delete a dozen of them, then notice I have kept about ten shots of Gabriel's legs. Despite the income potential they represent on e-bay, I delete all but one of them in the interests of not scaring the hell out of the poor guy.

As I peer through the camera lens for more action shots, I get a look at the male ego in action. All the men on the court prove to be rather restrained this year: they apologize to one another after fouls, they communicate with their teammates, they take turns taking breaks, they can laugh at their mistakes. I am impressed. Especially with the Brooklyn non-fireman who, despite his size, plays with good humor and restraint.

The traditional injury proves to be a minor one this year, at least minor to everyone but Shira -- who suffers a badly-sprained little finger that quickly swells to the size of an engorged leech and turns the color of a plum. There is enough blood for a good photo opportunity, however, and I snap away.

Gabriel, who is convinced he caused this injury, is beside himself. "I am so sorry," he keeps saying, consumed by guilt.

God, if I didn't know better, I'd think he was Catholic. "Relax," I say, determined to put him out of his misery. "It doesn't really count unless you're taken to the hospital. Just ask Al over there."

It's true. Incredibly, the man who blew out his knee playing basketball in Milwaukee and was taken to the hospital is actually out on the court today, playing as hard as ever. I admire his optimism and love of the game. (I also feel compelled to point out that, given my earlier comments about drunken forty-somethings, Al was sober at the time of said injury.)

Shira is, as always, the epitome of a good sport. She shrugs off her injury and stands on the sidelines, cheering the men on to an extra game. Mercifully, it begins to rain. We run to the convertible then zoom back to the hotel on the highway, testing my theory that, due to velocity and angle, one does not get wet when driving in a convertible in the rain. As it turns out, this theory applies only to front seat passengers. I know because Carol, our back seat occupant that day, tells me this when she is not swallowing mouthfuls of water.

We arrive back at the hotel just as hordes of people are gathering in front, ready to begin the night's festivities. We are so cool, I think, because we have a convertible and all you losers are waiting for cabs. I insist on dropping Carol and Parnell off in front of the main doors to make the maximum number of people jealous at how very cool we are. It's pouring now, so I decide to put the top back up once we are safe and dry beneath the drop-off archway. People stare as we pull up. "We are so cool," I think again as I press the button that automatically raises the convertible's top. "Watch the top," I say jauntily. Parnell and Carol do not hear me. They are focused on climbing out of the car. "Watch the top," I repeat more frantically. "WATCH THE TOP."

Inexorably, inevitably, the top comes crashing down on their heads, catching Carol's shirt and almost pulling it off in front of the crowd. She becomes entangled and is practically dragged to her knees. Parnell must hurry to save her.

Oh, god. So much for impressing the crowd. I am a terrible, terrible friend. I want to say, "are you all right?" -- I really do -- but what I actually do is collapse in helpless laughter in the front seat. I am laughing at myself, truly I am. I so deserve this, I think to myself. I so deserve this for trying to be cool.

Of course, what I am laughing at -- and what Carol thinks I am laughing at -- could well be two very different things, I realize as I trudge back to the hotel after parking the car. But Carol is far more of a good sport than I could ever have been. I don't deserve her as a friend. I would have been furious at my laughter, but she is the consummate good sport. When I find her a few minutes later in the bar, she laughs at what happened. I offer to buy her drinks until she is 75 years old in penance. "Just get me another glass of wine," she says. "We seriously need to get drunk."

The fresh air has cleared my head and we carry our drinks upstairs to dress. The Tart Noir party is that night and I feel it incumbent upon me to look somewhat sluttish (though, preferably, in a smart and powerful way, of course). Unfortunately, the dress that looked so good back home now looks like a Michigan prom dress circa 1988 when I try it on in the hotel.

"I didn't know this had shoulder pads," I say, horrified.

Carol looks at the dress and reserves comment.

What the hell am I going to wear? Between sitting in bird shit and spilling drinks down my front, I have burned through my clothes like Sherman marching through Atlanta. Plus, I packed badly to begin with, taking barely more than my most casual jeans and shirts in an attempt to avoid the need for underwire bras altogether (we all have our priorities). Fortunately, the margarita I just inhaled hits home just in time and I arrive at a brilliant idea.

"I know, I'll wear my bathing suit," I decide. "The bar will be dark and Lauren is sure to be showing a lot of cleavage so I'll fit right in. I'll wear my black pants with it and put a shirt over it and no one will ever know."

Triumphant in my solution, I arrive downstairs to find the party has been moved to a brightly-lit spot in the lobby. Kleig lights illuminate my abundant cleavage. None of the first four men I speak to can look anywhere but straight down my top. "You should see what I store down there," I say to one and he scurries away in fright. The bathing suit is not exactly giving me the support I envisioned -- in so many ways -- but it is too late to go upstairs to change. There is nothing to do but grab two glasses of wine, one in each hand, and start drinking. It doesn't matter anyway. Within half an hour, everyone is well and truly drunk. I mean: people are lit. The drinks are free, the party is loud, everyone is giddy with the thought that the travel is over, as are many of the panels, and that the serious talk has been talked. Tonight is the time to have some fun. I get introduced to more Brits than I ever thought the U.K. could hold, forget more names than I ever knew in the first place, and take dubious photos of people eating -- always a sign the photographer has had way too much to drink.

We drift from the Tart party to another party across the lobby, where I discover that girls with large breasts and small tops get wonderful service from the waiters. They bring me new glasses of wine before the empty ones have barely left my lips. I have never seen so many good-looking men in one room, I soon decide. God, even the agents look gorgeous (although, actually, a couple of them really are gorgeous, even when I am sober). Later, I will look more closely at the photos and discover that in most of the shots where I appear, I have my hand in someone's shirt, or wrapped enthusiastically around an alarmed stranger's torso. Plus, everyone will look sweaty and bright red from the alcohol, prompting some serious adjusting in the RGB color levels -- and serving as lasting proof that the evening was, in short, a bacchanal.

While under the influence, I am particularly perplexed to meet George Pelecanos, this year's guest of honor. For some reason, I have labored under the misapprehension that he weighs 400 pounds, is losing his hair and wears gaudy shirts that barely button over his gut. Instead, he turns out to be a few years younger than me and is downright good-looking, with a very pleasant and unthreatened personality. "So you're Katy Munger," he says, looking me over -- prompting me to wonder which of the hardboiled camps he has been talking to. He poses happily with the Tarts (not something a lot of the hardboiled guys would do) and proves to be an amiable fellow. I forgive him for all the New York Times coverage he's received in the past year and decide he is a most excellent fellow. Especially when I hear his wife is very smart -- we like men who marry smart women.

A priceless photo opportunity presents itself: George kneeling in front of Lauren as he worships her boots. I whip out my camera, but they are posed too close to the lens for me to get it all in the shot. I back up, trying to get the boots in the photo. "Get the bloody boots in," Lauren hisses between clenched teeth, but there's some old lady behind me and I have already wedged her against a table. There's nowhere else to go. If I back up any further, I'll crush her. I'm drunk, but not that drunk. Besides, I am terrified it might be Ruth Cavin and then my career would be over, I would become known as the former writer who stampeded our genre's best-loved editor. So I do the best I can and end up with an enigmatic shot of George recreating his shoe salesman days. ("Forgive me, Lauren," I want to say. "It was a once-in-a-lifetime shot. But I am just not a killer....")

I am distracted by the presence of Walter Mosely, one of my favorites, and thrilled when it turns out he is good friends with Stella. He looks quite debonair -- I love a man who can wear a hat well -- and we pose for yet more photos. Lauren and Stella keep doing the Charlie's Angels thing, but I have never seen the movie and am clueless about what they are doing until later. When I download the photos, I see I have rather spoiled the fierce effect by standing there, smiling broadly in the face of their serious attitudes. I look like what I sometimes am: a goofy goodie two-shoes with Midwestern parents. Oh well, we all are what we are. And none of us can entirely escape our pasts.

I have found Gabriel and the faux fireman from the basketball game. His name turns out to be Reed. He is a very funny fellow with the kind of infectious, generous spirit you sometimes find in true, homegrown New Yorkers. He makes me miss New York and I orbit in and out of his presence the rest of the night, just to get a few tastes of his Brooklyn essence.

Eventually, the party fades and we all wander upstairs for a pre-Meet the Brit shindig in the hospitality suite. It is complete chaos in the two rooms, people are packed wall-to-wall. Everyone seems thoroughly drunk and on the verge of behaving disreputably -- visions of a literary Tail Hook incident flash through my mind. I find myself crushed against more than a few strange men, who invariably hail from Florida and have a slightly crazed gleam in their eyes.

It is too much. I need space and we all need food. Gabriel disappears in search of dinner, ending up at an establishment he will lament at least once an hour for the next two days. (Later, Lise, Reed and I will be sworn to secrecy and we will promise never to reveal the fact that Gabriel Cohen of Brooklyn, New York -- author of the Edgar-nominated "Red Hook" -- traveled thousands of miles to Texas... only to eat fried potato skins at the TGI Friday's next door to the hotel.)

My solution to the nutrition problem is more immediate. I simply float down to the lobby bar with some friends. My god, but the people there are utterly plowed. They're at the "spitting on you when they talk" stage of inebriation. I am a paragon of sobriety in comparison. "We better order food," Lise says and waves for the cocktail waitress. There is no sign of her cute in an intellectual way boyfriend and we agree he is most certainly at home nursing the mother of all hangovers (although he will insist the next night he was "working on a project.") As we wait for our food, I spot my former editor across the bar and wave. She has just returned from my publisher's dinner. Like most editors, she looks all of seventeen years old. She smiles and heads my way.

I suddenly hope I am sober enough to conduct a conversation. So does Lise. "Isn't that your editor coming toward us?" she says in a somewhat horrified tone of voice.

"Oh, yes," I say, just to test my voice. I can do this, I think to myself.

I've always liked my editor and I am glad to see her. We hug. "I would have invited you to the dinner if I'd known you were going to be here," she says, chiding me. Her remark is something of a tradition as I have managed to weasel out of my publisher's dinner for three years in a row using various excuses and subterfuges.

"I know you would have," I say, wanting her to know that I haven't been avoiding her. "But I would rather have stuck chopsticks in my eyes than to have been in the same room with..." I go on to name several authors notorious for their general ass licking of bigwigs. I am cheerfully unapologetic about my appalling honesty because it hits me that, drunk or not, I speak the absolute truth: I didn't want to be at that dinner. It has been a tremendous relief to be out of that game for the past two years. I am utterly delighted I did not have to endure the experience. In short, I am free. Best of all, I have a book I love waiting for me at home, a book I will finish while enjoying every page of my work. I have done it. I have found a way to love writing again.

My editor endures my near-anarchy with a patient smile. We talk for a long time, and I rudely ask when she's going to have children. She would make a wonderful mother -- god knows her years babysitting dozens of insecure authors ought to teach a girl something -- and these days my 45-year old bones often compel me to press young women to start their families early. She deflects the question graciously then returns to her colleagues as Lise waits anxiously to hear how the conversation went. This is the mark of a true writer friend: they hover nearby while you are talking to your editor in order to provide implicit moral support, then offer a shoulder immediately afterward just in case you need a place to cry on. (Although, sometimes, your writer friends may videotape you from a nearby table, attempting to lip read your conversation and mounting a joint effort to put words in your mouth while you frantically gulp Cosmopolitans and vow to kill them later.)

I give Lise the thumbs up just as our food arrives. After several liters of red wine, it tastes incredibly delicious. I feel like someone who has been wandering in the wilds of Alaska for weeks. I also feel sorry for anyone who catches a glimpse of me gnawing like a wild dog on the greasy sponge of garlic bread that's been soaking in the chipolte shrimp butter and is now absolutely dripping with polyunsaturated fats. Alcohol and butter. What could be better? I enjoy every disgusting bite and stare at the empty dish sadly when it is gone. Now I know how my dog feels when I only give him a cup of the lousy low-cal kibbles for his breakfast.

Another writer friend joins our table -- I had not even realized she was at Bouchercon -- and she looks fantastic. She, too, must have left some anger behind, I decide, since who could look that good while carrying frustration around? We are the graduates of the Bitter School of Publishing and, I suspect, we are both grateful that period is behind us. All around us are others just now confronting their illusions; it feels good to have worked through it already.

More faces come and go and I spot Laura sitting in a corner surrounded by drunken Brits. But, by now, the evening has descended into a sort of madness and I content myself with a wave. She went to our publisher's dinner and I suspect she is decompressing after the experience. Drunks stumble over me and I find a safe spot upfront as the bar slowly begins to empty. I sit next to Reed, who no longer strikes me as a member of the Aryan Nation and who, instead, has been tagged as a big old teddy bear. People drift in and out of the bar, sitting to catch their breath for the long trip upstairs and to glance at each other with pride: we are the few, we hardy few. We are the courageous souls left standing after an evening of sheer insanity. At last, I stumble upstairs to bed. Ruth and Jon are still at the bar and I watch them -- their figures grow small and fade into the darkness beneath me -- as the glass elevator flies me to my upper floor.