Saturday, October 19th....

Oh my god. I wake with a hangover, the magnitude of which I have not felt in years. It's a solid 6.9 on the Richter scale. My mouth tastes like someone has parked a dirty tennis shoe inside it and my head is filled with malevolent leprechauns beating on tiny bass drums. I think of all the wine I consumed and that soggy, grease-laden fist of bread I actually put into my body then roll over, pillow over my head, groaning. I so deserve this. Carol is already up and about, making a big point out of feeling chipper. I beg a few aspirin from her, put a wet cloth over my head -- and then I realize, with utter and absolute delight, that I can go back to sleep if I feel like it. I have no child to feed, no dog to walk, no cats to scratch, no parents to call, no clients that I must make happy. It's just me and my headache. It almost makes me happy. I lie there in bed, head throbbing, marveling over this rare phenomenon: I do a few rapid calculations and decide it has been about six years since I could sleep the day away. So maybe I'll do just that.

Three hours later, close to noon, Carol comes back in to inform me that she has been denying I have a hangover. "I've told everyone you are 'reposing,'" she says.

I like it. I am not a hung-over, repentant sod. I am "in repose."

I feel remarkably good with the extra hours of sleep and haul my butt out of bed to bathe. I lie in the warm water, exfoliating my feet -- a useless gesture if ever there was one, who in god's name is going to be either touching or looking at my feet? -- and I try to decide if it would be really horrible to immediately partake of a little hair of the dog. After all, it is the afternoon. Instead, I indulge in room service breakfast, which is borne in promptly by a cheerful waiter who confides he loves guests who order breakfast at noon.

Fortified by food, I stumble downstairs and find I have completely missed Lise's panel. What a rat I am! The very least a true friend can do is sit through your panel. I have failed her utterly. "Be glad you missed it," she says philosophically. "I sure do wish I had."

We run into Gabriel and Reed and the four of us try to figure out where the hell our friend Laura's interview is taking place. We wander from room to room, pursuing rumor after rumor. God forbid there be a sign up letting us know the location has been changed. I start to change my mind about not bitching about the organization. No one is quite sure where this interview is taking place, nor even quite how it came to be. Rumor has it that Laura was supposed to interview George Pelecanos the day before, but got bumped at the last moment, and that George agreed to the change only if he was allowed to interview Laura the following day. I like George even more when I hear this and so we keep looking. At last we discover the room and arrive about halfway through the interview.

I sit toward the back, watching my friend Laura, who has emerged in recent years like a butterfly leaving her cocoon behind. She is brilliant and beautiful and generous during the course of her interview. She is also honest, unafraid and articulate. She is gracious and praises another female author's works so thoroughly I want to run out and buy a copy of the book that very moment.

I sit watching her and think back to the first time I ever met her, so many years ago, at a Malice Domestic when we were both young pups. She had been dressed in jeans and tennis shoes and a man's Oxford shirt covered with an Annie Hall tweed jacket. She had also been somewhat shy and self-deferential. Now, I look up and there she is: confident, poised, accomplished, praised and at last receiving the attention she has long been due. I am suddenly so proud of her -- and so proud that she is representing us, and doing it so well -- that tears well in my eyes and a lump rises in my throat. I want to stand on the chair and hold my fist in the air like Norma Rae and urge everyone to join the sisterhood. Instead, I surreptitiously wipe my tears away. Lise glances at me and smiles; she understands. We are both prone to sudden, sentimental stabs of emotion, especially after four days of near-constant drinking. We sometimes cry when we say hello and we almost always cry when we say good-bye. We wouldn't have it any other way.

Later, we all walk with Laura down the hall. She is relieved the interview is over. "I need a drink," she says.

This is all we need to hear to justify ditching the rest of the panels in lieu of yet another trip to the lobby bar. We agree to meet upstairs in half an hour and I make a quick trip to the dealer's room to buy a Lee Childs book for my friend Donna, who is waiting back at home. He is her favorite author and I am willing to beg for an autograph in order to surprise her on my return.

I meet yet more people in the dealer's room and it seems impossible that three full days have passed and that a fourth is now winding down. I hang with Beth, buy our mutual friend Dusty a tee shirt at her urging, thank some diehard book store owner fans for their support and then encounter an author whose book received a very good review in my Post column last year. Halfway through our conversation, he places my name and thanks me for my review. "When I read your review," he says, "I thought to myself, 'Finally, someone got it.'" I glow inside. It is my favorite compliment as a reviewer.

During this Bouchercon, I have discovered a lot about myself and my feelings about being a reviewer. I find that I like people knowing I do reviews: not only must they be nice -- at least to my face -- but, more important, it makes me feel as if I am really doing something productive to help dig us out from under this mess we are in, i.e., the hundreds of new titles that pour forth in a deluge each month; the marketing decisions that put poorly-written books at the front of the queue because they resemble the latest bestseller; the sheer impossibility of good books, of original books, breaking through the log jam. I am also surprised to realize I care about my reviewing every bit as much as I care about my writing -- and that it's more than okay that some people know me as a reviewer only, without knowing that I also write books I have dreams for.

My karma is trying to tell me something: as I am leaving the dealer's room, another author spots me and races over. He, too, got a good review last year. No, wait, make that a great review -- and he deserved it. To the horror of a woman looking on, he throws himself on the floor in front of me and kisses the top of my shoe. I double over, laughing. I love anyone who doesn't care what other people think and it's exactly the same thing that I would have done, just to be different. He scrambles back up and we talk as much as two people can talk when other familiar faces are drifting past. But we feel the pull of time marching and soon move on to other conversations. Everyone, it seems, feels the clock ticking away and we are all trying to make the most of the hours that are left.

Upstairs, the bar is in full swing. Late Saturday afternoon has descended, panels are winding up, people are gathering for their last evening together. I decide I need to meet a few new faces to justify my complete shunning of panels. The bar can be educational, you just need to make an effort, I tell myself. I shamelessly strike up conversations with every friendly face I meet. I am delighted to meet a man dressed in a suit, he even has a tie pin and a vest. At last, some much needed class at Bouchercon. He gives me a copy of his book and it becomes one of only three I take home: there are stacks already waiting for me back in my office.

In between the laborious just-met conversations, I take breaks with Gabriel along one edge of the bar. I'd really rather just sit and talk to him about writing and his new book; I am tired and crave the comfort of a conversation with someone I actually know. But I feel I must make the most of my final hours and so I wade back into the fray.

"There's Lee Childs," Jon suddenly tells me, knowing I am anxious to get his book signed for my friend. I have never met Lee, would not know him if I tripped over him, may even have tripped over him the night before. I view his tall figure from behind and charge forth, a copy of his latest book in hand.

He turns. I stop. I stare. No one has warned me about him. Why did no one warn me? I look up...and up... and up..... and find myself staring, mouth open, at a gorgeous man with blond hair who is dressed all in black. He has a pleasant, expectant smile on his obviously intelligent face.

"Bond. James Bond," I think he says, his arm extended so I can shake it.

I babble something utterly insipid as he pries his hand free from my fingers, which have frozen over his in some sort of hormonal death grip. My friends watch, somewhat astonished. This doesn't happen to me very often. I hold the book out, still babbling, he scrawls his name and an inscription. I babble some more and wander away, dazed.

The man ought to wear a warning sticker.

(The humiliation, however, proves worth it later on when I arrive back home and hand the book over to my friend Donna. She loves it. Here, at least, I have fulfilled my friend duties.)

I am designated driver that night for dinner in Austin, but being rendered speechless has left me badly in need of a drink. Elaine proves my excuse to have one. I have not seen her in over a year, though we worked closely together during this time for an awards committee. I owe her a drink. She was the ideal committee chairman: diplomatic, discreet, funny and competent. She looks great, too: tan and blondish and very Floridian. Of course, we order margaritas. But she is distracted by others; I am distracted by still more. We manage three sentences before we are pulled apart. No matter. A few feet away, I spot Sparkle, she's been orbiting other worlds all weekend. She looks utterly beautiful and I manage to wish her luck that night at the awards banquet before other people take her attention away.

I explain to Gabriel who she is and that she's toast mistress for the banquet. The mention of the ceremony reminds Gabriel of something and he pulls a ticket from his pocket and stares at it.

"You're not going to that banquet," I tell him firmly. "You have no idea what you are in for. You are coming to Austin with us."'

"I have no intention of going," Gabriel says somewhat indignantly (he does not like to be patronized and I am starting to get the uneasy feeling that I may remind him of his mother). "But what am I going to do with this?" He holds up the ticket. We stare at it.

I pluck the ticket from his hand and head for a corner table, where a nice middle-aged lady sits, watching the crowd. I have done this before in Bouchercons past. One man's crumbs are another man's banquet. "What are you doing tonight?" I ask her.

She admits she was going to hang out in her room, everyone else seems to have plans. "Go to the banquet," I suggest. "Here is your ticket. It's free."

"I can't take this," she says, taking it anyway.

"Sure you can," I assure her. "You can thank that nice young man over there for it."

I point out Gabriel and he waves. She heads off to thank him.

"Thanks," he says a few minutes later. "She's really happy. That makes me feel better."

"Hah! Just wait until dinner," I say confidently, though privately I am thinking how rare it is to find a guy who is so very nice that making a stranger happy leaves him happy, too.

The bar has started to fill with people planning to attend the Anthony Awards banquet. The nominees gather nervously, wishing they weren't nervous. With the first novel nominees, in particular, I want to tell them to relax, to say that we aren't in high school anymore, that losing is really a no-brainer, and that your ego survives quite well and fully intact. I also want to say that just being nominated has plucked you from the obscurity of the madding crowd, and that for this alone you should thank your lucky stars. But I have dispensed enough slightly obnoxious, gratuitously sage advice to last a lifetime over the past four days and decide to keep my yap shut. Instead I have a margarita with them and wish them all well. If it were up to me, all five nominees would receive a "Best Of..." award and we'd leave it at that. Alas, little in life is up to me.

I am standing thus, enjoying my drink, when a finger taps me on the shoulder. "See that old guy at the bar?" a familiar voice whispers in my ear. It is one of my many well-placed industry moles.. "That's him."

I look up and know instantly who the slightly rumpled man in slightly rumpled clothes must be: my 2002 nemesis. All karmic thoughts about no feuds fly out the window, all resolutions to avoid negative energy evaporate. I want to leap on his back and flip him over my head; I want to grab his arm and slam him back and forth in the air like BamBam on "The Flintstones"; I want to hold him above my head in a WWWF spin, then toss him over the edge of terrace into the empty swimming pool below. Most of all, I want to make him eat his tennis shoes and promise to never, ever wear them with a man's suit again.

Instead, I sit a few feet away, sipping and staring at his all-too-human, somewhat frail figure, wondering what in god's name the world of writerly solidarity is coming to. He is, obviously, the focus of considerable anger on my part -- considerable and unapologetic anger. At an awards ceremony six months before, in an attempt to be funny, he issued a gratuitous slam against Tart Noir for our appearance the year before (an appearance he did not even witness). I wasn't there to hear it, but eight emails waiting in my in-box by 10:00 the next day told me about it. The remark fell flat, as did almost all of his attempts at jokes that night, but we, as they say, are not amused. I have tried to move beyond it, but my anger proves abiding. And for very good reasons, too. I have never met him. He doesn't know me from Adam. And I am damn sure he has never read any of my books. Plus, he took a potshot at us solely because "someone else told him it would be funny" and that makes me believe he is too stupid to be allowed to speak in public.

But his worst sin -- and the source of my enduring anger -- lies in his sense of timing. His timing on the night in question was deemed unanimously wretched, but is nothing compared to his lousy timing in the context of the preceding year: I had just spent twelve months serving on a committee for that same awards night, devoting ten hours each week to slogging through book after book because I wanted to give new authors the chance to be recognized for their talent and hard work. And because I believed that it was what a peer organization was supposed to do. That was ten hours a week away from my daughter, away from my writing, away from my friends and away from my fun. To come off that Herculean task and be publicly insulted by someone who is a member of that same organization has proved too much for me to take. Not given what those 520 plus hours cost me that I can never again get back.

"Should I tackle him, throw wine in his face or just go up and introduce myself and scare him by being very, very nice?" I ask my somewhat nervous friends, who have quickly caught on to his identity.

"Take him down at the knees," a friend says helpfully.

Gabriel looks alarmed. He is very sweet. I get the feeling he abhors violence, especially violence perpetrated against people who look like his grandfather. "Just forget it," Gabriel suggests.

I try my best to do just that, but within five seconds I am seriously once considering throwing a drink in the old coot's face when Gabriel catches a glimpse of my expression and puts a hand on my arm. He raises his eyebrows in silent entreaty.

Okay, I admit to myself with a sigh, I am willing to cause a scene -- and I have no compunction about kicking the guy's ass, old or not -- but I am not willing to turn into a raving lunatic in front of Gabriel. He's just too nice of a guy and if he thinks I'm insane, then I may lose him as a friend before we even get the chance to exchange neurotic emails about our books-in-progress, which is, of course, the entire point of having writer friends. Besides, I'm wearing my last clean shirt.

"All right. I'll just glare at him," I concede. I narrow my eyes in focused malevolence and imagine I am melting the plastic soles of his tennis shoes beneath his wrinkled old feet, thanks to my x-ray, super-hate vision.

"I'll help you glare," Gabriel volunteers in his relief. His glare is considerably more subtle than mine.

A few more friends join in and we sit, drinks in hand, glaring at my clueless villain as he pauses in the middle of the bar area, looking around as if to locate some friends. His eyes sweep over us, then stop. He flinches and, incredibly, turns and scurries from the bar.

"Aha!" I say triumphantly. "We sure showed him!"

It's not much in the way of revenge. But it will do.

In between afternoon drinks, my friends and I plan our final dinner together. It is our last night and important that we make the most of it. (We also want to make it up to Gabriel for that ghastly meal at T.G.I Friday's, the one we're never ever going to tell anyone about). We have therefore chosen a very nice restaurant in downtown Austin and I have the guest list down, at least when it comes to the women. Me. Lise. Laura. And Lynn, an old high school friend who lives in San Antonio and who, improbably, has also known Laura for over a decade from her newspaper days. In fact, when I look up from yet another superficial just-met conversation, there Lynn is, heading across the lobby. Hurrah! Fresh blood. Lynn is finally here.

But the subject of the men still remains. "Leave it to me," I tell Laura, who is taking the first turn at catching up with Lynn. I have spent the last two hours chatting up all the men at the bar and I know what I am doing. The first two decisions are easy: Lise and I can not live without Reed and Gabriel at this point. The other two spots I fill with two extremely intelligent and very charming male authors who, coincidently, are not at all hard on the eyes.

"Well done," Laura confides in a whisper as she checks out our dinner companions.

"I tried to get Gary, too," I confess, "but he's staying put. Still, this isn't bad."

We turn and look at the assembled men, there's, like, one in every flavor.

"Not bad at all," Laura cheerfully agrees.

We divide up the cars, and off we go for a night out in Austin, seeking a civilized escape from the gathering awards madness. The restaurant is uncrowded and welcoming and the evening quickly turns into one of those perfect dinners that I used to dream my life as a writer would be about. And it's even better than the Algonquin Round Table because we actually like each other and if one of us died and was cremated, I am sure the others would accept the ashes. We sit around a long table.... take turns telling stories... compare notes on the gossip we've heard.... make smart ass comments just to hear each other laugh.... insist on sharing bites of our food... drink lots of good wine... and enjoy being away from the madness -- all the way steadily working our way through a grand, multi-course dinner.

I am sitting across from my friend Lynn because I have not seen her nearly enough in the last few years and I want to drink her face in. She has always been effortlessly beautiful, even back when we were fifteen years old, and I don't think I have ever seen her with more than a touch of make-up on. Tonight is no different. Her hair is turning gray around the temples and there are small lines at the corners of her eyes when she laughs -- but she is still, without the least thought about it, completely beautiful. Even better, she has handed me photos of her children, who are far older than my own and have already started to grow into their adult faces. I return the photos but their images linger, both in my memory and in Lynn's face. When she turns one way, I can see her son in her. When she turns the other, I catch glimpses of her daughter. There is something very comforting in that thought. She catches me staring and smiles. It's hard to believe I have known that smile for almost 30 years.

We linger over coffee and enough créme brulee to feed all of Paris, savoring the calm atmosphere of the nearly deserted restaurant and the relaxed companionship. It is a lovely way to rejuvenate our souls after the frantic days behind us.

Finally, duty beckons and half of our party head back to the hotel to meet other friends as planned. But Reed, Gabriel, Lise and I decide to stay behind so we can explore Austin's fabled downtown scene. The sidewalks are crawling with college kids in various stages of inebriation. Outbursts of noise, loud music, slammed doors, police cars whizzing past could all make me feel jumpy, especially as I am the designated driver and inexplicably stone cold sober. But I find myself completely relaxed: I feel supremely safe with Reed nearby. His shaved head and solid build ensure a wide berth for us wherever we go and I am confident he could uproot a telephone pole and beat any attacker senseless. Meanwhile, I enjoy the complete dichotomy of how Reed looks versus how he is. He is imminently teasable and gives back as good as he gets.

Somewhere on 6th Street, I attempt to convince Gabriel that he really, really needs to get a tattoo. Incredibly, for one brief moment, one shining 10-second period, I can see in his eyes that he is actually considering it. But just as I am about to suggest a tiny black-ink-only angel on his hip bone, the madness passes and he realizes what he has been thinking. A look of terror crosses his face. "Don't let me get one," he warns me and I give up the fight. It is enough that he actually considered it.

Reed and I take the lead as we walk from bar to bar, peeking in front doors, sticking our heads in windows, shamelessly ogling the young. We wander past a pair of bored go go girls who dance in a window dressed or, rather, half-dressed, in cowhide hip-hugging outfits. They actually have stomachs and I harbor a secret hope that flesh may be finally coming back in.

"Why not choose from among my broad selection of attractive flowers for the lady?" a street vendor calls out as we pass. His hand sweeps gracefully over a row of roses. When he gets no response from us, he abruptly changes his sales tactics for Lise and Gabriel's benefit:

"Ugly fucking flowers for way too much money!" he shouts as he slams a witch hat on his head.

Funny, but that approach doesn't work either.

We pass a banjo player who can't be more than sixteen years old and I bend over his open case to drop money in it. The boy flashes me a brilliant smile then watches as we walk up the street.

"That boy was giving you the look," Reed says in excitement. "Did you see that?" he asks Gabriel and Lise. "That teenage boy was giving her the look."

"Well, you know us Tarts. We're just irresistible," I say... because it's a hell of a lot better than admitting that it was actually my ten dollar bill -- and not me -- that had inspired his smile. You see, I have a soft spot for banjo players and an even softer one for young musicians. I wanted to make sure he had enough money for strings.

Filled with good food and fresh air, invigorated by the bright lights of the big city, we drive back to the hotel with the top down on the car. I almost miss the entrance ramp and must zoom across several lanes to make the cut. The two Jewish boys in the backseat start reciting Hail Mary's.

"I thought you were Jewish," Lise shouts at them above the roar of the wind.

"I am. I just dated a lot of Catholic girls," Reed yells back.

I want to ask what exactly he'd been doing to the Catholic girls when they felt the need to recite Hail Mary's, but I am afraid Reed will insist on a demonstration -- and Gabriel is the only one within his grabbing distance.

I love driving a convertible at night along the highway. The effect can be quite terrifying: the darkness, the speed, the wind, the noise, drunken drivers barreling past in a roar of engines, trucks grinding their gears in your ears -- it all combines to make you feel as if you are inches from death. When, in fact, putting the top up would instantly restore that car-cocoon feeling of safety and security.

Lise and I are the only ones that know this.

As Reed and Gabriel cower in the backseat, Lise sings along to the radio, adapting the lyrics to calm them. "Play that funky music, white boy," she shouts at them. "Play that funky music 'til you die... which will be soon.... since Katy Munger's driving."

By the time we get back to the hotel (intact, I might add), Gabriel's hair looks like Lyle Lovett's, mine looks like the Bride of Frankenstein's and Reed -- who has no hair -- is instead obsessed with Lise's tousled, dirty-girl 'do. We are all ready for a drink.

The bar is closed, but I retrieve the long-forgotten six packs from my mini-refrigerator and bring them down to the poker room, where Parnell is explaining seven card stud to at least half of the table. This is not a good sign if you are seeking a high quality game and Jan, who is from Texas and so takes her poker very seriously, knows it. Her fingernails dig deep into the table top and she has a fixed smile on her face. "Have a beer," I suggest, handing her one. Gabriel decides to play and buys chips. The rest of us pass: we have heard a rumor that there is music next door. And that the bar there is still open.

We are older than dirt compared to most of the disco crowd, but we really don't give a shit. We find a small die-hard Bouchercon contingent at some tables toward the back of an upper level and join them. I mainline margaritas to make up for the evening's regrettable sobriety thus far. I am glad to see Jerry Healy, who can always be found near the dance floor on the Saturday night of a Bouchercon. It would not seem the same without him. Otto and Lise leave our small crowd for the dance floor to perform their yearly minuet. Lauren, Stella and Chris wander in after hours of line dancing and, incredibly, Lauren and Chris are up for more. Stella stumbles off to bed just as the DJ starts to play Nirvana. We race to the floor, grateful it is not rap.

"Here we are now! Entertain us!" we scream obnoxiously as we muscle our way in among the alarmed younger crowd. I hip some anorexic twenty-something when she won't move out of the way and she goes flying across the dance floor. (The trick is to do this while looking like you are merely dancing, so that no one can accuse you of bodily assault). We dance in a circle, our heads whipping up and down to the music. Not only does this maneuver make your scalp feel great, it's like a margarita bong to the brain: centrifugal force packs the alcohol into as many brain cells as possible in as little time as possible.

Yes, I have this all down to a science.

Later, I sit fanning myself, gulping more margaritas and hoping no one will attempt a serious conversation with me. Girls just want to have fun. Someone, I forget who, whispers to me: "You guys were whipping your heads around about an inch from each other. I was sure you were going to crack your heads together and knock each other out."

"Hmmm..." I think. The specter of being sprawled across the dance floor, bleeding from head wounds to the beat of Nirvana, unfolds in my brain like a tabloid cover. "This is what can happen when 45-year olds try to be cool," I think. It is not a pretty thought.

We alternate drinking and dancing wildly. About half an hour before the bar closes, a huge crowd of B'con revelers straggle in and an impromptu Tart dancing line forms. Basically, six women stand in a tight row near our tables and perform vertical lap dances with each other. It proves quite popular with the off-duty Marines in the crowd, who are frankly too drunk to care if some of us are old enough to be their mothers. In fact, for a vocal few, this seems to be the appeal. The line grows and I don't know who the hell is behind me, as I'm a little afraid to look, but Chris Niles is packed in front of me and that girl has got some moves.

Sean Doolittle wanders past in search of a bathroom and stops to stare.

"That was pretty hot," he says afterward, beer in hand.

"I think I threw my back out," I confess.

Not really. There are a few more dances left and I have discovered that Reed is the rarest of men: he dances, he moves his feet, he even shakes his... something. Best of all, he's sort of like a sideways human trampoline on the dance floor. Bump into him and you bounce off, but he grabs you just before you crash into bystanders and reels you in so you bounce off him again in time to the beat. It is the ideal solution for lazy dancers. A little momentum and you could do that all night without breaking a sweat.

Just as we are about to call it a day, I spot Jan and Gabriel wandering in from the poker game next door. They practically race to the bar, so I don't ask them how the game went. At least they have enough money left for a beer. Lise and I manage to lure Gabriel out for the final dance and I wonder with some suspicion just how he has managed to time his appearance so perfectly. One dance, indeed.

The music stops but we do not. We talk and drink and laugh in a party that has swelled to several dozen. They finally throw us out at 2:30 A.M. Most people wander off to bed, but Gabriel and Reed and I follow Lise to her suite, where we sit around and talk about everyone else. Actually, Lise and I talk and the boys listen. Reed starts telling Jewish jokes and when Lise and I collapse in helpless laughter at punch lines we have both heard dozens of times before, he looks a bit perplexed. "I guess everything is funnier in a Yiddish accent," he says to Gabriel, eyebrows raised. He then proves his theory by recreating the entire history of the Apollo Space Program with a Yiddish accent, culminating in the utterly unforgettable line:

"Ohvey! The Eagle. It's landed already."

By now, Lise and I are on the floor and we can not breathe from laughing. Gabriel is alarmed by the noise. "Ssshhh," he says. "There are people trying to sleep next door."

This is like waving a red flag in front of a bull.

"Gabriel Cohen!" we begin to shout. "Get away from the bar. Leave that George Pelecanos alone!"

We yell every name we can think of -- except our own, of course -- until Gabriel throws in the towel and distracts us by performing an astonishing array of facial contortions (clearly, the man has nieces and nephews). He runs through a series of imitations that include a man hanging himself with gruesome authenticity and an uncanny performance of the rodentlike creature from that movie classic Of Unknown Origin. (We will make Gabriel do his rodent alien act at last ten more times before he escapes back to Brooklyn because the sight of him curling his hands up like a rat in front of his scrunched-up face strikes us as incredibly incongruous and funny, even when we are sober).

As veterans of Bouchercons past, we easily outlast the boys. They finally flee in exhaustion, leaving Lise and I slumped and spent in our chairs. "Well, that was fun!" we declare in mutual wild understatement. It has been a long and wonderful ride.