Page 17 of Fallen Angel

“I find that hard to believe,” Mallory says.

“My roommate used to work there. She told me that costumes increase your chance of getting laid by sixty percent.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Mallory.

“Really?” says Violet. “You think Halloween is so popular for the free candy?”

Mallory hasn’t been to the Plaza Hotel since she was six years old and her mother took her to see where Eloise lived. Now, twenty years later, she’s wearing a fedora and following her heavily tattooed, bleached-blond, pirate-hat-wearing co-worker into the entrance leading to the new private residences.

A white-gloved door attendant shows them to the elevator, pushing the button for the penthouse. When the gilded door slides closed, Violet says, “One more thing—you have to have a tattoo.”

Mallory and Alec look at each other.

“We don’t have any tattoos, Violet. You should have said something earlier,” Alec says, irritated. Obviously, Violet herself is in the clear.

Mallory had avoided the temptation to get a tattoo in her early twenties because of her former ambitions in corporate law. Then, by the time she changed course, it no longer held any appeal for her.

“I wasn’t finished,” Violet snaps. “If you don’t have a tattoo, someone there will give you a temporary one.”

“Like the kind kids wet and press on?” he says.

“Why don’t you just wait and see?”

Mallory and Alec exchange another look. With a smile, he rolls his eyes like when in Rome … let’s just have fun and go with it.

The elevator opens to an enormous room bathed in warm, golden light, but instead of traditional chandeliers, there are massive, custom-made crystal installations—almost sculptural—hanging in clusters at different heights. The walls are paneled in pale blush and cream lacquer with gilded trim, but with a high-gloss finish that catches the light like jewelry. The ceilings are hand-painted in Rococo-inspired larger-than-life roses and clouds. Small, round tables are covered in champagne-colored silk with mirrored tabletops reflecting the flicker of hundreds of candles in Lucite candelabras. The party smells like a heady mix of the tightly packed arrangements of pale pink garden roses and white orchids combined with the sickly sweet scent of a vape pen. A DJ is spinning French house and disco remixes.

“Welcome, gorgeous,” says a super skinny, tall blonde. It’s not clear exactly who, of their group, she’s specifically greeting. The woman wears a towering purple hat festooned with feathers and semiprecious stones. Something about her is familiar—Mallory might have seen her photo in Page Six. “Welcome! I’m Penelope.” She immediately gravitates to Violet. “Do you mind if I take a photo of your tattoos? It’s for an art project.”

Violet shrugs.

“I loooove this,” the woman says, twirling her finger in the air to circle the purple flowers on Violet’s chest. She aims her digital camera for the shot, then proceeds to take photos of Violet’s back and arm. Mallory looks at Alec, and he winks at her.

“Okay, I’m going to excuse myself to find a drink. Be a doll and point me to the bar?” Violet says. When she slips away, Penelope turns her attention Mallory.

“I know you,” she says.

Mallory looks at her more closely, trying to place her.

“Really? I don’t think we’ve met.”

“I’ve seen you in my club. I never forget a face from my club,” Penelope says.

“What’s your club?”

“The Slit. I’m Penelope Lowe.”

Now Mallory knows why she looks familiar. Penelope Lowe is a notorious party-girl heiress. Most true burlesque performers bristled at Penelope calling her club burlesque—The Slit features what’s more accurately described as highly sexualized performance art.

“Oh, sure. Great place. I saw your Christmas show last year. My friend Bette Noire brought me.”

“I love Bette! How is she? No one sees her anymore now that she’s a celebrity.” Penelope puts her hand on Mallory’s arm. “You should do a show with us sometime.”

“Thanks, but I’m exclusive to the Blue Angel.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Agnes has to get with the times and relax a little. Blue Angel girls are the only ones who don’t rotate throughout the clubs, and it’s going to limit your careers. I mean, who does the exclusivity help? Only the old lady.”

Alec reaches for her hand. He won’t interrupt—he knows Mallory can speak for herself. But he’s signaling his support.