The party was in full swing when I arrived. Let me give you the lay of the land. Tabby’s apartment was in a vintage building, erected during a time when architects erred on the side of largesse. All of the rooms in the condo were huge, bordering on cavernous. The hardwood floors gleamed. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on a dark night sky. All the original woodwork in the place—mahogany and cherry, I guessed—had been immaculately maintained; they gleamed with a richness that spoke of decades of serious care and nourishment. The walls were covered with art—oils mostly—in heavily gilded frames. Most of the paintings depicted nude or half-dressed men lolling about in verdant settings. Each room in the condo was painted a different color, all in warm hues; orange morphed into yellow, y
