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“Hello,” she said brightly to the bartender as she plopped onto a stool “What’s your name?”

“Huh?” The bartender’s head jerked up

“I’ over the counter “And this,” she added with a flourish, “is PJ Wallis”

The bartender, an old guy with a creased face who looked like he couldn’t deal with one ood look at SondraBeth He wiped his hands on a cloth and suddenly bea the skin on his face to shatter into a million wrinkles

“You don’t say,” he said, glancing quickly at Pandy and back to SondraBeth

“PJ Wallis,” SondraBeth repeated When the bartender only cocked his head in inquiry, she hissed, “She’s famous”

Before Pandy could intervene, SondraBeth was telling the bartender—along with several other passengers, all of ere men—about how Pandy had “discovered” her in a hair salon in LA and had brought her to New York to be the star of the movie version of Monica

They got the last rooartown

They spent the first night holed up in their roo vodka cranberries froly around, they snorted up the rest of the first gram, and then another that SondraBeth had hidden in her suitcase “Did I ever tell you the story about the Little Chicken Ranch?” SondraBeth asked

“No,” Pandy said, laughing She figured SondraBeth was talking nonsense

“I’m serious And you can’t ever tell anyone It could ruin my career”

“I promise,” Pandy said

“Well” SondraBeth took a deep breath, got off the bed, and pulled back the curtain The vieas of the Dumpsters behind the kitchen, which hy the roorew up on a cattle ranch? Well, I did, but I ran ahen I was sixteen”

“You did?” Pandy asked in awe She’d never met anyone who had actually run away from home before