Neither Peter nor I are in the mood to mingle, so we go to my bedroom-office where Penelope, Jack, and Georgia are gathered. They don’t seem to be in much of a mood to socialize either.

Georgia is sitting on the couch, looking bored and grumpy, her cheek in her hand. Her mien clashes with her festive, bright red lipstick that she only wears on rare and important occasions. Clearly, she expected to have a better time this evening, which is often the case with her and parties.

Earlier, we told her how much we loved her novel. Our praise made her happy for about an hour, and then the effect faded.

The only one of us not here in my bedroom-office is Lily, who’s playing the piano in the living room, which may be another reason we’re here instead of there. Her grief is audible in her music. You’d think we were at a funeral. The guests don’t seem to mind or even notice, but we who are her closest friends can’t help being affected by it.

Georgia’s cell phone rings. As usual, she answers it on speaker, so we can all hear.

A man’s voice says, “Hey, Georgia, is the party still going?”

“Er . . . yeah,” she says, like it’s a dumb question.

“Great! Is there an alternate entrance into your building?”

“Er . . . no,” she says, like it’s a weird question. “The entrance is on Fifteenth Street between Union Square East and Irving Place.”

“They’re not letting me in.”

“Who isn’t?”

“The cops.”

“Cops?”

“Er . . . yeah,” he says, like it’s a dumb question.

“Why?”

“Er . . . because of what’s going on in your lobby, maybe?”

“What’s going on?”

“You don’t know? One of your doormen is going postal. He has a gun.”

We all look at one another, eyes wide.

“The doorman made everyone vacate the lobby, except for the other doormen and staff. So that’s why I’m asking if there’s like . . . maybe a service entrance in the back or something?”

“Are you crazy? Why would you want to enter a building containing a doorman with a gun?”

With icy indignation, he says, “Because you know very well that I have dreamed of meeting your agent Melodie Jackman for years, if not decades. I’ve just finished writing my third unpublished novel, and I might be able to pitch it better in person. All I care about is making it past the doorman and to the party.”

“Listen to what you’re saying,” Georgia barks.

“It’s easy for you to get on your high horse. You’ve got it made. This is my chance. I’m not going to let some psycho doorman get in my way.”

“My agent isn’t coming. She never goes to author parties.”

“Ah damn,” the guy says and hangs up.

I grab the remote. “I bet it’s Adam. Let me put on the doorman channel.”

In my building, there’s a live security video that is viewable twenty-four hours a day on channel seventy-seven of all residents’ TV sets so we can see who enters the building, who leaves, who’s at the front desk, etc.

My friends and I stare in horror as the black-and-white image of the lobby appears on my TV screen. At this very moment, the doorman has lined up the other doormen and staff members against the wall. They’re standing side by side, facing him. His back is to the camera. He paces in front of his colleagues, holding a young woman in a choke hold and alternately pointing his gun at his colleagues and at her head. Judging from his body language, he seems to be ranting about something.

Just then, he turns his head enough for me to recognize him. “Shit, it is Adam,” I say.

“How did you know it would be him?” Jack asks.

“Because he’s crazy. He insults me all the time.”

My friends look at me.

Jack says, “He really insults you? Or are you just being hypersensitive?”

“Why would you ask a question like that, Jack?” Georgia says. “You know very well Barb is hypo-sensitive when it comes to herself. I’m sure he really insults her.”

“What does he say?” Jack asks me.

“You name it, he’s said it,” I reply.

“Hardcore insults?” Penelope asks.

“Sometimes.”

“Like what?” Jack asks.

I shrug. “Things like ‘Marinade of shit and piss’ and ‘Cocksucking bitch.’”

My friends look shocked. I remain silent, realizing how weird this sounds.

Georgia says, “It’s really crazy that you never reported him to the super or anyone.”

“Why do you assume I never reported him?” I ask, annoyed.

“Because he wouldn’t be in the lobby pointing a gun at people if you had.”

“I felt sorry for him. He assured me he insulted only me, no one else.”

Georgia frowns. “Oh, that must have been so reassuring.”

“I thought he was unwell, troubled—not dangerous,” I plead. “I was afraid he might get fired if I said anything.”

“Oh, yes, and that would have been so bad,” Georgia says, merciless.

“Thanks for making me feel better,” I murmur.

“Well you certainly do feel better than they do,” she snaps, pointing to the lined-up hostages and arm-choked woman on the screen.

Hardly able to contain my panic, I get up, wiping my moist palms on my pants. “I can’t stand to watch this.” I begin walking out of the room, feeling horribly guilty for not tattle-taling on the doorman.

“Barb,” Peter says, close behind me, softly.

The sound of his voice is comforting. I turn to him.

“Can we talk in private again?” he asks.

“Again?” Georgia says. “Oh, come on, we’ve got a crisis on our hands.”

“We have to warn the guests not to leave the apartment,” Jack says.

“Peter, you’re the anchor. Can you anchor this?” Georgia asks.

“Wait,” Jack says, “let me first see if I can get any information from my buddies at the precinct.”

After his brief call, he tells Peter what he learned and gives him the go-ahead to inform the guests.

The guests are chatting. Clearly, they haven’t yet heard about the lobby situation.

Peter addresses the assembly: “Good evening.”

He gets most people’s attention.

In his TV anchor voice—authoritative, concerned but calm—he says: “I’m sorry to interrupt this party to bring you some breaking news from elsewhere in the building. Reliable sources have indicated that there is a lone gunman on the loose in the lobby and that a siege situation is ongoing. He’s a doorman, and has locked the exit doors and shut down the elevators. Law enforcement officers have surrounded the building. We have been told by authorities that no one should attempt to leave the premises until we receive the all-clear. They assure us there is no need to panic. There are no reports of any injuries. We will keep you abreast of any further developments as they unfold.”

A few guests nod their heads politely, and then most of them return to their quiet conversations and aggressive networking. Only a couple of them take out their phones to make calls.

“Wow, you really kept them calm,” Georgia remarks.

We retreat to my bedroom-office.

A guest follows us in and asks Georgia, “Do you think that if the crisis gets resolved soon, more guests will be allowed to come up?”

Georgia’s face hardens. “Who are you waiting for?”

“You told me your editor, Jen Bloominosky, would be here and that I could show her my manuscript.”

“Look here,” Georgia says, walking to the TV screen on which the scene downstairs is the same as before. She points to it and says, “Hmm . . . here’s a space behind the doorman who’s holding his gun against that woman’s head. I don’t see why the police might not allow a few guests, one at a time, to slink along the wall opposite where the doorman has lined up the other doormen to kill them one by one. I mean, technically there’s plenty of room behind him. So I think a few new guests might still show. While you wait, go back to your networking and have a good time.”

“Like they did on the Titanic as it was sinking?”