From NEW YORK

Paddy, who had met Molly through Leo when they had first been going out, was now her close friend as well. The three of them frequently talked about their years of camaraderie, especially in the long conversations in which the singer and the actor talked about different ways of doing a scene. The conversations bristled with professional advice and gossip. Laughing insults as well. Paddy’s singing, Molly tittered, sounded like air escaping a balloon. Molly Flowers, Paddy would taunt her in his famously multi-colored speaking voice, was ugly and “lined like a nut”.

He often teased her for her looks, especially on stage, when she had the talent to simply embody what she was singing. “First time I ever heard a voice that looked so glamorous,” Paddy had once told her, a compliment that had brought pleased laughter from both Molly and Leo. “You’re a lucky man, Leo, to have a soprano like this riding up and down your elevator.”

As the two men approached the entrance to the subway station, Paddy buttoned his dark brown sport jacket. The white shirt he wore, wrinkled, and the wrinkled Levis gave a note of elegance to his beat-up cowboy boots. “I know the effect Molly has on men.”

Leo took in a breath.

“So, God help us, I hope she’s not in love with that idiot.”

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