Allie has $100 leftover from her last residual check and she wants to take me to the Whiskey, which is a club where she used to hang out with another sixteen-year-old and Jack Nicholson and the owner in the back room.

"Who's playing at the Whiskey?" I ask.

"That's not the point," she says. "I'm having a reunion with my past. I'm facing the place where my innocence was lost."

"I'll only go with you if you'll show me your portfolio."

"No. I told you no. I'm not even sure where it is anymore."

"You know where it is. You told me you rearrange it when you get depressed."

"My portfolio is depressing to look at it. You'll get depressed. I look like an idiot."

"Maybe you should get someone else to go to the Whiskey with you."

"Fuck you."

"I won't be able to put the Whiskey in context unless I know what you looked like when you were modeling."

"Remember that picture of Jack Nicholson in the "Enquirer?" I looked like that woman with him, but I was underage."