“I guess that’s one way to cut down on disappointed office-seekers,” she said, “but you can’t win, can you? This way you’re up to your neck in disgruntled postal employees. What happened to Arthur? Was he considered a hero?”

I shook my head. “Conkling was pissed off, and the party didn’t nominate him in ’84. They ran James G. Blaine instead, and Grover Cleveland beat him, and Chester Alan Arthur returned to the obscurity most people figure he richly deserved.”

“But at least he got a statue in the park.”

“So did Conkling,” I said. “The same park, but the other end of it. The two of them stare across Madison Square at each other. It seems to me they both look disappointed.”

“That’s a sad story,” she said. “It shows what happens when a person tries to do the right thing.” She waved a hand. “Maxine,” she called out, “Bernie just told me a sad story. You better bring the poor guy another double.”

She drank my drink, and I had another Perrier to keep her company. We raised our glasses to Chester Alan Arthur, and I wondered how long it had been since anyone had drunk the man’s health. Probably a long time, I decided. Possibly forever.

“That’s better,” Carolyn said, setting her glass down empty. “I’ll tell you, it’s no hardship limiting myself to a glass of that mouthwash as long as I’ve got you across the table from me. I’ll be seeing Erica later, and she probably won’t say anything, but if she does I can just tell the truth. ‘I just had the one Campari,’ I’ll say, ‘while I kept Bernie company.’”

“I suppose there are people who would call that a lie of omission,” I said.

“I suppose there are, Bern, and I say the hell with them.” She peered at me. “I know what you’re thinking. You’d like to order one more for the road, but I’m not going to let you do it. I’m going to show a little restraint, even if you don’t.”