“'Close your eyes and picture it, Dorrie. Mark Twain sailing down Columbus Avenue. Wild red hair, scraggly beard . . .'
It was plain from the heaps of books in her room that she loved to read. Twain, I now learned, was a particular favorite.
“'Fine,” I said, shutting my eyes, “but where’s he headed?'
“'Fior d’Italia,” she said without skipping a beat. “On his way to dine on oyster bisque and calamari and drink buckets of champagne with Ambrose Bierce.'”