The money I was saving to have a young Pablo Escobar airbrushed onto a velvet painting.

I knew it. That necklace is the only thing in this house with a more dubious past than Blanche’s datebook. Act Two: The Living Room. Later.

The girls are in their nightgowns. The fake necklace is on the table. BLANCHE looks at it sadly.

So what do we do? Bury it in the backyard like a sick hamster?

I’ve been called a lot of things, Blanche. A friend, a roommate, a towering pillar of sarcasm. But never an entourage. Does it come with a per diem?

(noticing the necklace, goes pale): Oh my heavens. That’s it. The Medici Pretender.