Breakfast at Tiffany’s, by Truman Capote (1958).
“The sky was red Friday night, it thundered, and Saturday, departing day, the city swayed in a squall-like downpour. Sharks might have swum through the air, though it seemed improbable a plane could penetrate it.
“But Holly, ignoring my cheerful conviction that her flight would not go, continued her preparations — placing, I must say, the chief burden of them on me. For she had decided it would be unwise of her to come near the brownstone. Quite rightly, too: it was under surveillance, whether by police or reporters or other interested parties one couldn’t tell — simply a man, sometimes men, who hung around the stoop. So she’d gone from the hospital to a bank and straight then to Joe Bell’s bar. ‘She don’t figure she was followed,’ Joe Bell told me when he came with a message that Holly wanted me to meet her there as soon as possible, a half-hour at most, bringing: ‘Her jewellery. Her guitar. Toothbrushes and stuff. And a bottle of hundred-year-old brandy: she says you’ll find it hit down in the bottom of the dirty-clothes basket. Yeah, oh, and the cat. She wants the cat. But hell,’ he said, ‘I don’t know we should help her at all. She ought to be protected against herself. Me, I feel like telling the cops. Maybe if I go back and build her some drinks, maybe I can get her drunk enough to call it off.'”