"Basement sucks," McDermott shouts.
"Did you find drugs?" Van Patten shouts. "We saw Ricardo."
"No," I shout. "Negative. Madison couldn't find any."
"Service, damnit, service," the guy behind me shouts.
"It's useless," I shout. "I can't hear anything."
"What?" Van Patten shouts. "I can't hear anything."
Suddenly McDermott grabs my arm. "What the fuck is Price doing? Look."
As in a movie, I turn around with some difficulty, standing on my toes to see Price perched on the rails, trying to balance himself, and someone has handed him a champagne glass and drunk or wired he holds both arms out and closes his eyes, as if blessing the crowd. Behind him the strobe light continues to flash off and on and off and on and the smoke machine is going like crazy, gray mist billowing up, enveloping him. He's shouting something but I cant hear what – the room is jammed to overcapacity, the sound level an earsplitting combination of Eddie Murphy's "Party All the Time" and the constant din of businessmen – so I push my way forward, my eyes glued on Price, and manage to pass Madison and Hugh and Turnball and Cunningham and a few others. But the crowd is too densely packed and it's futile to even keep trying. Only a few of the faces are fixated on Tim, still balancing on the railing, eyes half closed, shouting something. Embarrassed, I'm suddenly glad I'm stuck in the crowd, unable to reach him, to save him from almost certain humiliation, and during a perfectly timed byte of silence I can hear Price shout, "Goodbye!" and then, the crowd finally paying attention, "Fuckheads!" Gracefully he twists his body around and hops over the railing and leaps onto the tracks and starts running, the champagne flute bobbing as he holds it out to his side. He stumbles once, twice, with the strobe light flashing, in what looks like slow motion, but he regains his composure before disappearing into blackness. A security guard sits idly by the railing as Price recedes into the tunnel. He just shakes his head, I think.
"Price! Come back!" I yell but the crowd is actually applauding his performance. "Price!" I yell once more, over the clapping. But he's gone and it's doubtful that if he did hear me he would do anything about it. Madison is standing nearby and sticks his hand out as if to congratulate me for something. "That guy's a riot."
McDermott appears behind me and pulls at my shoulder. "Does Price know about a VIP room that we don't?" He looks worried.
Outside Tunnel now, I'm high but really tired and my mouth tastes surprisingly like NutraSweet, even after drinking two more Stolis and half a J&B. Twelve-thirty and we watch limousines try to make left turns onto the West Side Highway. The three of us, Van Patten, McDermott and myself, discuss the possibilities of finding this new club called Nekenieh. I'm not really high, just sort of drunk.
"Lunch?" I ask them, yawning. "Tomorrow?"
"Can't," McDermott says. "Haircut at the Pierre."
"What about breakfast?" I suggest.
"Nope," Van Patten says. "Gio's. Manicure."
"That reminds me," I say, inspecting a hand. "I need one too."
"How about dinner?" McDermott asks me.
"I've got a date," I say. "Shit."
"What about you?" McDermott asks Van Patten.
"No can do," Van Patten says. "I've got to go to Sunmakers. Then private workout."
Office
In the elevator Frederick Dibble tells me about an item on Page Six, or some other gossip column, about Ivana Trump and then about this new Italian-Thai place on the Upper East Side that he went to last night with Family Hamilton and starts raving about this great fusilli shiitake dish. I have taken out a gold Cross pen to write down the name of the restaurant in my address book. Dibble is wearing a subtly striped double-breasted wool suit by Canali Milano, a cotton shirt by Bill Blass, a mini-glen-plaid woven silk tie by Bill Blass Signature and he's holding a Missoni Uomo raincoat. He has a good-looking, expensive haircut and I stare at it, admiringly, while he starts humming along to the Muzak station – a version of what could be "Sympathy for the Devil" – that plays throughout all the elevators in the building our offices are in. I'm about to ask Dibble if he watched The Patty Winters Show this morning – the topic was Autism – but he gets out on the floor before mine and repeats the name of the restaurant, "Thaidialano," and then "See you, Marcus" and steps out of the elevator. The doors shut. I am wearing a mini-houndstooth-check wool suit with pleated trousers by Hugo Boss, a silk tie, also by Hugo Boss, a cotton broadcloth shirt by Joseph Abboud and shoes from Brooks Brothers. I flossed too hard this morning and I can still taste the coppery residue of swallowed blood in the back of my throat. I used Listerine afterwards and my mouth feels like it's on fire but I manage a smile to no one as I step out of the elevator, brushing past a hung-over Wittenborn, swinging my new black leather attaché case from Bottega Veneta.
My secretary, Jean, who is in love with me and who I will probably end up marrying, sits at her desk and this morning, to get my attention as usual, is wearing something improbably expensive and completely inappropriate: a Chanel cashmere cardigan, a cashmere crewneck and a cashmere scarf, faux-pearl earrings, wool-crepe pants from Barney's. I pull my Walkman off from around my neck as I approach her desk. She looks up and smiles shyly.
"Late?" she asks.
"Aerobics class." I play it cool. "Sorry. Any messages?"
"Ricky Hendricks has to cancel today," she says. "He didn't say what it was he is canceling or why."
"I occasionally box with Ricky at the Harvard Club," I explain. "Anyone else?"
"And… Spencer wants to meet you for a drink at Fluties Pier 17," she says, smiling.
"When?" I ask.
"After six."
"Negative," I tell her as I walk into my office. "Cancel it."
She gets up from behind her desk and follows me in. "Oh? And what should I say?" she asks, amused.
"Just… say… no," I tell her, taking my Armani overcoat off and hanging it on the Alex Loeb coatrack I bought at Bloomingdate's.
"Just… say… no?" she repeats.
"Did you see The Patty Winters Show this morning?" I ask. ..On Autism?"
"No." She smiles as if somehow charmed by my addiction to The Patty Winters Show. "How was it?"
I pick up this morning's Wall Street Journal and scan the front page – all of it one ink-stained senseless typeset blur. "I think I was hallucinating while watching it. I don't know. I can't be sure. I don't remember," I murmur, placing the Journal back down and then, picking up today's Financial Times, "I really don't know." She just stands there waiting for instructions. I sigh and place my hands together, sitting down at the Palazzetti glass-top desk, the halogen lamps on both sides already burning. "Okay, Jean," I start. "I need reservations for three at Camols at twelve-thirty and if not there, try Crayons. All right?"
"Yes sir," she says in a joky tone and then turns to leave.
"Oh wait," I say, remembering something. "And I need reservations for two at Arcadia at eight tonight."
She turns around, her face falling slightly but still smiling. "Oh, something… romantic?"
"No, silly. Forget it," I tell her. "I'll make them. Thanks."
"I'll do it," she says.
"No. No," I say, waving her off. "Be a doll and just get me a Perrier, okay?"
"You look nice today," she says before leaving.
She's right, but I'm not saying anything – just staring across the office at the George Stubbs painting that hangs on the wall, wondering if I should move it, thinking maybe it's too close to the Aiwa AM/FM stereo receiver and the dual cassette recorder and the semiautomatic belt-drive turntable, the graphic equalizer, the matching bookshelf speakers, all in twilight blue to match the color scheme of the office. The Stubbs painting should probably go over the life-size Doberman that's in the corner ($700 at Beauty and the Beast in Trump Tower) or maybe it would look better over the Pacrizinni antique table that sits next to the Doberman. I get up and move all these sporting magazines from the forties – they cost me thirty bucks apiece – that I bought at Funchies, Bunkers, Gaks and Gleeks, and then I lift the Stubbs painting off the wall and balance it on the table then sit back at my desk and fiddle with the pencils I keep in a vintage German beer stein I got from Man-tiques. The Stubbs looks good in either place. A reproduction Black Forest umbrella stand ($675 at Hubert des Forges) sits in an other corner without, I'm just noticing, any umbrellas in it.