5
9 
I’m walking through Washington Square Park, carrying a Kenneth Cole leather portfolio that holds my lawbooks and a bottle of Evian water. I’m dressed casually, in Tommy Hilfiger jeans, a camel-hair sweater, a wool overcoat from Burberrys. I’m stepping out of the way of Rollerbladers and avoiding clusters of Japanese NYU film students shooting movies. From a nearby boom box Jamaican trip-hop plays, from another boom box the Eagles’ “New Kid in Town,” and I’m smiling to myself. My beeper keeps going off. Chris Cuomo keeps calling, as does Alison Poole, whom I rather like and plan to see later this evening. On University, I run into my newly appointed guru and spiritual adviser, Deepak.
Deepak is wearing a Donna Karan suit and Diesel sunglasses, smoking a cigar. “Partagas Perfecto,” he purrs in a distinct Indian accent. I purr back “Hoo-ha” admiringly. We exchange opinions about a trendy new restaurant (oh, there are so many) and the upcoming photo shoot I’m doing for George magazine, how someone’s AIDS has gone into remission, how someone’s liver disease has been cured, the exorcism of a haunted town house in Gramercy Park, the evil spirits that were flushed out by the goodwill of angels.
“That’s so brill, man,” I’m saying. “That’s so genius.”
“You see that bench?” Deepak says.
“Yes,” I say.
“You think it’s a bench,” Deepak says. “But it isn’t.” I smile patiently.
“It’s also you,” Deepak says. “You, Victor, are also that bench.”
Deepak bows slightly.
“I know I’ve changed,” I tell Deepak. “I’m a different person now.”
Deepak bows slightly again.
“I am that bench,” I hear myself say.
“You see that pigeon?” Deepak asks.
“Baby, I’ve gotta run,” I interrupt. “I’ll catch you later.”
“Don’t fear the reaper, Victor,” Deepak says, walking away.
I’m nodding mindlessly, a vacant grin pasted on my face, until I turn around and mutter to myself, “I am the fucking reaper, Deepak,” and a pretty girl smiles at me from underneath an awning and it’s Wednesday and late afternoon and getting dark.
8
After a private workout with Reed, my personal trainer, I take a shower in the Philippe Starck locker room and as I’m standing in front of a mirror, a white Ralph Lauren towel wrapped around my waist, I notice Reed standing behind me, wearing a black Helmut Lang leather jacket. I’m swigging from an Evian bottle. I’m rubbing Clinique turnaround lotion into my face. I just brushed past a model named Mark Vanderloo, who recited a mininarrative about his life that was of no interest to me. A lounge version of “Wichita Lineman” is piped through the gym’s sound system and I’m grooving out on it in my own way.
“What’s up?” I ask Reed.
“Buddy?” Reed says, his voice thick.
“Yeah?” I turn around.
“Give Reed a hug.”
A pause in which to consider things. To wipe my hands on the towel wrapped around my waist.
“Why … man?”
“Because you’ve really come a long way, man,” Reed says, his voice filled with emotion. “It’s weird but I’m really choked up by all you’ve accomplished.”
“Hey Reed, I couldn’t have done it without you, man,” I’m saying. “You deserve a bonus. You really got me into shape.”
“And your attitude is impeccable,” Reed adds.
“No more drinking binges, I’ve cut down on partying, law school’s great, I’m in a long-term relationship.” I slip on a Brooks Brothers T-shirt. “I’ve stopped seriously deluding myself and I’m rereading Dostoyevsky. I owe it all to you, man.”
Reed’s eyes water.
“And you stopped smoking,” Reed says.
“Yep.”
“And your body fat’s down to seven percent.”
“Oh man.”
“You’re the kind of guy, Victor, that makes this job worthwhile.” Reed chokes back a sob. “I mean that.”
“I know, man.” I rest a hand on his shoulder.
As Reed walks me out onto Fifth Avenue he asks, “How’s that apple diet working out?”
“Great,” I say, waving down a cab. “My girlfriend says my seminal fluid tastes sweeter.”
“That’s cool, man,” Reed says.
I hop into a cab.
Before the door closes, Reed leans in and, offering his hand after a pause, says, “I’m sorry about Chloe, man.”
7
After some impassioned clothing removal I’m sucking lightly on Alison’s breasts and I keep looking up at her, making eye contact, rolling my tongue across her nipples and holding on to her breasts, applying slight pressure but not squeezing them, and she keeps sighing, content. Afterwards Alison admits she never faked an orgasm for my benefit. We’re lying on her bed, the two dogs—Mr. and Mrs. Chow—snuggled deeply in the folds of a neon-pink comforter at our feet, and I’m running my hands through their fur. Alison’s talking about Aerosmith as a Joni Mitchell CD plays throughout the room at low volume.
“Steven Tyler recently admitted that his first wet dream was about Jane Fonda.” Alison sighs, sucks in on a joint I didn’t hear her light. “How old does that make him?”
I keep stroking Mr. Chow, scratching his ears, both his eyes shut tight with pleasure.
“I want a dog,” I murmur. “I want a pet.”
“You used to hate these dogs,” Alison says. “What do you mean, a pet? The only pet you ever owned was the Armani eagle.”
“Yeah, but I changed my mind.”
“I think that’s good,” Alison says genuinely.
A long pause. The dogs reposition themselves, pressing in close to me.
“I hear you’re seeing Damien tomorrow,” Alison says.
I stiffen up a little. “Do you care?”
“What are you seeing him about?” she asks.
“I’m telling him”—I sigh, relax—“I’m telling him that I can’t open this club with him. Law school’s just too … time-consuming.”
I take the joint from Alison. Inhale, exhale.
“Do you care?” I ask. “I mean, about Damien?”
“No,” she says. “I’ve totally forgiven Damien. And though I really can’t stand Lauren Hynde, compared to most of the other wenches that cling to guys in this town she’s semi-acceptable.”
“Is this on the record?” I grin.
“Did you know she’s a member of WANAH?” Alison asks. “That new feminist group?”
“What’s WANAH?”
“It’s an acronym for We Are Not A Hole,” she sighs. “We also share the same acupuncturist.” Alison pauses. “Some things are unavoidable.”
“I suppose so.” I’m sighing too.
“And she’s also a member of PETA,” Alison says, “so I can’t totally hate her. Even if she was—even if she is—fucking what was once my fiancé.”
“What’s PETA?” I ask, interested.
“People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.” Alison slaps me playfully. “You should know that, Victor.”
“Why should I know that?” I ask. “Ethical treatment of … animals?”
“It’s very simple, Victor,” she says. “We want a world where animals are treated as well as humans are.”
I just stare at her. “And … you don’t think that’s … happening?”
“Not when animals are being killed as indiscriminately as they are now. No.”
“I see.”
“There’s a meeting on Friday at Asia de Cuba,” Alison says. “Oliver Stone, Bill Maher, Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger, Grace Slick, Noah Wyle, Mary Tyler Moore. Alicia Silverstone’s reading a speech that Ellen DeGeneres wrote.” Alison pauses. “Moby’s the DJ.”
“Everyone will be wearing camouflage pants, right?” I ask. “And plastic shoes? And talking about how great fake meat tastes?”
“Oh, what’s that supposed to mean?” she snaps, rolling her eyes, distinctly less mellow.
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“If you heard about leg-hold traps, the torture of baby minks, the maiming of certain rabbits—not to even mention medical experiments done on totally innocent raccoons and lynxes—my god, Victor, you’d wake up.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. “Oh baby,” I mutter.
“It’s animal abuse and you’re just lying there.”
“Honey, they save chickens.”
“Baby, they’re chickens.”
“You try seeing the world through the eyes of an abused animal,” she says.
“Baby, I was a model for many years,” I say. “I did. I have.”
“Oh, don’t be so flippant,” she moans.
“Alison,” I say, sitting up a little. “They also want to protect fruits and vegetables, okay?”
“What’s wrong with that?” she asks. “It’s eco-friendly.”
“Baby, peaches don’t have mothers.”
“They have skin, Victor, and they have flesh.”
“I just think you’re reality-challenged.”
“Who isn’t?” She waves me away. “Animals need as much love and respect and care as we give people.”
I consider this. I think about all the things I’ve seen and done, and I consider this.
“I think they’re better off without that, baby,” I say. “In fact I think they’re doing okay.”
I’m hard again and I roll on top of her.
Later, afterwards, Alison asks me something.
“Did Europe change you, Victor?”
“Why?” I ask sleepily.
“Because you seem different,” she says softly. “Did it?”
“I guess,” I say after a long pause.
“How?” she asks.
“I’m less …” I stop. “I’m less … I don’t know.”
“What happened over there, Victor?”
Carefully, I ask her, “What do you mean?”
She whispers back, “What happened over there?”
I’m silent, contemplating an answer, petting the chows. One licks my hand.
“What happened to Chloe over there, Victor?” Alison whispers.
6
At Industria for the George magazine photo shoot I can’t fathom why the press is making such a big deal about this. Simple before-and-after shots. Before: I’m holding a Bass Ale, wearing Prada, a goatee pasted on my face, a grungy expression, eyes slits. After: I’m carrying a stack of lawbooks and wearing a Brooks Brothers seersucker suit, a bottle of Diet Coke in my left hand, Oliver Peoples wireframes. THE TRANSFORMATION OF VICTOR WARD (UH, WE MEAN JOHNSON) is the headline on the cover for the January issue. The photo shoot was supposed to be outside St. Albans in Washington, D.C.—a school I had sampled briefly before being expelled—but Dad nixed it. He has that kind of clout. The Dalai Lama shows up at Industria, and I’m shaking hands with Chris Rock, and one of Harrison Ford’s sons—an intern at George—is milling about, along with various people who resigned from the Clinton administration, and MTV’s covering the shoot for “The Week in Rock” and a VJ’s asking me questions about the Impersonators’ new huge contract with DreamWorks and how I feel about not being in the band anymore and I give a cute sound bite by saying, “Law school’s easier than being in that band,” and it’s all very Eyes of Laura Mars but it’s also faux-subdued because everyone’s very respectful of what happened to Chloe.
John F. Kennedy, Jr., who’s really just another gorgeous goon, is shaking my hand and he’s saying things like “I’m a big fan of your dad’s” and I’m saying “Yeah?” and though I’m basically calm and amused, there’s one awkward moment when someone who went to Camden accosts me and I simply can’t place him. But I’m vague enough that he can’t become suspicious and then he simply slouches away, giving up.
“Hey!” An assistant with a cell phone rushes over to where I’m standing. “Someone wants to talk to you.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Chelsea Clinton wants to say hi,” the assistant pants.
I take the phone from the assistant. Over static I hear Chelsea ask, “Is it really you?”
“Yeah.” I’m grinning “sheepishly.” I’m blushing, “red-faced.”
A Eureka moment handled suavely.
I find it a little difficult to relax once the photo session starts.
The photographer says, “Hey, don’t worry—it’s hard to be yourself.”
I start smiling secretly, thinking secret things.
“That’s it!” the photographer shouts.
Flashes of light keep going off as I stand perfectly still.
On my way out I’m handed an invitation by a nervous groupie to a party for PETA tomorrow night that the Gap is sponsoring at a new restaurant in Morgan’s Hotel.
“I don’t know if I can make it,” I tell a supermodel who’s standing nearby.
“You’re the outgoing type,” the supermodel says. I read recently that she just broke up with her boyfriend, an ex-model who runs a new and very fashionable club called Ecch! She smiles flirtatiously as I start heading out.
“Yeah?” I ask, flirting back. “How do you know?”
“I can tell.” She shrugs, then invites me to a strip-poker game at someone named Mr. Leisure’s house.
5
On the phone with Dad.
“When will you be down here?” he asks.
“In two days,” I say. “I’ll call.”
“Yes. Okay.”
“Has the money been transferred?” I ask.
“Yes. It has.”
Pause. “Are you okay?” I ask.
Pause. “Yes, yes. I’m just … distracted.”
“Don’t be. You need to focus,” I say.
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
“Someone will let you know when I’m there.”
A long pause.
“I—I don’t know,” he says, breathing in.
“You’re unraveling,” I warn. “Don’t,” I warn.
“We really don’t need to see each other while you’re here,” he says. “I mean, do we?”
“No. Not really,” I say. “Only if you want.” Pause. “Are there any parties you want to show me off at?”
“Hey—” he snaps.
“Watch it,” I warn.
It takes him forty-three seconds to compose himself.
“I’m glad you’ll be here,” he finally says.
Pause. I let it resonate. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad I’ll be there too.”
“Really?” He breathes in, trembling.
“Anything to help the cause,” I say.
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“No.” Pause. “You figure it out.” I sigh. “Do you even really care?”
Pause. “If there’s anything you need …” He trails off.
“Don’t you trust me?” I ask.
It takes a long time for him to say, “I think I do.”
I’m smiling to myself. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
4
I meet Damien for drinks at the Independent, not far from the club he and I are supposed to open a month from now in TriBeCa. Damien’s smoking a cigar and nursing a Stoli Kafya, which personally I find disgusting. He’s wearing a Gucci tie. I want to make this quick. Bittersweet folk rock plays in the background.
“Did you see this?” Damien asks as I swing up onto a stool.
“What?” I ask.
He slides a copy of today’s New York Post across the bar, open to “Page Six.” Gossip about the women Victor Johnson has been involved with since Chloe Byrnes’ unfortunate death in a Paris hotel room. Peta Wilson. A Spice Girl. Alyssa Milano. Garcelle Beauvais. Carmen Electra. Another Spice Girl.
“For mature audiences only, right?” Damien says, nudging me, arching his eyebrows up.
There’s a little hug between the two of us, not much else.
I relax, order a Coke, which causes Damien to shake his head and mutter “Oh, man” too aggressively.
“I guess you know why I’m here,” I say.
“Victor, Victor, Victor,” Damien sighs, shaking his head.
I pause, confused. “So … you do know?”
“I forgive you entirely,” he says, acting casual. “Come on, you know that.”
“I just want out, man,” I say. “I’m older. I’ve got school.”
“How is law school?” Damien asks. “I mean, this isn’t a rumor, right? You’re really doing this?”
“Yeah.” I laugh. “I am.” I sip my Coke. “It’s a lot of work but …”
He studies me. “Yeah? But?”
“But I’m adapting,” I finally answer.
“That’s great,” Damien says.
“Is it?” I ask seriously. “I mean, really. Is it?”
“Victor,” Damien starts, grasping my forearm.
“Yeah, man?” I gulp, but I’m really not afraid of him.
“I am constantly thinking about human happiness,” he admits.
“Whoa.”
“Yeah,” he says, tenderly sipping his vodka. “Whoa.”
“Is everything going to be cool?” I ask. “I’m really not leaving you in a lurch?”
Damien shrugs. “It’ll be cool. Japanese investors. Things will work out.”
I smile, showing my appreciation. But I’m still very cool about the situation, so I move on to other topics. “How’s Lauren?” I ask.
“Ooh—ouch,” Damien says. “No, no, man,” I say. “I’m just asking.”
Damien hits me lightly on the shoulder. “I know, man. I’m just goofing off. I’m just playing around.”
“That’s good,” I say. “I can deal.”
“She’s great,” he says. “She’s very cool.”
Damien stops smiling, motions to the bartender for another drink. “How’s Alison?”
“She’s fine,” I say evenly. “She’s really into PETA. This People for the Ethical Treatment of … oh shit, whatever.”
“How unpredictable she is,” Damien says. “How, er, slippery,” he adds. “I guess people really do change, huh?”
After a careful pause, I venture, “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’ve become quite the clean-cut, athletic go-getter.”
“Not really,” I say. “You’re just looking at the surface.”
“There’s something else?” he asks. “Just kidding,” he adds desultorily.
“There’s no swimsuit competition, dude,” I warn.
“And I just got a bikini wax?” He lifts his arms, sarcastic. Finally.
“No hard feelings?” I ask genuinely.
“No feelings at all, man.”
I stare at Damien with admiration.
“I’m going to the Fuji Rock Festival,” Damien says when I start listening again. “I’ll be back next week.”
“Will you call me?”
“What do you think?”
I don’t bother answering.
“Hey, who’s this Mr. Leisure everyone’s talking about?” Damien asks.
3
Bill, an agent from CAA, calls to let me know that I have “won” the role of Ohman in the movie Flatliners II. I’m in a new apartment, wearing a conservative Prada suit, on my way out to make an appearance at a party that I have no desire to attend, and I lock onto a certain tone of jadedness that Bill seems to feed off of.
“Tell me what else is going on, Bill,” I say. “While I’m brushing my hair.”
“I’m trying to develop interest in a script about a Jewish boy who makes a valiant attempt to celebrate his bar mitzvah under an oppressive Nazi regime.”
“Your thoughts on the script?” I sigh.
“My thoughts? No third act. My thoughts? Too much farting.” Silence while I continue slicking my hair back.
“So Victor,” Bill starts slyly. “What do you think?”
“About what?”
“Flatliners II,” he screams, and then, after catching his breath, adds in a very small voice, “I’m sorry.”
“Far out,” I’m saying. “Baby, that’s so cool,” I’m saying. “This whole new look, Victor, is really paying off.”
“People tell me it’s exceedingly hip,” I concede. “You must have really studied all those old Madonna videos.”
“In order.”
“I think you are controlling the zeitgeist,” Bill says. “I think you are in the driver’s seat.”
“People have commented that I’m near the wheel, Bill.”
“People are paying attention, that’s why,” Bill says. “People love repentance.”
A small pause as I study myself in a mirror.
“Is that what I’m doing, Bill?” I ask. “Repenting?”
“You’re pulling a Bowie,” Bill says. “And certain people are responding. It’s called reinventing yourself. It’s a word. It’s in the dictionary.”
“What are you trying to say to me, Bill?”
“I am fielding offers for Victor Johnson,” Bill says. “And I am proud to be fielding offers for Victor Johnson.”
A pause. “Bill … I don’t think …” I stop, figure out a way to break the news. “I’m not … That’s not me.”
“What do you mean? Who am I talking to?” Bill asks in a rush, and then, in a low, whispery voice, he asks, “This isn’t Dagby, is it?” I can almost hear him shuddering over the line.
“Dagby?” I ask. “No, this isn’t Dagby. Bill, listen, I’m going to school now and—”
“But that’s just a publicity stunt, I assume,” Bill yawns. “Hmm?”
Pause. “Uh, no, Bill. It’s not a publicity stunt.”
“Stop, in the name of love, before you break my heart,” Bill says. “Just give me a high-pitched warning scream when you read lines like that to me again.”
“It’s not a line, Bill,” I say. “I’m in law school now and I don’t want to do the movie.”
“You’ve been offered the role of an astronaut who helps save the world in Space Cadets—which is going to be directed by Mr. Will Smith, thank you very much. You will have four Hasbro action-figure dolls coming out by next Christmas and I will make sure that they are totally intact, genitalia-wise.” Bill veers into an endless spasm of coughing and then he croaks, “If you know what I mean.”
“That sounds a little too commercial for me right now.”
“What are you saying? That Space Cadets doesn’t rock your world?” I hear Bill tapping his headset. “Hello? Who am I speaking to?” Pause. “This isn’t Dagby, is it?”
“What else could I do?” I’m sighing, checking my face for blemishes, but I’m blemish-free tonight.
“Oh, you could play someone nicknamed ‘The Traitor’ who gets his ass beaten in a parking lot in an indie movie called The Sellout that is being directed by a recently rehabbed Italian known only as ‘Vivvy,’ and your per diem would be twenty Burger King vouchers and there would not be a wrap party.” Bill pauses to let this sink in. “It’s your decision. It’s Victor Johnson’s decision.”
“I’ll let you know,” I say. “I have a party to go to. I’ve gotta split.”
“Listen, stop playing hard to get.”
“I’m not.”
“Not to be crass, but the dead-girlfriend thing—an inspired touch, by the way—is going to fade in approximately a week.” Bill pauses. “You have to strike now.”
I laugh good-naturedly. “Bill, I’ll call you later.”
He laughs too. “No, stay on the line with me.”
“Bill, I gotta go.” I can’t stop giggling. “My visage is wanted elsewhere.”
2
A party for the blind that Bacardi rum is sponsoring somewhere in mid-town that my newly acquired publicists at Rogers and Cowan demanded I show up at. Among the VIPs: Bono, Kal Ruttenstein, Kevin Bacon, Demi Moore, Fiona Apple, Courtney Love, Claire Danes, Ed Burns, Jennifer Aniston and Tate Donovan, Shaquille O’Neal and a surprisingly swishy Tiger Woods. Some seem to know me, some don’t. I’m having a Coke with someone named Ben Affleck while Jamiroquai plays over the sound system in the cavernous club we’re all lost in and Gabé Doppelt just has to introduce me to Bjork and I have to pose with Giorgio Armani and he’s hugging me as if we go a long way back and he’s wearing a navy-blue crew-neck T-shirt, a navy cashmere sweater, navy corduroy jeans and a giant Jaeger-Le Coultre Reverso wristwatch. And there are so many apologies about Chloe, almost as if it was her fault that she died on me (my information is “massive hemorrhaging due to the ingestion of fatal quantities of mifepristone—also known as RU 486”). Mark Wahlberg, fire-eaters and a lot of blabbing about generational malaise, and everything smells like caviar.
Just so much gibberish and so chicly presented. Typical conversations revolve around serial killers and rehab stints and the amount of “very dry” pussy going around as opposed to just “dry” and the spectacularly self-destructive behavior of an idiotic model. I’m so uncomfortable I resort to sound bites such as: “I’m basically a law-abiding citizen.” The phrase “back to school”—employed every time a reporter’s microphone is pushed into my face—becomes an overwhelming drag and I have to excuse myself, asking directions to the nearest rest room.
In the men’s room two fags in the stall next to mine are comparing notes on how to live in a plotless universe and I’m just on my cell phone checking messages, taking a breather. Finally they leave and it becomes quiet, almost hushed, in the rest room and I can listen to messages without holding a hand against my ear.
I’m muttering to myself—Damien again, Alison, my publicist, certain cast members from a TV show I’ve never seen—but then I have to stop because I realize that the men’s room isn’t empty.
Someone’s in here and he’s whistling.
Clicking the cell phone off, I cock my head because it’s a tune that seems familiar.
I peer carefully over the stall door but can’t see anyone.
The whistling echoes, and then a voice that’s deep and masculine but also ghostly and from another world sings, haltingly, “on the … sunny side of the street .…”
I yank open the stall door, my cell phone dropping onto the tiles.
I walk over to the row of sinks beneath a wall-length mirror so I can survey the entire bathroom.
There’s no one in here.
The bathroom is empty.
I wash my hands and check every stall and then I leave, merging back into the party.
1
Back at the new apartment Dad bought me on the Upper East Side. The walls in the living room are blue and Nile green and the curtains draped over the windows looking out onto 72nd Street are hand-painted silk taffeta. There are antique coffee tables. There are beveled French mirrors in the foyer. There are Noguchi lamps and scruffed-up armchairs situated in pleasant positions. Paisley pillows line a couch. There is a ceiling fan. There are paintings by Donald Baechler. I actually have a library.
Modern touches in the kitchen: a slate-and-marble mosaic floor, a black-and-white photographic mural of a desert landscape, a prop plane flying over it. Metal furniture from a doctor’s office. The dining room windows have frosted glass. Custom-made chairs circle a table that was purchased at Christie’s at auction.
I walk into the bedroom to check my messages, since a flashing light indicates five more people have called since I left the club twenty minutes ago. In the bedroom, a Chippendale mirror that Dad sent hangs over a mahogany sleigh bed made in Virginia in the nineteenth century, or so they say.
I’m thinking of buying a Dalmatian.
Gus Frerotte’s in town. Cameron Diaz called. And then Matt Dillon. And then Cameron Diaz called again. And then Matt Dillon called again.
I flip on the TV in the bedroom. Videos, the usual. I switch over to the Weather Channel.
I stretch, groaning, my arms held high above my head. I decide to run a bath.
I carefully hang up the Prada jacket. I’m thinking, That’s the last time you’re wearing that.
In the bathroom I lean over the white porcelain tub and turn the faucets, making sure the water is hot. I add some Kiehl’s bath salts, mixing them around with my hand.
I’m thinking of buying a Dalmatian.
I keep stretching.
Something on the floor of the bathroom catches my eye.
I lean down.
It’s a tiny circle, made of paper. I press my index finger on it.
I bring my hand up to my face.
It’s a piece of confetti.
I stare at it for a long time.
A small black wave.
It starts curling toward me.
Casually, I start whistling as I move slowly back into the bedroom.
When I’m in the bedroom I notice that confetti—pink and white and gray—has been dumped all over the bed.
Staring into the Chippendale mirror over the bed, I brace myself before glimpsing the shadow behind an eighteenth-century tapestry screen that stands in the corner.
The shadow moves slightly.
It’s waiting. It has that kind of stance.
I move over to the bed.
Still whistling casually, I lean toward the nightstand and, laughing to myself, pretending to struggle with the laces on the shoes I’m kicking off, I reach into a drawer and pull out a .25-caliber Walther with a silencer attached.
I start padding back toward the bathroom.
Five, four, three—
I immediately change direction and move straight up to the screen, the gun raised.
Gauging head level, I pull the trigger. Twice.
A muffled grunt. A wet sound—blood spraying against a wall.
A figure dressed in black, half his face destroyed, falls forward, toppling over the screen, a small gun clenched in the gloved fist of his right hand.
I’m about to bend over and pull the gun out of his hand when movement behind my back causes me to whirl around.
Silently leaping toward me over the bed, now above me, an oversized knife in an outstretched hand, is another figure clad in black.
Instantly I take aim, crouching.
The first bullet whizzes past him, punching into the Chippendale mirror, shattering it.
As he falls onto me, the second bullet catches him in the face, its impact throwing him backward.
He lies on the carpet, kicking. I stagger up and quickly fire two bullets into his chest. He immediately goes still.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I’m cursing, fumbling for a cell phone, dialing a number I only half remember.
After three tries, a transmission signal.
I punch in the code, breathing hard.
“Come on, come on.”
Another signal. Another code.
And then I dial another number.
“It’s DAN,” I say into the mouthpiece.
I wait.
“Yes.” I listen. “Yes.”
I give the location. I say the words “Code 50.”
I hang up. I turn off the bathwater and quickly pack an overnight bag.
I leave before the cleaners arrive.
I spend the night at the Carlyle Hotel.
0
I meet Eva for dinner the next night at a supertrendy new Japanese restaurant just above SoHo, in the newly glam area of Houston Street, and Eva’s sipping green tea at a booth in the packed main room, waiting patiently, an advance copy of the New York Observer (with a particularly favorable article about my father that’s really about the new Victor Johnson and all the things he’s learned) folded on the table next to where she’s resting her wrists. I’m shown to our booth a little too enthusiastically by the maître d’, who holds my hand, offers condolences, tells me I look ultracool. I take it in stride and thank him as I slide in next to Eva. Eva and I just smile at each other. I remember to kiss her. I remember to go through the motions, since everyone’s looking at us, since that’s the point of the booth, since that’s the point of this appearance.
I order a premium cold sake and tell Eva that I got the part in Flatliners II. Eva says she’s very happy for me.
“So where’s your boyfriend tonight?” I ask, smiling. “A certain guy is out of town,” Eva says evasively. “Where is he?” I ask, teasing her.
“He’s actually at the Fuji Rock Festival,” she says, rolling her eyes, sipping the green tea.
“I know someone who went to that.”
“Maybe they went together.”
“Who knows?”
“Yes,” she says, opening a menu. “Who knows?”
“The point is: you don’t know.”
“Yes, that is the point.”
“You look beautiful.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Did you hear me?” I ask.
“Nice suit,” she says without looking up.
“Are we making shoptalk?”
“You’re getting quite the press these days,” Eva says, tapping the copy of the Observer. “Wherever you seem to go there’s a paparazzi alert.”
“It’s not all sunglasses and autographs, baby.”
“What does that mean?”
“Aren’t these people ridiculous?” I ask, vaguely gesturing. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “The simplicity is almost soothing. It’s like being back in high school.”
“Why is it like that?”
“Because you realize that hanging out with dumb people makes you feel much smarter,” she says. “At least that’s how I viewed high school.”
“Where were you while we were getting high?” I murmur to myself, concentrating on avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room.
“Pardon?”
“My mind is definitely expanding,” I say, clearing my throat.
“Without us this is all just trash,” she agrees.
I’m reaching for the edamame.
“Speaking of,” Eva starts. “How’s Alison Poole?”
“I have a feeling I’m breaking her heart.”
“I have a feeling you’re good at breaking hearts,” Eva says.
“She keeps asking questions about Chloe Byrnes,” I murmur.
Eva doesn’t say anything. Soon she’s sipping a Stolichnaya Limonnaya vodka and I’m picking at a plate of hijiki.
“What did you do today?” I ask before realizing I’m not particularly interested, even though I’m squeezing Eva’s thigh beneath the table.
“I had a photo shoot. I had lunch with Salt-n-Pepa. I avoided certain people. I contacted the people I didn’t avoid.” Eva breathes in. “My life right now is actually simpler than I thought it was going to be.” She sighs, but not unhappily. “If there are some things I’m not used to yet, it’s still sweet.”
“I dig it,” I say. “I hear where you’re coming from, baby,” I say, mimicking a robot.
Eva giggles, says my name, lets me squeeze her thigh harder. But then I’m looking away and things get difficult. I down another cup of sake.
“You seem distracted,” Eva says. “Something happened last night,” I murmur.
“What?”
I tell her, whispering.
“We need to be careful,” Eva says.
Suddenly a couple is looming over us and I hear someone exclaim, “Victor? Hey man, what’s up.”
Breathing in, I look up with a practiced smile.
“Oh, hi,” I say, reaching out a hand.
A fairly hip couple, our age. The guy—who I don’t recognize—grabs my hand and shakes it with a firm grip that says “please remember me because you’re so cool,” and the girl he’s with is bouncing up and down in the crush of the restaurant and she offers a little wave and Eva nods, offers a little wave back.
“Hey Corrine,” the guy says, “this is Victor Ward—oh, sorry”—the guy catches himself—“I mean Victor Johnson. Victor, this is Corrine.”
“Hey, nice to meet you,” I say, taking Corrine’s hand.
“And this is Lauren Hynde,” the guy says, gesturing toward Eva, who keeps smiling, sitting perfectly still.
“Hi, Lauren, I think we met already,” Corrine says. “At that Kevyn Aucoin benefit? At the Chelsea Piers? Alexander McQueen introduced us. You were being interviewed by MTV. It was a screening of that movie?”
“Oh, right, right, of course,” Eva says. “Yeah. Right. Corrine.”
“Hey, Lauren,” the guy says, a little too shyly.
“Hi, Maxwell,” Eva says with an undercurrent of sexiness.
“How do you guys know each other?” I ask, looking first at Maxwell and then at Eva.
“Lauren and I met at a press junket,” Maxwell explains. “It was in L.A. at the Four Seasons.”
Eva and Maxwell share a private moment. I’m silently retching.
“Popular spot?” Maxwell asks me.
I pause before asking, “Is that a true-or-false?”
“Man, you’re all over the place,” he says, lingering.
“Just fifteen minutes.”
“More like an hour.” Maxwell laughs.
“We’re so sorry about Chloe,” Corrine interrupts.
I nod gravely.
“Are you guys going to that party at Life?” she asks.
“Oh yeah, sure, we’ll be there,” I say vaguely.
Corrine and Maxwell wait at the table while Eva and I stare at them vacantly until they finally realize we’re not going to ask them to join us and then they say goodbye and Maxwell shakes my hand again and they disappear into the throng at the bar and the people waiting there look at Corrine and Maxwell differently now because they stopped at our table, because they gave the illusion that they knew us
“God, I don’t recognize anybody,” I say.
“You have to check those photo books that were given to you,” Eva says. “You need to memorize the faces.”
“I suppose.”
“I’ll test you,” Eva says. “We’ll do it together.”
“I’d like that,” I say.
“And how is Victor Ward?” Eva asks, smiling.
“He’s helping define the decade, baby,” I say sarcastically.
“Significance is rewarded in retrospect,” Eva warns. “I think this is the retrospect, baby.”
We both collapse into major giggling. But then I’m silent, feeling glum, unable to relate. The restaurant is impossibly crowded and things are not as clear as I need them to be. The people who have been waving at our table and making I’ll call you motions saw how Corrine and Maxwell broke the ice and soon they will be all over us. I down another cup of sake.
“Oh, don’t look so sad,” Eva says. “You’re a star.”
“Is it cold in here?” I ask.
“Hey, what’s wrong? You look sad.”
“Is it cold in here?” I ask again, waving away a fly.
“When are you going to Washington?” she finally asks.
“Soon.”