Two black guys are sitting with them at the table. Both sport faded jeans, T-shirts, and leather jackets. One has reflector sunglasses on, the other has a shaved head. Both are glaring at me. I stick out my hand at a crooked angle, trying to mimic a rapper. "Hey," I say. "I'm fresh. The freshest, y'know… like, uh, def… the deffest." I take a sip of champagne. "You know… def."
To prove this I spot a black guy with dreadlocks and I walk up to him and exclaim "Rasta Man!" and hold out my hand, anticipating a high-five. But the nigger just stands there.
"I mean" – I cough – "Mon," and then, with less enthusiasm, "We be, uh, jamming.."
He brushes past me, shaking his head. I look back at the girls. They shake their heads – a warning to me not to come back over. I turn my gaze to a hardbody who's dancing by herself next to a column, then I finish my champagne and walk up to her, asking for a phone number. She smiles. Exit.
Nell's
Midnight. I'm sitting in a booth at Nell's with Craig McDermott and Alex Taylor – who has just passed out – and three models from Elite: Libby, Daisy and Caron. It's nearing summer, mid-May, but the club is air-conditioned and cool, the music from the light jazz band drifts through the half-empty room, ceiling fans are whirring, a crowd twenty deep waits outside in the rain, a surging mass. Libby is blond and wearing black grosgrain high-heeled evening shoes with exaggeratedly pointed toes and red satin bows by Yves Saint Laurent. Daisy is blonder and wearing black satin tapered-toe pumps set off by splattered-silver sheer black stockings by Betsey Johnson. Caron is platinum blond and wearing stack-heeled leather boots with a pointed patent-leather toe and wool tweed turned-over calf by Karl Lagerfeld for Chanel. All three of them have on skimpy black wool-knit dresses by Giorgio di Sant'Angelo and are drinking champagne with cranberry juice and peach schnapps and smoking German cigarettes – but I don't complain, even though I think it would be in Nell's best interest if a nonsmoking section was initiated. Two of them are wearing Giorgio Armani sunglasses. Libby has jet lag. Of the three, Daisy is the only one I even remotely want to fuck. Earlier in the day after a meeting with my lawyer about some bogus rape charges, I had an anxiety attack in Dean & Deluca which I worked off at Xclusive. Then I met the models for drinks at the Trump Plaza. This was followed by a French movie that I completely did not understand, but it was fairly chic anyway, then dinner at a sushi restaurant called Vivids near Lincoln Center and a party at one of the models' ex-boyfriend's loft in Chelsea, where bad, fruity sangria was served. Last night I had dreams that were lit like pornography and in them I fucked girls made of cardboard. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Aerobic Exercise.
I'm wearing a two-button wool suit with pleated trousers by Luciano Soprani, a cotton shirt by Brooks Brothers and a silk tie by Armani. McDermott's got on this wool suit by Lubiam with a linen pocket square by Ashear Bros., a Ralph Lauren cotton shirt and a silk tie by Christian Dior and he's about to toss a coin to see which one of us is going downstairs to fetch the Bolivian Marching Powder since neither one of us wants to sit here in the booth with the girls because though we probably want to fuck them, we don't want to, in fact can't, we've found out, talk to them, not even condescendingly – they simply have nothing to say and, I mean, I know we shouldn't be surprised by this but still it's somewhat disorienting. Taylor is sitting up but his eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open, and though McDermott and I originally thought he was protesting the girls' lack of verbal skills by pretending to be asleep, it dawns on us that perhaps he's authentically shitfaced (he's been near incoherent since the three sakes, he downed at Vivids), but none of the girls pay any attention, except maybe Libby since she's sitting next to him, but it's doubtful, very doubtful.
"Heads, heads, heads," I mutter under my breath.
McDermott flips the quarter.
"Tails, tails, tails," he chants, then he slaps his hand over the coin after it lands on his napkin.
"Heads, heads, heads," I hiss, praying.
He lifts his palm. "It's tails," he says, looking at me.
I stare at the quarter for a long time before asking, "Do it again."
"So long," he says, looking over at the girls before getting up, then he glances at me, rolls his eyes, gives his head a curt shake. "Listen," he reminds me. "I want another martini. Absolut. Double. No olive."
"Hurry," I call after him, then under my breath, watching as he waves gaily from the top of the stairs, "Fucking moron."
I turn back to the booth. Behind us, a table of Eurotrash hardbodies that suspiciously resemble Brazilian transvestites shriek in unison. Let's see… Saturday night I'm going to a Mets game with Jeff Harding and Leonard Davis. I'm renting Rambo movies on Sunday. The new Lifecycle will be delivered on Monday… I stare at the three models for an agonizing amount of time, minutes, before saying anything, noticing that someone has ordered a plate of papaya slices and someone else a plate of asparagus, though both remain untouched. Daisy carefully looks me over, then aims her mouth in my direction and blows smoke toward my head, exhaling, and it floats over my hair, missing my eyes, which are protected anyway by the Oliver Peoples nonprescription redwood-framed glasses I've been wearing most of the night. Another one, Libby, the bimbo with jet lag, is trying to figure out how to unfold her napkin. My frustration level is surprisingly low, because things could be worse. After all, these could be English girls. We could be drinking .. . tea.
"So!" I say, clapping my hands together, trying to seem alert. "It was hot out today. No?"
"Where did Greg go?" Libby asks, noticing McDermott's absence.
"Well, Gorbachev is downstairs," I tell her. "McDermott, Greg, is going to sign a peace treaty with him, between the United States and Russia." I pause, trying to gauge her reaction, before adding, "McDermott's the one behind glasnost, you know."
"Well… yeah," she says, her voice impossibly toneless, nodding. "But he told me he was in mergers and… aquasessions."
I'm looking over at Taylor, who's still sleeping. I snap one of his suspenders but there's no reaction, no movement, then I turn back to Libby. "You're not confused, are you?"
"No," she says, shrugging. "Not really."
"Gorbachev's not downstairs," Caron says suddenly.
"Are you lying?" Daisy asks, smiling.
I'm thinking: Oh boy. Yes. Caron's right. Gorbachev's not downstairs. He's at Tunnel. Excuse me. Waitress?" I grab at a passing hardbody who's wearing a Bill Blass navy lace gown with a silk organza ruffle. "I'll have a J&B on the rocks and a butcher knife or something sharp from the kitchen. Girls?"
None of them say anything. The waitress is staring at Taylor. I look over at him, then back at the hardbody waitress, then back at Taylor. "Bring him the, um, grapefruit sorbet and, oh, let's say, a Scotch, okay?"
The waitress just stares at him.
"Ahem, honey?" I wave my hand in front of her face. "J&B? On the rocks?" I tell her, enunciating over the jazz band, who are in the middle of a fine rendition of "Take Five."
She finally nods.
"And bring them" – I gesture toward the girls – "whatever it was they're drinking. Ginger ale? Wine cooler?"
"No," Libby says. "It's champagne." She points, then says to Caron, "Right?"
"I guess." Caron shrugs.
"With peach schnapps," Daisy reminds her.
"Champagne," I repeat, to the waitress. "With, uh-huh, peach schnapps. Catch that?"
Waitress nods, writes something down, leaves, and I'm checking out her ass as she walks away, then I look back at the three of them, studying each one very carefully for any signs, a flicker of betrayal that would cross their faces, the one gesture that would give away this robot act, but it's fairly dark in Nell's and my hope – that this is the case – is just wishful thinking and so I clap my hands together again and breathe in. "So! It was really hot out today. Right?"