"What happened to Flowers? I mean eleven-thirty at Metro CC?" I yell back up. "What happened to ten o'clock at Cafe Tabac?"
A longish pause. "She now says nine-thirty at Bowery Bar. That's the end of it, Victor." Then silence.
"What horrible thing do you want me to do?" JD pauses. "Victor, would this photo-if published-screw up this guy's relationship with a certain young model named Chloe Byrnes and a certain volatile club owner of... oh, let's just say, hypothetically, this club, whose name is Damien Nutchs Ross?"
"But that isn't the problem." I pull JD closer and, surprised, he winks and bats his eyes and I have to tell him, "Don't get any ideas." I sigh, breathe in. "The problem is that a photo exists. A certain cretinous gossip columnist is going to run this photo, and if we think Princess Cuddles having a heart attack is bad... that's nothing." I keep looking over my shoulder, finally telling everyone, "We have to go downstairs to check the magician. Excuse us."
"But what about Matthew Broderick?" Peyton asks. "What about the salads?"
"He can have two!" I shout as I whisk JD down the long steep ramp of stairs heading into the basement, the light getting dimmer, both of us moving carefully.
JD keeps babbling. "You know I'm here for you, Victor. You know I put the stud back in star-studded. You know I've helped pack this party to the rafters with desirable celebs. You know I'll do anything, but I can't help you on this because of-"
"JD. Tomorrow in no particular order I've got a photo shoot, a runway show, an MTV interview with `House of Style,' lunch with my father, band practice. I even have to pick up my f**king tux. I'm booked. Plus this dump is opening. I-have-no-time."
"Victor, as usual I'll see what I can do." JD maneuvers down the stairs hesitantly. "Now about the magician-"
"Fuck it. Why don't we just hire some clowns on stilts and bus in an elephant or two?"
"He does card tricks. He just did Brad Pitt's birthday at Jones in L.A."
"He did?" I ask, suspicious. "Who was there?"
"Ed Limato. Mike Ovitz. Julia Ormond. Madonna. Models. A lot of lawyers and `fun' people."
It gets even colder as we near the bottom of the staircase.
"I mean," JD continues, "I think comparatively it's pretty in."
"But in is out," I explain, squinting to see where we're heading. It's so cold our breath steams, and when I touch the banister it feels like ice.
"What are you saying, Victor?"
"Out is in. Got it?"