After a while I ask, "How did you find me?"

Without pausing, Palakon says, "Your brother told me where to find you."

"I don't have a brother, man."

"I know," Palakon says. "Just testing. I trust you already."

I'm studying Palakon's nails-pink and smooth and clean. A busboy rolls

a barrel of avocados into the kitchen. Loops of the fall shows repeat themselves endlessly.

"Hey," I say. "I still need a DJ."

"I can arrange that."

"How?"

"Actually I already have." He pulls out a cell phone and hands it to me. I

just stare at it. "Why don't you call your associates at the club?"

"Uh... why?"

"Just do it, Mr. Ward. Please," Palakon says. "You don't have much time."

I flip the cell phone open, punch in my number at the club. JD answers.

"It's... me," I say, scared for some reason.

"Victor," JD says breathlessly. "Where are you?"

"Fashion Cafe."

"Get out of there."

"Why?"

"We've got Junior Vasquez tonight," he squeals.

"How?" I'm staring right into Palakon's face. "How... did that happen?"

"Junior's manager called Damien and said Junior wants to do it. We're set."

I hang up the phone and place it slowly, deliberately, on the table. I study Palakon's face very carefully, thinking a lot of things through, and then I ask him, "Can you do anything about getting me into Flatliners II?"

"We can talk about that later, Mr. Johnson."

"Also any role where I could play a callow American Eurail traveler."

"Will you consider this proposal?" Palakon asks.

"You haven't sent me any faxes, have you?"

"What faxes?" he asks, placing the folder of photos in a thin black briefcase. "What did they say?"

"'I know who you are and I know what you're doing.'"

"I already know who you are, Mr. Johnson, and I already know what you're doing," he says, snapping the briefcase shut.

"Whoa-what are you?" I ask, vaguely impressed. "A f**king watchdog?"

"You might say so," he sighs.

"Listen." I check my watch. "We'll, um, talk later, I guess. That's just too much moola to ignore, baby."

"I was hoping that you could give me an answer now."

I stare at him, lost. "You want me to go to London and find some girl I don't even remember dating?"

"So you've understood me," Palakon says, visibly relieved. "For a moment there I was worried that nothing was registering."

Suddenly contemplative, I stare into Palakon's face. "You look like the kind of guy who eats his own scabs," I murmur. "Did you know that? That you look like that kind of guy?"

"I've been called many things, Mr. Ward, but a scab-eater has not been among them."

"Hell, there's a first time for everything, buddy," I sigh, pushing myself away from the table, standing up. Palakon keeps staring at me, which makes me nervous and all tingly, creeps me out in a way I've never been creeped out before.

"Hey, look-it's Ricki Lake hugging a street urchin." I point at a video monitor behind Palakon's head.

Palakon turns his head to look.

"Ha-ha-made you look." I start walking away.

Palakon stands up. "Mr. Ward-"

"Hey," I call from across the room. "I've got your card."

"Mr. Ward, I-"

"I'll talk to you later, man. Peace."

The restaurant is still totally deserted. I can't even see Byana or Jasmine or the waitress I ordered the ice beer from anywhere. When I reach my bike someone's stuck a giant fax on one of the handlebars: I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING AND I KNOW WHAT YOU SAID. I grab it and run back into the soft light of the main room to show Palakon, but that room, too, is empty.

Chapter Seven

The show's at Bryant Park even though it was supposed to be in an abandoned synagogue on Norfolk Street but Todd freaked when he heard it was haunted by the ghosts of two feuding rabbis and a giant floating knish and as I roll up to the back entrance-42nd Street jammed with TV vans and satellite dishes and limousines and black sedans-photographers have already lined up, calling out my name as I flash my pass at the security guards. Behind barricades groups of teenagers shout out for Madonna even though she's not expected to show because she's too busy facing down her latest stalker in court but Guy from Maverick Records promised to appear and Elsa Klensch and a CNN camera crew's interviewing FIT students about their favorite designers and just an hour ago the runway was shortened because of the supposed overflow of five hundred and there was a desperate need to add room for the three hundred standees. Video monitors have been set up outside for the overflow's overflow. The show cost $350,000 to put on so everyone needs to see it.