"Would you like to see my apartment?" I ask, flipping the light on inside the back of the limo so she can see my face, the tuxedo I'm wearing. She looks at the limousine, then at me, then back at the limo. I reach into my gazelleskin wallet.

"I'm not supposed to," she says, looking off into a pocket of darkness between two buildings across the street, but when her eyes fall back on me she notices the hundreddollar bill I'm holding out to her and without asking what I'm doing, without asking what it is I really want of her, without even asking if I'm a cop, she takes the bill and then I'm.allowed to rephrase my question. "Do you want to come up to my apartment or not?" I ask this grinning.

"I'm not supposed to," she says again, but after another glance at the black, long car and at the bill she's now putting into her hip pocket and at the bum, shuffling toward the limousine, a cup jangling with coins held in a scabby outstretched arm, she manages to answer, "But I can make an exception."

"Do you take American Express?" I ask, switching the light off.

She's still gazing out into that wall of darkness, as if looking for a sign from someone invisible. She shifts her stare to meet mine and when I repeat "Do you take American Express?" she looks at me like I'm crazy, but I smile pointlessly anyway while holding the door open and tell her, "I'm joking. Come on, get in." She nods to someone across the street and I guide this girl into the back of the darkened limousine, slamming the door, then locking it.

Back in my apartment, while Christie takes a bath (I don't know her real name, I haven't asked, but I told her to respond only only when I call her Christie) I dial the number for Cabana Bi Escort Service and, using my gold American Express card, order a woman, a blond, who services couples. I give the address twice and afterwards, again, stress when I call her Christie) I dial the number for Cabana Bi Escort Service and, using my gold American Express card, order a woman, a blond, who services couples. I give the address twice and afterwards, again, stress blond. blond. The guy on the other end of the line, some old dago, assures me that someone blond will be at my door within the hour. The guy on the other end of the line, some old dago, assures me that someone blond will be at my door within the hour.

After flossing and changing into a pair of silk Polo boxer shorts and a cotton Bill Blass sleeveless Tshirt, I walk into the bathroom, where Christie lies on her back in the tub, sipping white wine from a thinstemmed Steuben wineglass. I sit on the tub's marble edge and pour Monique Van Frere herbscented bath oil into it while inspecting the body lying in the milky water. For a long time my mind races, becomes flooded with impurities her head is within my reach, is mine to crush; at this very moment my urge to strike out, to insult and punish her, rises then subsides, and afterwards I'm able to point out, "That's a very fine chardonnay you're drinking."

After a long pause, my hand squeezing a small, childlike breast, I say, "I want you to clean your vagina."

She stares up at me with this seventeenyearold's gaze, then looks down at the length of her body soaking in the tub. With the mildest of shrugs she places the glass on the tub's edge and moves a hand down to the sparse hair, also blond, below her flat porcelainsmooth stomach, and then she spreads her legs slightly.

"No," I say quietly. "From behind. Get on your knees."

She shrugs again.

"I want to watch," I explain. "You have a very nice body," I say, urging her on.

She rolls over, kneeling on all fours, her ass raised up above the water, and I move to the other edge of the tub to get a better view of her cunt, which she fingers with a soapy hand. I move my hand above her moving wrist to her asshole, which I spread and with a dab of the bath oil finger lightly. It contracts, she sighs. I remove the finger, then slide it into her cunt, which hangs below it, both our fingers moving in, then out, then back into her. She's wet inside and using this wetness I move my index finger back up to her asshole and slide it in easily, up to the knuckle. She gasps twice and pushes herself back onto it, while still fingering her cunt. This goes on for a while until the doorman rings, announcing that Sabrina has arrived. I tell Christie to get out of the tub and dry off, to choose a robe but not the Bijan from the closet and meet me and our guest in the living room for drinks. I move back to the kitchen, where I pour a glass of wine for Sabrina.

Sabrina, however, is not not a blond. And standing in the doorway after my initial shock subsides, I finally let her in. Her hair a blond. And standing in the doorway after my initial shock subsides, I finally let her in. Her hair is brownish is brownish blond, not blond, not real real blond, and though this infuriates me I don't say anything because she's also very pretty; not as young as Christie but not too used up either. In short, she looks like she'll be worth whatever it is I'm paying her by the hour. I calm down enough to become totally unangry when she takes off her coat and reveals a hardbody dressed in tight black peg pants and a flowerprint halter top, with black pointytoed high-heeled shoes. Relieved, I lead her into the living room and position her on the white downfilled sofa and, without asking if she wants anything to drink, bring her a glass of white wine and a coaster to place it on from the Mauna Kea Hotel in Hawaii. The Broadway cast recording of blond, and though this infuriates me I don't say anything because she's also very pretty; not as young as Christie but not too used up either. In short, she looks like she'll be worth whatever it is I'm paying her by the hour. I calm down enough to become totally unangry when she takes off her coat and reveals a hardbody dressed in tight black peg pants and a flowerprint halter top, with black pointytoed high-heeled shoes. Relieved, I lead her into the living room and position her on the white downfilled sofa and, without asking if she wants anything to drink, bring her a glass of white wine and a coaster to place it on from the Mauna Kea Hotel in Hawaii. The Broadway cast recording of Les Miserables Les Miserables is playing on CD from the stereo. When Christie comes in from the bathroom to join us, wearing a Ralph Lauren terrycloth robe, her blond hair slicked back, looking white now because of the bath, I place her on the couch next to Sabrina they nod hello and then I take a seat in the Nordian chrome and teakwood chair across from the couch. I decide it's probably best if we get to know each other before we adjourn to the bedroom and so I break a long, not unpleasant silence by clearing my throat and asking a few questions. is playing on CD from the stereo. When Christie comes in from the bathroom to join us, wearing a Ralph Lauren terrycloth robe, her blond hair slicked back, looking white now because of the bath, I place her on the couch next to Sabrina they nod hello and then I take a seat in the Nordian chrome and teakwood chair across from the couch. I decide it's probably best if we get to know each other before we adjourn to the bedroom and so I break a long, not unpleasant silence by clearing my throat and asking a few questions.

"So," I start, crossing my legs. "Don't you want to know what I do?"

The two of them stare at me for a long time. Fixed smiles locked on their faces, they glance at each other before Christie, unsure, shrugs and quietly answers, "No."

Sabrina smiles, takes this as a cue and agrees. "No, not really."

I stare at the two of them for a minute before recrossing my legs and sighing, very irritated: "Well, I work on Wall Street. At Pierce & Pierce."

A long pause.

"Have you heard of it?" I ask.

Another long pause. Finally Sabrina breaks the silence. "Is it connected with Mays... or Macy's?"

I pause before asking, "Mays?"

She thinks about it for a minute then says, "Yeah. A shoe outlet? Isn't P & P a shoe store?"

I stare at her, hard.

Christie stands up, surprising me, and moves over to admire the stereo. "You have a really nice place here... Paul," and then, looking through the compact discs, hundreds upon hundreds of them, stacked and lined up in a large whiteoak shelf, all of them alphabetically listed, "How much did you pay for it?"

I'm standing up to pour myself another glass of the Acacia. "Actually, none of your business, Christie, but I can assure you it certainly wasn't wasn't cheap." cheap."

From the kitchen I notice Sabrina has taken a pack of cigarettes out of her handbag and I walk back into the living room, shaking my head before she can light one.

"No, no smoking," I tell her. "Not in here."

She smiles, pauses slightly and with a little nod slips the cigarette back into its box. I'm carrying a tray of chocolates with me and I offer one to Christie.

"Varda truffle?"

She stares blankly at the plate then politely shakes her head. I move over to Sabrina, who smiles and takes one, and then, concerned, I notice her wineglass, which is still full.

"I don't want you to get drunk," I tell her. "But that's a very fine chardonnay you're not drinking."

I place the tray of trues on the glasstop Palazzetti coffee table and sit back in the armchair, motioning for Christie to get back on the couch, which she does. We sit here silently, listening to the Les Miserables Les Miserables CD. Sabrina chews on the truffle thoughtfully and takes another. CD. Sabrina chews on the truffle thoughtfully and takes another.

I have to break the silence again myself. "So have either of you been abroad?" It hits me almost immediately what the sentence sounds like, how it could be misinterpreted. "I mean to Europe?"

Both of them are looking at each other as if some secret signal is passing between them, before Sabrina shakes her head and then Christie follows with the same head movement.

The next question I ask, after another long silence, is, "Did either of you go to college, and if so, where?"

The response to this question consists of a barely contained glare from each of them, and so I decide to take this as an opportunity to lead them into the bedroom, where I make Sabrina dance a little before taking off her clothes in front of Christie and me while every halogen bulb in the bedroom burns. I have her put on a Christian Dior lace and charmeuse teddy and then I take off all my clothes except for a pair of Nike allsport sneakers and Christie eventually takes off the Ralph Lauren robe and is buck naked except for an Angela Cummings silk and latex scarf, which I knot carefully around her neck, and suede gloves by Gloria Jose from Bergdorf Goodman that I bought on sale.

Now the three of us are on the futon. Christie is on all fours facing the headboard, her ass raised high in the air, and I'm straddling her back as if I was riding a dog or something, but backward, my knees resting on the mattress, my dick half hard, and I'm facing Sabrina, who is staring into Christie's spread-open ass with a determined expression. Her smile seems tortured and she's wetting her own lips by fingering herself and tracing her glistening index finger across them, like she's applying lip gloss. With both my hands I keep Christie's ass and cunt spread open and I urge Sabrina to move in closer and sniff them. Sabrina is now face level at Christie's ass and cunt, both of which I'm fingering lightly. I motion for Sabrina to move her face in even closer until she can smell my fingers which I push into her mouth and which she sucks on hungrily. With my other hand I keep massaging Christie's tight, wet pussy, which hangs heavy, soaked below her spread, dilated asshole.

"Smell it," I tell Sabrina and she moves in closer until she's two inches, an inch, away from Christie's asshole. My dick is standing straight up now and I keep jerking myself off to keep it that way.

"Lick her cunt first," I tell Sabrina and with her own fingers she spreads it open and starts lapping at it like a dog while massaging the clit and then she moves up to Christie's asshole which she laps at in the same way. Christie's moans are urgent and uncontrolled and she starts pushing her ass harder into Sabrina's face, onto Sabrina's tongue, which Sabrina pushes slowly in and out of Christie's asshole. While she does this I watch, transfixed, and start rubbing Christie's clit quickly until she's humping onto Sabrina's face and shouts "I'm coming" and while pulling on her own nipples has a long, sustained orgasm. And though she could be faking it I like the way it looks so I don't slap her or anything.

Tired of balancing myself, I fail off Christie and lie on my back, positioning Sabrina's face over my stiff, huge cock which I guide into her mouth with my hand, jerking it off while she sucks on the head. I pull Christie toward me and while taking her gloves off start kissing her hard on the mouth, licking inside it, pushing my tongue against hers, past hers, as far down her throat as it will go. She fingers her cunt, which is so wet that her upper thighs look like someone's slathered something slick and oily all over them. I push Christie down past my waist to help Sabrina suck my cock off and after the two of them take turns licking the head and the shaft, Christie moves to my balls which are aching and swollen, as large as two small plums, and she laps at them before placing her mouth over the entire sac, alternately massaging and lightly sucking the balls, separating them with her tongue. Christie moves her mouth back to the cock Sabrina's still sucking on and they start kissing each other, hard, on the mouth, right above the head of my dick, drooling saliva onto it and jacking it off. Christie keeps masturbating herself this entire time, working three fingers in her vagina, wetting her clit with her juices, moaning. This turns me on enough to grab her by the waist and swivel her around and position her cunt over my face, which she gladly sits on. Clean and pink and wet and spread, her clit swollen, engorged with blood, her cunt hangs over my head and I push my face into it, tonguing it, craving its flavor, while fingering her asshole. Sabrina is still working on my cock, jacking off the base of it, the rest of it filling her mouth, and now she moves on top of me, her knees resting on either side of my chest, and I tear off her teddy so that her ass and cunt are facing Christie, whose head I force down and order to "lick them, suck on that clit" and she does.

It's an awkward position for all of us, so this only goes on for maybe two or three minutes, but during this short period Sabrina comes in Christie's face, while Christie, grinding her cunt hard against my mouth, comes all over mine and I have to steady her thighs and grip them firmly so she won't break my nose with her humping. I still haven't come and Sabrina's doing nothing special to my cock so I pull it out of her mouth and have her sit on it. My cock slides in almost too easily her cunt is too wet, drenched with her own cunt juice and Christie's saliva, and there's no friction so I take the scarf from around Christie's neck and pull my cock out of Sabrina's cunt and, spreading her open, wipe her cunt and my cock off and then try to resume fucking her while I continue to eat out Christie, who I bring to yet another climax within a matter of minutes. The two girls are facing each other Sabrina's fucking my cock, Christie's sitting on my face and Sabrina leans in to suck and finger Christie's small, firm, full tits. Then Christie starts Frenchkissing Sabrina hard on the mouth as I continue to eat her out, my mouth and chin and jaw covered with her juices, which momentarily dry, then are replaced by others.

I push Sabrina off my cock and lay her on her back, her head at the foot of the futon. Then I lay Christie over her, placing the two in a sixtynine position, with Christie's ass raised up in the air, and with a surprisingly small amount of Vaseline, after slipping on a condom, finger her tight ass until it relaxes and loosens enough so I can ease my dick into it while Sabrina eats Christie's cunt out, fingering it, sucking on her swollen clit, sometimes holding on to my balls and squeezing them lightly, teasing my asshole with a moistened finger, and then Christie is leaning into Sabrina's cunt and she's roughly spread her legs open as wide as possible and starts digging her tongue into Sabrina's cunt, but not for long because she's interrupted by yet another orgasm and she lifts her head up and looks back at me, her face slick with cunt juice, and she cries out "Fuck me I'm coming oh god eat me I'm coming" and this spurs me on to start fucking her ass very hard while Sabrina keeps eating the cunt that hangs over her face, which is covered with Christie's pussy juice. I pull my cock out of Christie's ass and force Sabrina to suck on it before I push it back into Christie's spread cunt and after a couple of minutes of fucking it I start coming and at the same time Sabrina lifts her mouth off my balls and just before I explode into Christie's cunt, she spreads my ass cheeks open and forces her tongue up into my asshole which spasms around it and because of this my orgasm prolongs itself and then Sabrina removes her tongue and starts moaning that she's coming too because after Christie finishes coming she resumes eating Sabrina's cunt and I watch, hunched over Christie, panting, as Sabrina lifts her hips repeatedly into Christie's face and then I have to lie back, spent but still hard, my cock, glistening, still aching from the force of my ejaculation, and I close my eyes, my knees weak and shaking.

I awaken only when one of them touches my wrist accidentally. My eyes open and I warn them not to touch the Rolex, which I've kept on during this entire time. They lie quietly on either side of me, sometimes touching my chest, once in a while running their hands over the muscles in my abdomen. A half hour later I'm hard again. I stand up and walk over to the armoire, where, next to the nail gun, rests a sharpened coat hanger, a rusty butter knife, matches from the Gotham Bar and Grill and a halfsmoked cigar; and turning around, naked, my erection jutting out in front of me, I hold these items out and explain in a hoarse whisper, "We're not through yet..." An hour later I will impatiently lead them to the door, both of them dressed and sobbing, bleeding but well paid. Tomorrow Sabrina will have a limp. Christie will probably have a terrible black eye and deep scratches across her buttocks caused by the coat hanger. Bloodstained Kleenex will lie crumpled by the side of the bed along with an empty carton of Italian seasoning salt I picked up at Dean & Deluca.

Shopping

The colleagues I have to buy presents for include Victor Powell, Paul Owen, David Van Patten, Craig McDermott, Luis Carruthers, Preston Nichols, Connolly O'Brien, Reed Robison, Scott Montgomery, Ted Madison, Jeff Duvall, Boris Cunningham, Jamie Conway, Hugh Turnball, Frederick Dibble, Todd Hamlin, Muldwyn Butner, Ricky Hendricks and George Carpenter, and though I could have sent Jean to make these purchases today, instead I asked her to sign, stamp and mail three hundred designer Christmas cards with a Mark Kostabi print on them and then I wanted her to find out as much as she could about the Fisher account that Paul Owen is handling. Right now I'm moving down Madison Avenue, after spending close to an hour standing in a daze near the bottom of the staircase at the Ralph Lauren store on Seventysecond, staring at cashmere sweater vests, confused, hungry, and when I finally took hold of my bearings, after failing to get the address of the blond hardbody who worked behind the counter and who was coming on to me, I left the store yelling "Come all ye faithfull" Now I scowl at a bum huddled in the doorway of a store called EarKarma and he's clutching a sign that reads HUNGRY AND HOMELESS... PLEASE HELP ME, GOD BLESS and then I find myself moving down Fifth toward Saks, trying to remember if I switched the tapes in my VCR, and suddenly I'm worried that I might be taping all ye faithfull" Now I scowl at a bum huddled in the doorway of a store called EarKarma and he's clutching a sign that reads HUNGRY AND HOMELESS... PLEASE HELP ME, GOD BLESS and then I find myself moving down Fifth toward Saks, trying to remember if I switched the tapes in my VCR, and suddenly I'm worried that I might be taping thirtysomething thirtysomething over over Pamela's Tight Fuckhole. Pamela's Tight Fuckhole. A Xanax fails to ward off the panic. Saks intensifies it. A Xanax fails to ward off the panic. Saks intensifies it.

...pens and photo albums, pairs of bookends and lightweight luggage, electric shoe polishers and heated towel stands and silverplated insulated carafes and portable palmsized color TVs with earphones, birdhouses and candleholders, place mats, picnic hampers and ice buckets, lacetrimmed oversize linen napkins and umbrellas and sterling silver monogrammed golf tees and charcoalfilter smoke trappers and desk lamps and perfume bottles, jewelry boxes and sweaters and baskets to hold magazines in and storage boxes, office tote bags, desk accessories, scarves, file holders, address books, agendas for handbags...

My priorities before Christmas include the following: (1) to get an eight o'clock reservation on a Friday night at Dorsia with Courtney, (2z) to get myself invited to the Trump Christmas party aboard their yacht, (3) to find out as much as humanly possible about Paul Owen's mysterious Fisher account, (4) to saw a hardbody's head off and Federal Express it to Robin Barker the dumb bastard over at Salomon Brothers and (5) to apologize to Evelyn without making it look like an apology. The Patty Winters Show The Patty Winters Show this morning was about women who married homosexuals and I almost called Courtney up to warn her as a joke but then decided against it, deriving a certain amount of satisfaction from imagining Luis Carruthers proposing to her, Courtney shyly accepting, their nightmarish honeymoon. Scowling at another beggar shivering in the misty drizzle at Fiftyseventh and Fifth, I walk up and squeeze his cheek affectionately, then laugh out loud. "His eyes how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!" The Salvation Army choir harmonizes badly on "Joy to the World." I wave to someone who looks exactly like Duncan McDonald, then duck into Bergdorf's. this morning was about women who married homosexuals and I almost called Courtney up to warn her as a joke but then decided against it, deriving a certain amount of satisfaction from imagining Luis Carruthers proposing to her, Courtney shyly accepting, their nightmarish honeymoon. Scowling at another beggar shivering in the misty drizzle at Fiftyseventh and Fifth, I walk up and squeeze his cheek affectionately, then laugh out loud. "His eyes how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!" The Salvation Army choir harmonizes badly on "Joy to the World." I wave to someone who looks exactly like Duncan McDonald, then duck into Bergdorf's.

...paisley ties and crystal water pitchers, tumbler sets and office clocks that measure temperature and humidity and barometric pressure, electric calling card address books and margarita glasses, valet stands and sets of dessert plates, correspondence cards and mirrors and shower clocks and aprons and sweaters and gym bags and bottles of champagne and porcelain cachepots and monogrammed bath sheets and foreign-currency-exchange minicalculators and silverplated address books and paperweights with fish and boxes of fine stationery and bottle openers and compact discs and customized tennis balls and pedometers and coffee mugs...

I check my Rolex while I'm buying scruffing lotion at the Clinique counter, still in Bergdorf's, to make sure I have enough time to shop some more before I have to meet Tim Severt for drinks at the Princeton Club at seven. I worked out this morning for two hours before the office and though I could have used this time for a massage (since my muscles are sore from the exhausting exercise regimen I'm now on) or a facial, even though I had one yesterday, there are just too many cocktail parties in the upcoming weeks that I have have to attend and my presence at them will put a crimp in my shopping schedule so it's best if I get the shopping out of the way now. I run into Bradley Simpson from P & P outside F.A.O. Schwarz and he's wearing a glenplaid worsted wool suit with notched lapels by Perry Ellis, a cotton broadcloth shirt by Gitman Brothers, a silk tie by Savoy, a chronograph with a crocodileskin band by Breil, a cotton raincoat by Paul Smith and a fur felt hat by Paul Stuart. After he says, "Hey Davis," I inexplicably start listing the names of all eight reindeer, alphabetically, and when I've finished, he smiles and says, "Listen, there's a Christmas party at Nekenieh on the twentieth, see you there?" I smile and assure him I'll be at Nekenieh on the twentieth and as I walk off, nodding to no one, I call back to him, "Hey asshole, I wanna watch you to attend and my presence at them will put a crimp in my shopping schedule so it's best if I get the shopping out of the way now. I run into Bradley Simpson from P & P outside F.A.O. Schwarz and he's wearing a glenplaid worsted wool suit with notched lapels by Perry Ellis, a cotton broadcloth shirt by Gitman Brothers, a silk tie by Savoy, a chronograph with a crocodileskin band by Breil, a cotton raincoat by Paul Smith and a fur felt hat by Paul Stuart. After he says, "Hey Davis," I inexplicably start listing the names of all eight reindeer, alphabetically, and when I've finished, he smiles and says, "Listen, there's a Christmas party at Nekenieh on the twentieth, see you there?" I smile and assure him I'll be at Nekenieh on the twentieth and as I walk off, nodding to no one, I call back to him, "Hey asshole, I wanna watch you die, die, mothe motherfuckaaahhh," and then I start screaming like a banshee, moving across Fiftyeighth, banging my Bottega Veneta briefcase against a wall. Another choir, on Lexington, sings "Hark the Herald Angels" and I tapdance, moaning, in front of them before I move like a zombie toward Bloomingdale's, where I rush over to the first tie rack I see and murmur to the young faggot working behind the counter, "Too, too fabulous," while fondling a silk ascot. He flirts and asks if I'm a model. "I'll see you in hell," I tell him, and move on.

...vases and felt fedoras with feather headbands and alligator toiletry cases with giltsilver bottles and brushes and shoehorns that cost two hundred dollars and candlesticks and pillow covers and gloves and slippers and powder puffs and handknitted cotton snowflake sweaters and leather skates and Porschedesign ski goggles and antique apothecary bottles and diamond earrings and silk ties and boots and perfume bottles and diamond earrings and boots and vodka glasses and card cases and cameras and mahogany servers and scarves and aftershaves and photo albums and salt and pepper shakers and ceramictoaster cookie jars and twohundreddollar shoehorns and backpacks and aluminum lunch pails and pillow covers...

Some kind of existential chasm opens before me while I'm browsing in Bloomingdale's and causes me to first locate a phone and check my messages, then, near tears, after taking three Halcion (since my body has mutated and adapted to the drug it no longer causes sleep it just seems to ward off total madness), I head toward the Clinique counter where with my platinum American Express card I buy six tubes of shaving cream while flirting nervously with the girls who work there and I decide this emptiness has, at least in part, some connection with the way I treated Evelyn at Barcadia the other night, though there is always the possibility it could just as easily have somexhing to do with the tracking device on my VCR, and while I make a mental note to put in an appearance at Evelyn's Christmas party I'm even tempted to ask one of the Clinique girls to escort me I also remind myself to look through my VCR handbook and deal with the tracking device problem. I see a tenyearold girl standing by her mother, who is buying a scarf, some jewelry, and I'm thinking: Not bad. I'm wearing a cashmere topcoat, a doublebreasted plaid wool and alpaca sport coat, pleated wool trousers, patterned silk tie, all by Valentino Couture, and leather laceups by AllenEdmonds.

Christmas Party

I'm having drinks with Charles Murphy at Rusty's to fortify myself before making an appearance at Evelyn's Christmas party. I'm wearing a fourbutton doublebreasted wool and silk suit, a cotton shirt with a buttondown collar by Valentino Couture, a patterned silk tie by Armani and captoed leather slipons by AllenEdmonds. Murphy is wearing a sixbutton doublebreasted wool gabardine suit by Courreges, a striped cotton shirt with a tab collar and a foulardpatterned silkcrepe tie, both by Hugo Boss. He's on a tirade about the Japanese "They've bought the Empire State Building and Nell's. Nell's, Nell's, can you believe it, Bateman?" he exclaims over his second Absolut on the rocks and it moves something in me, it sets something off, and after leaving Rusty's, while wandering around the Upper West Side, I find myself crouched in the doorway of what used to be Carly Simon's, a very hot J. Akail restaurant that closed last fall, and leaping out at a passing Japanese delivery boy, I knock him off his bicycle and drag him into the doorway, his legs tangled somehow in the Schwinn he was riding which works to my advantage since when I slit his throat easily, effortlessly the spasmodic kicking that usually accompanies this routine is blocked by the bike, which he still manages to lift five, six times while he's choking on his own hot blood. I open the cartons of Japanese food and dump their contents over him, but to my surprise instead of sushi and teriyaki and hand rolls and soba noodles, chicken with cashew nuts falls all over his gasping bloodied face and beef chow mein and shrimp fried rice and moo shu pork splatter onto his heaving chest, and this irritating setback accidentally killing the wrong type of Asian moves me to check where this order was going Sally Rubinstein and with my Mont Blanc pen to write can you believe it, Bateman?" he exclaims over his second Absolut on the rocks and it moves something in me, it sets something off, and after leaving Rusty's, while wandering around the Upper West Side, I find myself crouched in the doorway of what used to be Carly Simon's, a very hot J. Akail restaurant that closed last fall, and leaping out at a passing Japanese delivery boy, I knock him off his bicycle and drag him into the doorway, his legs tangled somehow in the Schwinn he was riding which works to my advantage since when I slit his throat easily, effortlessly the spasmodic kicking that usually accompanies this routine is blocked by the bike, which he still manages to lift five, six times while he's choking on his own hot blood. I open the cartons of Japanese food and dump their contents over him, but to my surprise instead of sushi and teriyaki and hand rolls and soba noodles, chicken with cashew nuts falls all over his gasping bloodied face and beef chow mein and shrimp fried rice and moo shu pork splatter onto his heaving chest, and this irritating setback accidentally killing the wrong type of Asian moves me to check where this order was going Sally Rubinstein and with my Mont Blanc pen to write I'm gonna get you too... bitch I'm gonna get you too... bitch on the back of it, then place the order over the dead kid's face and shrug apologetically, mumbling "Uh, sorry" and recall that on the back of it, then place the order over the dead kid's face and shrug apologetically, mumbling "Uh, sorry" and recall that The Patty Winters Show The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Teenage Girls Who Trade Sex for Crack I spent two hours at the gym today and can now complete two hundred abdominal crunches in less than three minutes. Near Evelyn's brownstone I hand a freezing bum one of the fortune cookies I took from the delivery boy and he stuffs it, fortune and all, into his mouth, nodding thanks. "Fucking slob," I mutter loud enough for him to hear. As I turn the corner and head for Evelyn's, I notice the police lines are this morning was about Teenage Girls Who Trade Sex for Crack I spent two hours at the gym today and can now complete two hundred abdominal crunches in less than three minutes. Near Evelyn's brownstone I hand a freezing bum one of the fortune cookies I took from the delivery boy and he stuffs it, fortune and all, into his mouth, nodding thanks. "Fucking slob," I mutter loud enough for him to hear. As I turn the corner and head for Evelyn's, I notice the police lines are still still up around the brownstone where her neighbor Victoria Bell was decapitated. Four limousines are parked in front, one still running. up around the brownstone where her neighbor Victoria Bell was decapitated. Four limousines are parked in front, one still running.

I'm late. The living room and dining room are already crowded with people I don't really want to talk to. Tall, full blue spruces covered with white twinkling lights stand on either side of the fireplace. Old Christmas songs from the sixties sung by the Ronettes are on the CD player. A bartender in a tuxedo pours champagne and eggnog, mixes Manhattans and martinis, opens bottles of Calera Jensen pinot noir and a Chappellet chardonnay. Twentyyearold ports line a makeshift bar between vases of poinsettias. A long folding table has been covered with a red tablecloth and is jammed with pans and plates and bowls of roasted hazelnuts and lobster and oyster bisques and celery root soup with apples and Beluga caviar on toast points and creamed onions and roast goose with chestnut stung and caviar in puff pastry and vegetable tarts with tapenade, roast duck and roast rack of veal with shallots and gnocchi gratin and vegetable strudel and Waldorf salad and scallops and bruschetta with mascarpone and white truffles and green chili souffle and roast partridge with sage, potatoes and onion and cranberry sauce, mincemeat pies and chocolate truffles and lemon souffle tarts and pecan tarte Tatin. Candles have been lit everywhere, all of them in sterling silver Tiffany candleholders. And though I cannot be positive that I'm not hallucinating, there seem to be midgets dressed in green and red elf suits and felt hats walking around with trays of appetizers. I pretend not to have noticed and head straight for the bar where I gulp down a glass of notbad champagne then move over to Donald Petersen, and as with most of the men here, someone has tied paper antlers to his head. On the other side of the room Maria and Darwin Hutton's fiveyearold daughter, Cassandra, is wearing a sevenhundreddollar velvet dress and petticoat by Nancy Halser. After finishing a second glass of champagne I move to martinis Absolut doubles and after I've calmed down sufficiently I take a closer look around the room, but the midgets are still there. but the midgets are still there.

"Too much red," I mutter to myself, trancing out. "It's makin' me nervous."

"Hey McCloy," Petersen says. "What do you say?"

I snap out of it and automatically ask, "Is this the British cast recording of Les Miserables Les Miserables or not?" or not?"

"Hey, have a holly jolly Christmas." He points a finger at me, drunk.

"So what is is this music?" I ask, thoroughly annoyed. "And by the way, sir, deck the halls with boughs of holly." this music?" I ask, thoroughly annoyed. "And by the way, sir, deck the halls with boughs of holly."

"Bill Septor," he says, shrugging. "I think Septor or Skeptor."

"Why doesn't she put on some Talking Heads for Christ sakes sakes," I complain bitterly.

Courtney is standing on the other side of the room, holding a champagne glass and ignoring me completely.

"Or Les Miz Les Miz," he suggests.

"American or British cast recording?" My eyes narrowing, I'm testing him.

"Er, British," he says as a dwarf hands us each a plate of Waldorf salad.

"Definitely," I murmur, staring at the dwarf as he waddles away.

Suddenly Evelyn rushes up to us wearing a sable jacket and velvet pants by Ralph Lauren and in one hand she's holding a piece of mistletoe, which she places above my head, and in the other a candy cane.

"Mistletoe alert!" she shrieks, kissing me dryly on the cheek. "Merry Xmas, Patrick. Merry Xmas, Jimmy."

"Merry... Xmas," I say, unable to push her away since I've got a martini in one hand and a Waldorf salad in the other.

"You're late, honey," she says.

"I'm not late," I say, barely protesting.

"Oh yes you are," she says in singsong.

"I've been here the entire time," I say, dismissing her. "You just didn't see me."

"Oh, stop scowling. You're such a Grinch." She turns to Petersen. "Did you know Patrick's the Grinch?"

"Bah humbug," I sigh, staring over at Courtney.

"Hell, we all know McCloy's the Grinch," Petersen bellows drunkenly. "How ya doin', Mr. Grinch?"

"And what does Mr. Grinch want for Christmas?" Evelyn asks in a baby's voice. "Has Mr. Grinchie been a good boy this year?"

I sigh. "The Grinch wants a Burberry raincoat, a Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater, a new Rolex, a car stereo"

Evelyn stops sucking on the candy cane to interrupt. "But you don't have have a a car car, honey."

"I want one anyway." I sigh again. "The Grinch wants a car stereo anyway."

"How's the Waldorf salad?" Evelyn asks worriedly. "Do you think it tastes all right?"

"Delicious," I murmur, craning my neck, spotting someone, suddenly impressed. "Hey, you didn't tell me Laurence Tisch was invited to this party."

She turns around. "What are you talking about?"

"Why," I ask, "is Laurence Tisch passing around a tray of canapes?"

"Oh god, Patrick, that's not not Laurence Tisch," she says. "That's one of the Christmas elves." Laurence Tisch," she says. "That's one of the Christmas elves."

"One of the what? what? You mean the midgets." You mean the midgets."

'They're elves elves," she stresses. "Santa's helpers. God, what a sourpuss. Look at them. They're adorable. That one over there is Rudolph, the one passing out candy canes is Blitzen. The other one is Donner"

"Wait a minute, Evelyn, wait," I say, closing my eyes, holding up the hand with the Waldorf salad in it. I'm sweating, deja vu, but why? Have I met these elves somewhere? Forget about it. "I... those are the names of reindeer. Not elves. Blitzen was a reindeer reindeer."

"The only Jewish one," Petersen reminds us.

"Oh. . ." Evelyn seems bewildered by this information and she looks over at Petersen to confirm this. "Is this true?"

He shrugs, thinks about it and looks confused. "Hey, baby reindeer, elves, Grinches, brokers... Hell, what's the difference long as the Cristal flows, hey?" He chuckles, nudging me in the ribs. "Ain't that right, Mr. Grinch?"