I momentarily break out of my conscious inertia to explain further: "And in spring water, minerals may have been added or removed and it's usually filtered, not processed." I pause. "Seventyfive percent of all bottled water in America is actually spring water." I pause again, then ask the cab, "Did anyone know that?"

A long, soulless pause follows and then Courtney asks another question, this one only half finished. "The differences between distilled and purified water is...?"

I'm not really listening to any of this conversation, not even to myself, because I'm thinking of ways to get rid of Bethany's body, or at least debating whether or not I should keep it in my apartment another day or so. If I decide to get rid of it tonight, I can easily stuff what's left of her into a Hefty garbage bag and leave it in the stairwell; or I can exert the extra effort and drag it into the street, leaving it with the rest of the trash on the curb. I could even take it to the apartment in Hell's Kitchen and pour lime over it, smoke a cigar and watch it dissolve while listening to my Walkman, but I want to keep the men's bodies separate from the women's, and besides, I also want to watch Bloodhungry, Bloodhungry, the videotape I rented this afternoon its ad line reads, "Some clowns make you laugh, but Bobo will make you die and then he'll eat your body" and a midnight trip to Hell's Kitchen, even without a stop at Bellvue's for a small bite to eat, wouldn't give me enough time. Bethany's bones and most of her intestines and flesh will probably get dumped into the incinerator down the hall from my apartment. the videotape I rented this afternoon its ad line reads, "Some clowns make you laugh, but Bobo will make you die and then he'll eat your body" and a midnight trip to Hell's Kitchen, even without a stop at Bellvue's for a small bite to eat, wouldn't give me enough time. Bethany's bones and most of her intestines and flesh will probably get dumped into the incinerator down the hall from my apartment.

Courtney, McDermott and I have just left a Morgan Stanley party that took place near the Seaport at the tip of Manhattan in a new club called Goldcard, which seemed like a vast city of its own and where I ran into Walter Rhodes, a total Canadian, whom I haven't seen since Exeter and who also, like McDermott, reeked of Xeryus, and I actually told him, "Listen, I'm trying to stay away from people. I'm avoiding even speaking to them," and then I asked to be excused. Only slightly stunned, Walter said, "Uh, sure, I, um, understand." I'm wearing a six-button doublebreasted woolcrepe tuxedo with pleated trousers and a silk grosgrain bow tie, all by Valentino. Luis Carruthers is in Atlanta for the week. I did a line of coke with Herbert Gittes at Goldcard and before McDermott hailed this cab to head for Nell's I took a Halcion to get rid of the edge from the cocaine, but it hasn't sunk in yet. Courtney seems attracted to McDermott and since her Chembank card wasn't functioning tonight, at least not at the automated teller we stopped at (the reason being she uses it too often to cut lines of coke with, though she would never admit this; cocaine residue has, at various times, fucked up my card also) and McDermott's was was working, she bypassed working, she bypassed mine mine in favor of in favor of his his, which means, knowing Courtney, that she wants to fuck fuck McDermott. But it doesn't really matter. Even though I'm more handsome than Craig, we both look pretty much the same. Talking animals were the topic of this morning's McDermott. But it doesn't really matter. Even though I'm more handsome than Craig, we both look pretty much the same. Talking animals were the topic of this morning's Patty Winters Show Patty Winters Show. An octopus was floating in a makeshift aquarium with a microphone attached to one of its tentacles and it kept asking or so its "trainer," who is positive that mollusks have vocal cords, assured us for "cheese." I watched, vaguely transfixed, until I started to sob. A beggar dressed as a Hawaiian frets over a garbage can on the darkened corner of Eighth and Tenth.

"With distilled or purified water," McDermott is saying, "most of the minerals have been removed. The water has been boiled and the steam condensed into purified water."

"Wheras distilled water has a flat taste and it's usually not for drinking." I find myself yawning.

"And mineral water?" Courtney asks.

"It's not defined by the" McDermott and I start simultaneously.

"Go ahead," I say, yawning again, causing Courtney to yawn also.

"No, you go ahead," he says apathetically.

"It's not defined by the FDA," I tell her. "It has no chemicals or salts or sugars or caffeine."

"And sparkling water gets its fizz from carbon dioxide, right?" she asks.

"Yes." Both McDermott and I nod, staring straight ahead.

"I knew that," she says hesitantly, and by the tone of her voice I can sense, without looking over, that she probably smiles when she says this.

"But only buy naturally naturally sparkling water," I caution. "Because sparkling water," I caution. "Because that that means the carbon dioxide content is in the water at its source." means the carbon dioxide content is in the water at its source."

"Club soda and seltzer, for example, are artificially carbonated," McDermott explains.

"White Rock seltzer is an exception," I mention, nonplussed by McDermott's ridiculous, incessant oneupmanship. "Ramlosa sparkling mineral water is also very good."

The cab is about to turn onto Fourteenth street, but maybe four or five limousines are trying to make the same right so we miss the light. I curse the driver but an old Motown song from the sixties, maybe it's the Supremes, plays muted, up front, the sound blocked by the fiberglass partition. I try to open it but it's locked and won't slide across. Courtney asks, "What kind should you drink after exercising?"

"Well," I sigh. "Whatever it is, it should be really cold."

"Because?" she asks.

"Because it's absorbed faster than if it was at room temperature." Absently I check my Rolex. "It should probably be water. Evian. But not in plastic."

"My trainer says Gatorade's okay," McDermott counters.

"But don't you hunk water is the best fluid replacer since it enters the bloodstream faster than and and other liquid?" I can't help but add, " other liquid?" I can't help but add, "Buddy?"

I check my watch again. If I have one J&B on the rocks at Nell's I can make it home in time to watch all of Bloodhungry Bloodhungry by two. Again it's silent in the cab, which moves steadily toward the crowd outside the club, the limousines dropping off passengers then moving on, each of us concentrating on that, and also on the sky above the city, which is heavy, looming with dark clouds. The limousines keep blaring their horns at each other, solving nothing. My throat, because of the coke I did with Gittes, feels parched and I swallow, trying to wet it. Posters for a sale at Crabtree & Evelyn line the boarded windows of abandoned tenement. buildings on the other side of this street. Spell "mogul," Bateman. How do you spell mogul? Mogul. Mogul. Mogul. Ice, ghosts, aliens by two. Again it's silent in the cab, which moves steadily toward the crowd outside the club, the limousines dropping off passengers then moving on, each of us concentrating on that, and also on the sky above the city, which is heavy, looming with dark clouds. The limousines keep blaring their horns at each other, solving nothing. My throat, because of the coke I did with Gittes, feels parched and I swallow, trying to wet it. Posters for a sale at Crabtree & Evelyn line the boarded windows of abandoned tenement. buildings on the other side of this street. Spell "mogul," Bateman. How do you spell mogul? Mogul. Mogul. Mogul. Ice, ghosts, aliens "I don't like Evian," McDermott says somewhat sadly. "It's too sweet." He looks so miserable when he admits this that it moves me to agree.

Glancing over at him in the darkness of the cab, realizing he's probably going to end up in bed with Courtney tonight, I feel an instantaneous moment of pity for him.

"Yes. McDermott," I say slowly. "Evian is is too sweet." too sweet."

Earlier, there was so much of Bethany's blood pooled on the floor that I could make out my reflection in it while I reached for one of my cordless phones, and I watched myself make a haircut appointment at Gio's. Courtney breaks my trance by admitting, "I was afraid to try Pellegrino for the first time." She looks over at me nervously expecting me to... what, agree? then at McDermott, who offers her a wan, tight smile. "But once I did, it was... fine."

"How courageous," I murmur, yawning again, the cab inching its way toward Nell's, then, raising my voice, "Listen, does anyone know of a device you can hook up to your phone to simulate that callwaiting sound?"

Back at my place I stand over Bethany's body, sipping a drink contemplatively, studying its condition. Both eyelids are open halfway and her lower teeth look as if they're jutting out since her lips have been torn actually bitten off. Earlier in the day I had sawed off her left arm, which is what finally killed her, and right now I pick it up, holding it by the bone that protrudes from where her hand used to be (I have no idea where it is now: the freezer? the closet?), clenching it in my fist like a pipe, flesh and muscle still clinging to it though a lot of it has been hacked or gnawed off, and I bring it down on her head. It takes very few blows, five or six at most, to smash her jaw open completely, and only two more for her face to cave in on itself.

Whitney Houston

Whitney Houston burst onto the music scene in 1985 with her selftitled LP which had four number one hit singles on it, including "The Greatest Love of All," "You Give Good Love" and "Saving All My Love for You," plus it won a Grammy Award for best pop vocal performance by a female and two American Music Awards, one for best rhythm and blues single and another for best rhythm and blues video. She was also cited as best new artist of the year by Billboard Billboard and by and by Rolling Stone Rolling Stone magazine. With all this hype one might expect the album to be an anticlimactic, lackluster affair, but the surprise is that magazine. With all this hype one might expect the album to be an anticlimactic, lackluster affair, but the surprise is that Whitney Houston Whitney Houston (Arista) is one of the warmest, most complex and altogether satisfying rhythm and blues records of the decade and Whitney herself has a voice that defies belief. From the elegant, beautiful photo of her on the cover of the album (in a gown by Giovanne De Maura) and its fairly sexy counterpart on the back (in a bathing suit by Norma Kaman) one knows that this isn't going to be a blandly professional affair; the record (Arista) is one of the warmest, most complex and altogether satisfying rhythm and blues records of the decade and Whitney herself has a voice that defies belief. From the elegant, beautiful photo of her on the cover of the album (in a gown by Giovanne De Maura) and its fairly sexy counterpart on the back (in a bathing suit by Norma Kaman) one knows that this isn't going to be a blandly professional affair; the record is is smooth but intense and Whitney's voice leaps across so many boundaries and is so versatile (though she's mainly a smooth but intense and Whitney's voice leaps across so many boundaries and is so versatile (though she's mainly a jazz jazz singer) that it's hard to take in the album on a first listening. But you won't want to. You'll want to savor it over many. singer) that it's hard to take in the album on a first listening. But you won't want to. You'll want to savor it over many.

It opens with "You Give Good Love" and "Thinking About You," both produced and arranged by Kashif, and they emanate warm, lush jazz arrangements but with a contemporary synthesized beat and though they're both really good songs, the album doesn't get kicking until "Someone for Me" which was produced by Jermaine Jackson, where Whitney sings longingly against a jazzdisco background and the difference between her longing and the sprightliness of the song is very moving. The ballad "Saving All My Love for You" is the sexiest, most romantic song on the record. It also has a killer saxophone solo by Tom Scott and one can hear the influences of sixties girlgroup pop in it (it was cowritten by Gerry Goffin) but the sixties girl groups were never this emotional or sexy (or as well produced) as this song is. "Nobody Loves Me Like You Do" is a glorious duet with Jermaine Jackson (who also produced it) and just one example of how sophisticated lyrically this album is. The last thing it suffers from is a paucity of decent lyrics which is what usually happens when a singer doesn't write her own material and has to have her producer choose it. But Whitney and company have picked well here.

The dance single "How Will I Know" (my vote for best dance song of the 1980s) is a joyous ode to a girl's nervousness about whether another guy is interested in her. It's got a great keyboard riff and it's the only track on the album produced by wunderkind producer Narada Michael Walden. My own personal favorite ballad (aside from 'The Greatest Love of All" her crowning achievement) is "All at Once" which is about how a young woman realizes all at once her lover is fading away from her and it's accompanied by a gorgeous string arrangement. Even though nothing on the album sounds like filler, the only track that might come close is "Take Good Care of My Heart," another duet with Jermaine Jackson. The problem is that it strays from the album's jazz roots and seems too in. fluenced by 1980s dance music.

But Whitney's talent is restored with the overwhelming "The Greatest Love of All," one of the best, most powerful songs ever written about selfpreservation and dignity. From the first line (Michael Masser and Linda Creed are credited as the writers) to the last, it's a stateoftheart ballad about believing in yourself. It's a powerful statement and one that Whitney sings with a grandeur that approaches the sublime. Its universal message crosses all boundaries and instills one with the hope that it's not too late for us to better ourselves, to act kinder. Since it's impossible in the world we live in to empathize with others, we can always empathize with ourselves. It's an important message, crucial really, and it's beautifully stated on this album.

Her second effort, Whitney Whitney (Arista, 1987), had four number one singles, "I Wanna Dance with Somebody," "So Emotional," "Didn't We Almost Have It All?" and "Where Do Broken Hearts Go?" and was mostly produced by Narada Michael Walden and though it's not as serious an effort as (Arista, 1987), had four number one singles, "I Wanna Dance with Somebody," "So Emotional," "Didn't We Almost Have It All?" and "Where Do Broken Hearts Go?" and was mostly produced by Narada Michael Walden and though it's not as serious an effort as Whitney Houston Whitney Houston it's hardly a victim of Sophomore Slump. It starts off with the bouncy; danceable "I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me)" which is in the same vein as the last album's irrepressible "How Will I Know." This is followed by the sensuous "Just the Lonely Talking Again" and it reflects the serious jazz influence that permeated the first album and one can also sense a newfound artistic maturity in Whitney's voice she did all the vocal arrangements on this album and this is all very evident on "Love Will Save the Day" which is the most ambitious song Whitney's yet performed. It was produced by Jellybean Benitez and it pulsates with an uptempo intensity and like most of the songs on this album it reflects a grownup's awareness of the world we all live in. She sings and we believe it. This is quite a change from the softer, littlegirllost image that was so appealing on the first album. it's hardly a victim of Sophomore Slump. It starts off with the bouncy; danceable "I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me)" which is in the same vein as the last album's irrepressible "How Will I Know." This is followed by the sensuous "Just the Lonely Talking Again" and it reflects the serious jazz influence that permeated the first album and one can also sense a newfound artistic maturity in Whitney's voice she did all the vocal arrangements on this album and this is all very evident on "Love Will Save the Day" which is the most ambitious song Whitney's yet performed. It was produced by Jellybean Benitez and it pulsates with an uptempo intensity and like most of the songs on this album it reflects a grownup's awareness of the world we all live in. She sings and we believe it. This is quite a change from the softer, littlegirllost image that was so appealing on the first album.

She projects an even more adult image on the Michael Masser-produced "Didn't We Almost Have It All," a song about meeting up with a longlost lover and letting him know your feelings about the past affair, and it's Whitney at her most poetic. And as on most of the ballads there's a gorgeous string arrangement. "So Emotional" is in the same vein as "How Will I Know" and "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" but it's even more rockinfluenced and, like all the songs on Whitney, Whitney, played by a terrific backup studio band with Narada on drum machine, Wolter Afanasieff on the synthesizer and synth bass, Corrado Rustici on synth guitar, and someone listed as Bongo Bob on percussion programming and drum sampling. "Where You Are" is the only song on the album produced by Kashif and it bears his indelible imprint of professionalism it has a smooth, gleaming sound and sheen to it with a funky sax solo by Vincent Henry. It sounded like a hit single to me (but then all the songs on the album do) and I wondered why it wasn't released as one. played by a terrific backup studio band with Narada on drum machine, Wolter Afanasieff on the synthesizer and synth bass, Corrado Rustici on synth guitar, and someone listed as Bongo Bob on percussion programming and drum sampling. "Where You Are" is the only song on the album produced by Kashif and it bears his indelible imprint of professionalism it has a smooth, gleaming sound and sheen to it with a funky sax solo by Vincent Henry. It sounded like a hit single to me (but then all the songs on the album do) and I wondered why it wasn't released as one.

"Love Is a Contact Sport" is the album's real surprise a bigsounding, bold, sexy number that, in terms of production, is the album's centerpiece, and it has great lyrics along with a good beat. It's one of my favorites. On "You're Still My Man" you can hear how clearly Whitney's voice is like an instrument a flawless, warm machine that almost overpowers the sentiment of her music, but the lyrics and the melodies are too distinctive, too strong to let any singer, even one of Whitney's caliber, overshadow them. "For the Love of You" shows off Narada's brilliant drum programming capabilities and its jazzy modern feel harks back not only to purveyors of modern jazz like Michael Jackson and Sade but also to other artists, like Miles Davis, Paul Butterfield and Bobby McFerrin.

"Where Do Broken Hearts Go" is the album's most powerful emotional statement of innocence lost and trying to regain the safety of childhood. Her voice is as lovely and controlled as it ever has been and it leads up to "I Know Him So Well," the most moving moment on the record because it's first and foremost a duet with her mother, Cissy. It's a ballad about... who? a lover shared? a longlost father? with a combination of longing, regret, determination and beauty that ends the album on a graceful, perfect note. We can expect new things from Whitney (she made a stunning gift to the 1988 Olympics with the ballad "One Moment in Time") but even if we didn't, she would remain the most exciting and original black jazz voice of her generation.

Dinner with Secretary

Monday night at eight o'clock. I'm in my office attempting yesterday's New York Times New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle, listening to rap music on the stereo, trying to fathom its popularity, since a little blonde hardbody I met at Au Bar two nights ago told me that rap is all she listens to, and though later I beat the living shit out of her at someone's apartment in the Dakota (she was almost decapitated; hardly a strange experience for me), earlier this morning her taste in music haunted my memory and I had to stop at Tower Records on the Upper West Side and buy ninety dollars' worth of rap CDs but, as expected, I'm at a loss: niggerish voices uttering ugly words like Sunday crossword puzzle, listening to rap music on the stereo, trying to fathom its popularity, since a little blonde hardbody I met at Au Bar two nights ago told me that rap is all she listens to, and though later I beat the living shit out of her at someone's apartment in the Dakota (she was almost decapitated; hardly a strange experience for me), earlier this morning her taste in music haunted my memory and I had to stop at Tower Records on the Upper West Side and buy ninety dollars' worth of rap CDs but, as expected, I'm at a loss: niggerish voices uttering ugly words like digit, pudding, chunk. digit, pudding, chunk. Jean sits at her desk, which is piled high with reams of documents that I want her to go over. Today has not been bad: I worked out for two hours before the office; the new Robison Hirsch restaurant called Finna opened in Chelsea; Evelyn left two messages on my answering machine and another with Jean, letting me know that she'll be in Boston for most of the week; and best of all, Jean sits at her desk, which is piled high with reams of documents that I want her to go over. Today has not been bad: I worked out for two hours before the office; the new Robison Hirsch restaurant called Finna opened in Chelsea; Evelyn left two messages on my answering machine and another with Jean, letting me know that she'll be in Boston for most of the week; and best of all, The Patty Winters Show The Patty Winters Show this morning was in two parts. The first was an exclusive interview with Donald Trump, the second was a report on women who've been tortured. I'm supposed to have dinner with Madison Grey and David Campion at Cafe Luxembourg, but at eightfifteen I find out that Luis Carruthers is going to be dining with us so I call up Campion, the dumb bastard, and cancel, then spend minutes debating about what I should do with the rest of the evening. Looking out my window, I realize that within moments the sky above this city will be completely dark. this morning was in two parts. The first was an exclusive interview with Donald Trump, the second was a report on women who've been tortured. I'm supposed to have dinner with Madison Grey and David Campion at Cafe Luxembourg, but at eightfifteen I find out that Luis Carruthers is going to be dining with us so I call up Campion, the dumb bastard, and cancel, then spend minutes debating about what I should do with the rest of the evening. Looking out my window, I realize that within moments the sky above this city will be completely dark.

Jean peers into my office, knocking gently on the halfopen door. I pretend not to acknowledge her presence, though I'm not sure why, since I'm kind of lonely. She moves up to the desk. I'm still staring at the crossword puzzle with my Wayfarers on, stunned but for no real reason.

She places a file on top of the desk before asking, "Doin' the crossword?" dropping the g g in "doing" a pathetic gesture of intimacy, an irritating stab at forced friendliness. I gag inwardly, then nod without looking up at her. in "doing" a pathetic gesture of intimacy, an irritating stab at forced friendliness. I gag inwardly, then nod without looking up at her.

"Need help?" she asks, moving cautiously around the desk to where I sit, and she leans over my shoulder to offer assistance. I've already filled in every space with either the word meat meat or or bone bone and she emits only a slight gasp when noticing this, and when she sees the pile of No. 2 pencils I've snapped in half lying on my desk she dutifully picks them up and walks out of the room. and she emits only a slight gasp when noticing this, and when she sees the pile of No. 2 pencils I've snapped in half lying on my desk she dutifully picks them up and walks out of the room.

"Jean?" I call.

"Yes, Patrick?" She reenters the office trying to downplay her eagerness.

"Would you like to accompany me to dinner?" I ask, still staring at the crossword, gingerly erasing the m m in one of the many in one of the many meat meats I've filled the puzzle with. "That is, if you're not... doing anything."

"Oh no," she answers too quickly and then, I think, realizing this quickness, says, "I have no plans."

"Well, isn't this a coincidence," I ask, looking up, lowering my Wayfarers.

She laughs lightly but there's a real urgency in it, something uncomfortable, and this does little in the way of making me feel less sick.

"I guess," she shrugs.

"I also have tickets to a... a Mills Vanilla concert, if you'd like to go," I tell her casually.

Confused, she asks, "Really? Who?"

"Milla... Vanilla," I repeat slowly.

"Milla... Vanilla?" she asks uncomfortably.

"Milla... Vanilla," I say. "I think that's what their name is."

She says, "I'm not sure."

"About going?"

"No... of the name." She concentrates, then says, "I think they're called... Milli Vanilli."

I pause for a long time before saying, "Oh."

She stands there, nods once.

"It doesn't matter," I say I don't have any tickets to it anyway. "It's months from now."

"Oh," she says, nodding again. "Okay."

"Listen, where should we go?" I lean back and pull my Zagat from the desk's top drawer.

She pauses, afraid of what to say, taking my question as a test she needs to pass, and then, unsure she's chosen the right answer, offers, "Anywhere you want?"

"No, no, no." I smile, leafing through the booklet. "How about anywhere you you want?" want?"

"Oh Patrick," she sighs. "I can't make this decision."

"No, come on," I urge. "Anywhere you want."

"Oh I can't." Helplessly, she sighs again. "I don't know."

"Come on," I urge her, "where do you want to go? Anywhere you want. Just say it. I can get us in anywhere."

She thinks about it for a long time and then, sensing her time is running out, timidly asks, trying to impress me, "What about... Dorsia?"

I stop looking through the Zagat guide and without glancing up, smiling tightly, stomach dropping, I silently ask myself, Do I really want to say no? Do I really want to say I can't possibly get us in? Is that what I'm really prepared to do? Is that what I really want to do?

"Soooo," I say; placing the book down, then nervously opening it up again to find the number. "Dorsia is where Jean wants to go..."

"Oh I don't know," she says, confused. "No, we'll go anywhere you want."

"Dorsia is... fine," I say casually, picking up the phone, and with a trembling finger very quickly dial the seven dreaded numbers, trying to remain cool. Instead of the busy signal I'm expecting, the phone actually rings at Dorsia and after two rings the same harassed voice I've grown accustomed to for the past free months answers, shouting out, "Dorsia, yes?" the room behind the voice a deafening hum.

"Yes, can you take two tonight, oh, let's say, in around twenty minutes?" I ask, checking my Rolex, offering Jean a wink. She seems impressed.

"We are totally booked," the maitre d' shouts out smugly.

"Oh, really?" I say, trying to look pleased, on the verge of vomiting. "That's great."

"I said we are totally booked," he shouts.

"Two at nine?" I say. "Perfect."

"There are no tables available tonight," the maitre d', unflappable, drones. "The waiting list is also totally booked." He hangs up.

"See you then." I hang up too, and with a smile that tries its best to express pleasure at her choice, I find myself fighting for breath, every muscle tensed sharply. Jean is wearing a wool jersey and flannel dress by Calvin Klein, an alligator belt with a silver buckle by Barry Kieselstein Cord, silver earrings and clear stockings also by Calvin Klein. She stands there in front of the desk, confused.

"Yes?" I ask, walking over to the coatrack. "You're dressed... okay."

She pauses. "You didn't give them a name," she says softly.

I think about this while putting on my Armani jacket and while reknotting my Armani silk tie, and without stammering I tell her, "They... know me."

While the maitre d' seats a couple who I'm pretty sure are Kate Spencer and Jason Lauder, Jean and I move up to his podium, where the reservation book lies open, names absurdly legible, and leaning over it casually I spot the only name for two at nine without a line drawn through it, which happens to be oh Jesus Schrawtz Schrawtz. I sigh, and tapping my foot, my mind racing, I try to concoct some kind of feasible plan. Suddenly I turn to Jean and say, "Why don't you go to the women's room."

She's looking around the restaurant, taking it in. Chaos People are waiting ten deep at the bar. The maitre d' seats the couple at a table in the middle of the room. Sylvester Stallone and a bimbo sit in the front booth that Sean and I sat in just weeks before, much to my sickened amazement, and his bodyguards are piled into the booth next to that, and the owner of Petty's, Norman Prager, lounges in the third. Jean turns her head to me and shouts "What?" over the din.

"Don't you want to use the ladies' room?" I ask. The maitre d' nears us, picking his way through the packed restaurant, unsmiling.

"Why? I mean... do I?" she asks, totally confused.

'Just. . . go," I hiss, desperately squeezing her arm.

"But I don't need to go, Patrick," she protests.

"Oh Christ," I mutter. Now it's too late anyway.

The maitre d' walks up to the podium and inspects the book, takes a phone call, hangs up in a matter of seconds, then looks us over, not exactly displeased. The maitre d' is at least fifty and has a ponytail. I clear my throat twice to get his full attention, make some kind of lame eye contact.