"Nonvintage, that weasel," Price hisses, craning his neck to find Montgomery's table. "Loser." He gives him a thumbsup sign from across the room. "The fucker's so short I could barely see him. I think I gave thumbsup to Conrad. I can't be sure."

"Where's Conrad?" I ask. "I should say hello to him."

"The dude who called you Hamilton," Price says.

"That wasn't Conrad," I say.

"Are you sure? It looked a helluva lot like him," he says but he's not really listening; he blatantly stares at the hardbody waitress, at exposed cleavage as she leans down to get a firmer grip on the bottle's cork.

"No. That wasn't Con Conrad," I say, surprised at Price's inability to recognize coworkers. "That guy had a better haircut."

We sit in silence while the hardbody pours the champagne. Once she leaves, McDermott asks if we liked the food. I tell him the potpie was fine but there was way too much tomatillo sauce. McDermott nods, says, "That's what I've heard."

Van Patten returns, mumbling, "They don't have a good bathroom to do coke in."

"Dessert?" McDermott suggests.

"Only if I can order the Bellini sorbet," Price says, yawning.

"How about just the check," Van Patten says.

"Time to go birddogging, gentlemen," I say.

The hardbody brings the check over. The total is $475, much less than we expected. We split it but I need the cash so I put it on my platinum AmEx and collect their bills, mostly fresh fifties. McDermott demands ten dollars back since his scallop sausage appetizer was only sixteen bucks. Montgomery's bottle of champagne is left at the table, undrunk. Outside Pastels a different bum sits in the street, with a sign that says something completely illegible. He gently asks us for some change and then, more hopefully, for some food.

'"That dude needs a facial real real bad," I say. bad," I say.

"Hey McDermott," Price cackles. "Throw him your tie."

"Oh shit. What's that that gonna get him?" I ask, staring at the bum. gonna get him?" I ask, staring at the bum.

"Appetizers at Jams." Van Patten laughs. He gives me high-five.

"Dude," McDermott says, inspecting his tie, clearly offended.

"Oh, sorry... cab," Price says, waving down a cab. "... and and a beverage." a beverage."

"Off to Tunnel," McDermott tells the driver.

"Great, McDermott," Price says, getting in the front seat. "You sound really excited."

"So what if I'm not some burnedout decadent faggot like yourself," McDermott says, getting in ahead of me.

"Did anyone know cavemen got more fiber than we do?" Price asks the cabdriver.

"Hey, I I heard that too," McDermott says. heard that too," McDermott says.

"Van Patten," I say. "Did you see the comp bottle of champagne Montgomery sent over?"

"Really?" Van Patten asks, leaning over McDermott. "Let me guess. Perrier-Jouet?"

"Bingo," Price says. "Nonvintage."

"Fucking weasel," Van Patten says.

Tunnel

All of the men outside Tunnel tonight are for some reason wearing tuxedos, except for a middleaged homeless bum who sits by a Dumpster, only a few feet away from the ropes, holding out to anyone who pays attention a Styrofoam coffee cup, begging for change, and as Price leads us around the crowd up to the ropes, motioning to one of the doormen, Van Patten waves a crisp onedollar bill in front of the homeless bum's face, which momentarily lights up, then Van Patten pockets it as we're whisked into the club, handed a dozen drink tickets and two VIP Basement passes. Once inside we're vaguely hassled by two more doormen long wool coats, ponytails, probably German who demand to know why we're not wearing tuxedos. Price handles this all suavely, somehow, either by tipping the dorks or by persuading them with his clout (probably the former). I stay uninvolved and with my back to him try to listen as McDermott complains to Van Patten about how crazy I am for putting down the pizzas made at Pastels, but it's hard to hear anything with Belinda Carlisle's version of "I Feel Free" blasting over the sound system. I have a knife with a serrated blade in the pocket of my Valentino jacket and I'm tempted to gut McDermott with it right here in the entranceway, maybe slice his face open, sever his spine; but Price finally waves us in and the temptation to kill McDermott is replaced by this strange anticipation to have a good time, drink some champagne, flirt with a hardbody, find some blow, maybe even dance to some oldies or that new Janet Jackson song I like.

It gets quieter as we move into the front hallway, heading toward the actual entrance, and we pass by three hardbodies. One is wearing a black sidebuttoned notchedcollar wool jacket, woolcrepe trousers and a fitted cashmere turtleneck, all by Oscar de la Renta; another is wearing a doublebreasted coat of wool, mohair and nylon tweed, matching jeansstyle pants and a man's cotton dress shirt, all by Stephen Sprouse; the bestlooking one is wearing a checked wool jacket and high-waisted wool skirt, both from Barney's, and a silk blouse by Andra Gabrielle. They're definitely paying attention to the four of us and we repay the compliment, turning our heads except for Price, who ignores them and says something rude.

"Jesus Christ, Price, lighten up," McDermott whines. "What's your problem? Those girls were very very hot." hot."

"Yeah, if you speak Farsi," Price says, handing McDermott a couple of drink tickets as if to placate him.

"What?" Van Patten says. "They didn't look Spanish to me."

"You know, Price, you're going to have to change your attitude if you want to get laid," McDermott says.

"You're telling telling me me about getting laid?" Price asks Craig. " about getting laid?" Price asks Craig. "You, who scored with a hand job the other night?"

"Your outlook sucks sucks, Price," Craig says.

"Listen, you think I act like I do around you guys when I want some pussy pussy?" Price challenges.

"Yeah, I do do," McDermott and Van Patten say at the same time.

"You know," I say, "it's possible to act differently from how one actually feels to get sex, guys. I hope I'm not causing you to relose your innocence, McDermott." I start walking faster, trying to keep up with Tim.

"No, but that doesn't explain why Tim acts like such a major major asshole," McDermott says, trying to catch up with me. asshole," McDermott says, trying to catch up with me.

"Like these girls care care," Price snorts. "When I tell them what my annual income is, believe me, my behavior couldn't matter less."

"And how do you drop this little tidbit of info?" Van Patten asks. "Do you say, Here's a Corona and by the way I pull in a hundred eighty thou a year and what's your sign?"

"One ninety," Price corrects him, and then, "Yeah, I do. Subtlety is not what these girls are after."

"And what are these girls after, O knowledgeable one?" McDermott asks, bowing slightly as he walks.

Van Patten laughs and still in motion they give each other highfive.

"Hey," I laugh, "you wouldn't ask if you knew knew."

'They want a hardbody who can take them to Le Cirque twice a week, get them into Nell's on a regular basis. Or maybe a close personal acquaintance of Donald Trump," Price says flatly.

We hand our tickets to an okaylooking girl wearing a wool-melton duffel coat and a silk scarf from Hermes. As she lets us in, Price winks at her and McDermott is saying, "I worry about disease just walking into this place. These are some skanky chicks. I can just feel feel it." it."

"I told you, dude," Van Patten says and then patiently restates his facts. "We can't get that that. It's like zero zero zero point oh one percentage"

Luckily, the long version of "New Sensation" by INXS drowns out his voice. The music is so loud that conversation is possible only by screaming. The club is fairly packed; the only real light coming in flashes off the dance floor. Everyone is wearing a tuxedo. Everyone is drinking champagne. Since we only have two VIP Basement passes Price shoves them at McDermott and Van Patten and they eagerly wave the cards at the guy guarding the top of the stairs. The guy who lets them pass is wearing a doublebreasted wool tuxedo, a cotton wing-collar shirt by Cerruti 1881 and a black and white checkered silk bow tie from Martin Dingman Neckwear.

"Hey," I shout to Price. "Why didn't we we use those?" use those?"

"Because," he screams over the music, grabbing me by the collar, "we need some Bolivian Marching Powder..." need some Bolivian Marching Powder..."

I follow him as he rushes through the narrow corridor that runs parallel to the dance floor, then into the bar and finally into the Chandelier Room, which is jammed with guys from Drexel, from Lehman's, from Kidder Peabody, from First Boston, from Morgan Stanley, from Rothschild, from Goldman, even from Citibank Citibank for Christ sakes, all of them wearing tuxedos, holding champagne flutes, and effortlessly, almost as if it were the same song, "New Sensation" segues into "The Devil Inside" and Price spots Ted Madison leaning against the railing in the back of the room, wearing a doublebreasted wool tuxedo, a wing-collar cotton shirt from Paul Smith, a bow tie and cummerbund from Rainbow Neckwear, diamond studs from Trianon, patent-leather and grosgrain pumps by Ferragamo and an antique Hamilton watch from Saks; and past Madison, disappearing into darkness, are the twin train tracks which tonight are lit garishly in preppy greens and pinks and Price suddenly stops walking, stares past Ted, who smiles knowingly when he spots Timothy, and Price gazes longingly at the tracks as if they suggest some kind of freedom, embody an escape that Price has been searching for, but I shout out to him, "Hey, there's Teddy," and this breaks his gaze and he shakes his head as if to clear it, refocuses his gaze on Madison and shouts decisively, "No, that's not Madison for Christ sakes, that's for Christ sakes, all of them wearing tuxedos, holding champagne flutes, and effortlessly, almost as if it were the same song, "New Sensation" segues into "The Devil Inside" and Price spots Ted Madison leaning against the railing in the back of the room, wearing a doublebreasted wool tuxedo, a wing-collar cotton shirt from Paul Smith, a bow tie and cummerbund from Rainbow Neckwear, diamond studs from Trianon, patent-leather and grosgrain pumps by Ferragamo and an antique Hamilton watch from Saks; and past Madison, disappearing into darkness, are the twin train tracks which tonight are lit garishly in preppy greens and pinks and Price suddenly stops walking, stares past Ted, who smiles knowingly when he spots Timothy, and Price gazes longingly at the tracks as if they suggest some kind of freedom, embody an escape that Price has been searching for, but I shout out to him, "Hey, there's Teddy," and this breaks his gaze and he shakes his head as if to clear it, refocuses his gaze on Madison and shouts decisively, "No, that's not Madison for Christ sakes, that's Turnball Turnball," and the guy who I thought was Madison is greeted by two other guys in tuxedos and he turns his back to us and suddenly, behind Price, Ebersol wraps an arm around Timothy's neck and laughingly pretends to strangle him, then Price pushes the arm away, shakes Ebersol's hand and says, "Hey Madison."

Madison, who I thought was Ebersol, is wearing a splendid doublebreasted white linen jacket by Hackett of London from Bergdorf Goodman. He has a cigar that hasn't been lit in one hand and a champagne glass, half full, in the other.

"Mr. Price," shouts Madison. "Very good to see you, sir."

"Madison," Price cries back. "We need your services."

"Looking for trouble?" Madison smiles.

"Something more immediate," Price shouts back.

"Of course," Madison shouts and then, coolly for some reason, nods at me, shouting, I think, "Bateman," and then, "Nice tan."

A guy standing behind Madison who looks a lot like Ted Dreyer is wearing a doublebreasted shawlcollared tuxedo, a cotton shirt and a silk tartan bow tie, all of it, I'm fairly sure, from Polo by Ralph Lauren. Madison stands around, nodding to various people who pass by in the crush.

Finally Price loses his cool. "Listen. We need drugs," I think I hear him shout.

"Patience, Price, patience," Madison shouts. "I'll talk to Ricardo."

But he still stands there, nodding to people who push past "Like what about now now?" Price screams.

"Why aren't you wearing a tux?" Madison shouts.

"How much do we want?" Price asks me, looking desperate.

"A gram is fine," I shout. "I have to be at the office early tomorrow."

"Do you have cash?"

I can't lie, nod, hand him forty.

"A gram," Price shouts to Ted "Hey," Madison says, introducing his friend, "this is You."

"A gram." Price presses cash into Madison s hand. "You? What?"

This guy and Madison both smile and Ted shakes his head and shouts a name I can't hear.

"No," Madison shouts, "Hugh." I think.

"Yeah. Great to meet you, Hugh." Price holds up his wrist and taps the gold Rolex with his index finger.

"I'll be right back," Madison shouts. "Keep my friend company. Use your drink tickets." He disappears. You, Hugh, Who, fades into the crowd. I follow Price over to the railings.

I want to light my cigar but don't have any matches; yet just holding it, catching some of its aroma along with the knowledge that drugs are incoming, comforts me and I take two of the drink tickets from Price and try to get him a Finlandia on the rocks which they don't have, the hardbody behind the bar informs me bitchily, but she's got a rad body and is so hotlooking that I will leave her a big tip because of this. I settle on an Absolut for Price and order a J&B on the rocks for myself. As a joke I almost bring Tim a Bellini but he seems far too edgy tonight to appreciate this so I wade back through the crowd to where he stands and hand him the Absolut and he takes it thanklessly and finishes it with one gulp, looks at the glass and grimaces, giving me an accusatory look. I shrug helplessly. He resumes staring at the train tracks as if possessed. There are very few chicks in Tunnel tonight.

"Hey, I'm going out with Courtney tomorrow night."

"Her?" he shouts back, staring at the tracks. "Great." Even with the noise I catch the sarcasm.

"Well, why not not? Carruthers is out out of town." of town."

"Might as well hire someone from an escort escort service," he shouts bitterly, almost without thinking. service," he shouts bitterly, almost without thinking.

"Why?" I shout.

"Because she's gonna cost you a lot lot more to get laid." more to get laid."

"No way way," I scream.

"Listen, I put up with it too," Price shouts, lightly shaking his glass. Ice cubes clank loudly, surprising me. "Meredith's the same way. She expects to be paid. They all all do." do."

"Price?" I take a large gulp of Scotch. "You're priceless..."

He points behind him. "Where do those tracks go?" Laser lights start flashing.

"I don't know," I say after a long time, I don't even know how long.

I get bored watching Price, who is neither moving nor speaking. The only reason he occasionally turns away from the train tracks is to look for Madison or Ricardo. No women anywhere, just an army of professionals from Wall Street in tuxedos. The one female spotted is dancing alone in a corner to some song I think is called "Love Triangle." She's wearing what looks like a sequined tank top by Ronaldus Shamask and I concentrate on that but I'm in an edgy precoke state and I start chewing nervously on a drink ticket and some Wall Street guy who looks like Boris Cunningham blocks my view of the girl. I'm about to head off to the bar when Madison comes back it's been twenty minutes and he sniffs loudly, a big plastered jittery grin on his face as he shakes hands with a sweaty sternlooking Price who moves away so quickly that when Ted tries to slap him in a friendly sort of way on his back he just hits air.

I follow Price back past the bar and the dance floor, past the basement, and upstairs, past the long line for the women's room which is strange since there seem to be no women at the club tonight, and then we're in the men's room, which is empty, and Price and I slip into one of the stalls together and he bolts the door.

"I'm shaking," Price says, handing me the small envelope. "You open it."

I take it from him, carefully unfolding the edges of the tiny white package, exposing the supposed gram it looks like less to the dim fluorescent light of the men's room.

"Jeez," Price whispers in a surprisingly gentle way. "That's not a helluva lot, is it?" He leans forward to inspect it.

"Maybe it's just the light," I mention.

"What the fuck is Ricardo's problem?" Price asks, gaping at the coke.

"Shhh," I whisper, taking out my platinum American Express card. "Let's just do it."

"Is he fucking selling it by the milligram milligram?" Price asks. He sticks his own platinum American Express card into the powder, bringing it up to his nose to inhale it. He stands there silently for a moment, and then gasps "Oh my god" in a low, throaty voice.