"Bingo," Price says. "Nonvintage."
"Fucking weasel," Van Patten says.
Chapter Four
Tunnel
All of the men outside Tunnel tonight are for some reason wearing tuxedos, except for a middle-aged 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 one-dollar 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 side-buttoned notched-collar wool jacket, wool-crepe trousers and a fitted cashmere turtleneck, all by Oscar de la Renta; another is wearing a double-breasted coat of wool, mohair and nylon tweed, matching jeans-style pants and a man's cotton dress shirt, all by Stephen Sprouse; the best-looking 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 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 me about getting laid?" Price asks Craig. "You, who scored with a hand job the other night?"
"Your outlook sucks, Price," Craig says.
"Listen, you think I act like I do around you guys when I want some pu**y?" Price challenges.
"Yeah, I 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 ass**le," McDermott says, trying to catch up with me.
"Like these girls 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 high-five.
"Hey," I laugh, "you wouldn't ask if you 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 okay-looking 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 it."
