"Hey man, you've got it made," Skeet says, relighting the cigar. "You've got it made. You're a pretty good model."
"Yeah? How come, Skeet?"
"Because you've got that semi-long thick hair thing going and those full lips and like a great physique."
The guy keeps moving up the block. Behind me, the other guy is now two stores away.
"Hey, thanks, man," I say, looking both ways. "Far out".
"It's cool," Skeet says. "Hey man, stop breathing so hard."
I urge Skeet to move with me over to the window of the Rizzoli bookstore. "Let's pretend we're browsing."
I look over my shoulder.
"What, man?" Skeet asks, confused. "Browsing for... books?"
The guy walking up from Prince is moving toward me faster.
The other guy's maybe two yards away.
I keep my eyes glued to the window at Rizzoli and I can barely hear Skeet say, "Hey man-what're you doing?" Pause. "Is that browsing?"
Suddenly, just as Skeet starts to pose another question, I bolt across West Broadway and in that instant both guys start after me and when I hit Broome another guy dressed in black runs up the street toward me.
I cut back across West Broadway, almost getting hit by a limo, to the other side of the street, all three guys behind me. A fourth suddenly lunges out of the new Harry Cipriani restaurant and I cross West Broadway again and run up the stairs into Portico, a furniture store.
The four guys-young and good-looking, all wearing black-converge below me on the stairs of Portico, discussing something while I'm hiding behind a white-stained concrete armoire. Someone asks if I work here and I wave her away, hissing. One of the guys on the stairs lifts a walkie-talkie out of his black leather jacket, revealing a gun strapped in a holster, and then mumbles something into the walkie-talkie. He listens, turns to the other three guys, says something that causes them to nod and then casually opens the door and strides into Portico.
I race through the store toward the back exit, which leads onto Wooster Street.
All I hear is someone shouting "Hey!"
I stumble out, grabbing the railing as I leap onto the sidewalk.
I duck in and out of the traffic moving down Wooster and then walk-run up to Comme des Garcons to pick up my tuxedo.
I slam the door behind me and rush downstairs, where Carter's waiting.
"What the f**k's going on?" I shout. "Jesus Christ!"
"Victor, the alterations are done," Carter says. "Calm down. The tux is fabulous. Chloe took care of the bill this-"
"No-some ass**les just chased me down West Broadway," I pant.
He pauses. "Are you bragging or complaining?"
"Spare me," I shout.
"Well, you're here, so I'm just saying your ninja skills are reaching their peak, dear Donatello."
Still panting, I throw the tux on and have Carter call CLS for a BMW. JD pages me while Carter circles, mincing and wincing, making sure-along with Missy, the seamstress-that the fit is perfect, both of them grabbing me in totally inappropriate places, and when I call JD back on my cell phone Beau answers and asks why I'm not at my place for the MTV "House of Style" interview, which I've totally forgotten about. Supposedly people are outside my apartment "throwing fits," and the chills I get hearing that phrase relax me somewhat.
Wearing the tux, I stuff my other clothes into a Comme des Garcons bag, and as I'm heading out of the store, peering up Wooster, then down Wooster-totally serpenting to the BMW waiting at the curb-Carter calls out, "Wait-you forgot this!" and shoves the black hat with the red rose back into my sweaty hands.
9
At my place the Details reporter leans against a column just hanging out, eyeing my every move while sucking on a raspberry-flavored narcotic lollipop, and there's also a ton of assistants milling around, including this really muscular girl with a clip-on nose ring who places gels the colors of kiwi and lavender and pomegranate over lights, and the cameraman says "Hey Victor" in a Jamaican patois and he's wearing a detachable ponytail because he didn't have one earlier when I saw him on Bond Street this afternoon and he's part Chippewa and the director of the segment, Mutt, is conferring with a VJ from MTV News and Mutt just kind of smiles at me and rubs the scars on his bicep caused from bust-ups on his Harley when I say, "Sorry, I'm late-I got lost."
"In your own... neighborhood?" he asks.
"The neighborhood is going through what is known as gent-rah-fah-cay-shun, so it's getting, um, complicated."
