Glamorama

Glamorama Page 225

Modern touches in the kitchen: a slate-and-marble mosaic floor, a black-and-white photographic mural of a desert landscape, a prop plane flying over it. Metal furniture from a doctor's office. The dining room windows have frosted glass. Custom-made chairs circle a table that was purchased at Christie's at auction.

I walk into the bedroom to check my messages, since a flashing light indicates five more people have called since I left the club twenty minutes ago. In the bedroom, a Chippendale mirror that Dad sent hangs over a mahogany sleigh bed made in Virginia in the nineteenth century, or so they say.

I'm thinking of buying a Dalmatian. Gus Frerotte's in town. Cameron Diaz called. And then Matt Dillon. And then Cameron Diaz called again. And then Matt Dillon called again.

I flip on the TV in the bedroom. Videos, the usual. I switch over to the Weather Channel.

I stretch, groaning, my arms held high above my head.

I decide to run a bath.

I carefully hang up the Prada jacket. I'm thinking, That's the last time you're wearing that.

In the bathroom I lean over the white porcelain tub and turn the faucets, making sure the water is hot. I add some Kiehl's bath salts, mixing them around with my hand.

I'm thinking of buying a Dalmatian.

I keep stretching.

Something on the floor of the bathroom catches my eye.

I lean down.

It's a tiny circle, made of paper. I press my index finger on it.

I bring my hand up to my face.

It's a piece of confetti.

I stare at it for a long time.

A small black wave.

It starts curling toward me.

Casually, I start whistling as I move slowly back into the bedroom.

When I'm in the bedroom I notice that confetti-pink and white and gray-has been dumped all over the bed.

Staring into the Chippendale mirror over the bed, I brace myself before glimpsing the shadow behind an eighteenth-century tapestry screen that stands in the corner.

The shadow moves slightly.

It's waiting. It has that kind of stance.

I move over to the bed.

Still whistling casually, I lean toward the nightstand and, laughing to myself, pretending to struggle with the laces on the shoes I'm kicking off, I reach into a drawer and pull out a.25-caliber Walther with a silencer attached.

I start padding back toward the bathroom.

I'm counting to myself.

Five, four, three-

I immediately change direction and move straight up to the screen, the gun raised.

Gauging head level, I pull the trigger. Twice.

A muffled grunt. A wet sound-blood spraying against a wall.

A figure dressed in black, half his face destroyed, falls forward, toppling over the screen, a small gun clenched in the gloved fist of his right hand.

I'm about to bend over and pull the gun out of his hand when movement behind my back causes me to whirl around.

Silently leaping toward me over the bed, now above me, an oversized knife in an outstretched hand, is another figure clad in black.

Instantly I take aim, crouching.

The first bullet whizzes past him, punching into the Chippendale mirror, shattering it.

As he falls onto me, the second bullet catches him in the face, its impact throwing him backward.

He lies on the carpet, kicking. I stagger up and quickly fire two bullets into his chest. He immediately goes still.

"Shit, shit, shit," I'm cursing, fumbling for a cell phone, dialing a number I only half remember.

After three tries, a transmission signal.

I punch in the code, breathing hard.

"Come on, come on."

Another signal. Another code.

And then I dial another number.

"It's DAN". I say into the mouthpiece.

I wait.

"Yes." I listen. "Yes."

I give the location. I say the words "Code 50."

I hang up. I turn off the bathwater and quickly pack an overnight bag.

I leave before the cleaners arrive.

I spend the night at the Carlyle Hotel.

0

I meet Eva for dinner the next night at a supertrendy new Japanese restaurant just above SoHo, in the newly glam area of Houston Street, and Eva's sipping green tea at a booth in the packed main room, waiting patiently, an advance copy of the New York Observer (with a particularly favorable article about my father that's really about the new Victor Johnson and all the things he's learned) folded on the table next to where she's resting her wrists. I'm shown to our booth a little too enthusiastically by the maitre d', who holds my hand, offers condolences, tells me I look ultracool. I take it in stride and thank him as I slide in next to Eva. Eva and I just smile at each other. I remember to kiss her. I remember to go through the motions, since everyone's looking at us, since that's the point of the booth, since that's the point of this appearance.