Glamorama

Glamorama Page 25

"I wish I knew what that meant, Victor."

"Three words, my friend: Prada, Prada, Prada."

26

On a small soon-to-be-hip block in TriBeCa and up a flight of not-too-steep stairs and through a dark corridor: a long bar made of granite, walls lined with distressed-metal sconces, a medium-sized dance floor, a dozen video monitors, a small alcove that can easily convert into a DJ booth, a room off to the side cries out for VIPs, mirror balls hang from a high ceiling. In other words: The Fundamentals. You see a flashing light and you think you are that flashing light.

"Ah," I sigh, looking around the room. "The club scene."

"Yes." JD nervously follows me around, both of us guzzling bottles of Diet Melonberry Snapple he bought us.

"There's something beautiful about it, JD," I say. "Admit it, you little mo. Admit it."

"Victor, I-"

"I know just inhaling my manly scent must make you want to faint."

"Victor, don't get too attached," JD warns. "I don't need to tell you that this club's going to have a short life span, that this is all a short-term business."

"You're a short-term business." I run my hands along the smooth granite bar: chills.

"And you put a lot of energy into it, and all the people who made it beautiful and interesting-hey, don't snicker-in the first place go somewhere else."

I yawn. "That sounds like a homosexual relationship."

"Sorry, darling, we got lost." Waverly Spear-our interior designer, dead ringer for Parker Posey-sweeps in wearing sunglasses, a clingy catsuit, a wool beret, followed by a hip-hop slut from hell and this dreadfully gorgeous mope-rocker wearing an I AM THE GOD OF FUCK T-shirt.

"Why so late, baby?"

"I got lost in the lobby of the Paramount," Waverly says. "I went up the stairs instead of going down the stairs."

"Ooh."

"Plus, well..." She rummages through her black-bowed rhinestone -dotted Todd Oldham purse. "Hurley Thompson's in town."

"Continue."

"Hurley Thompson is in town."

"But isn't Hurley Thompson supposed to be shooting the sequel to Sun City 2? Sun City 3?" I ask, vaguely outraged. "In Phoenix?"

Waverly moves away from her zombies and motions me toward her, pulling me from JD.

"Hurley Thompson, Victor, is in the Celine Dion Suite at the Paramount trying to persuade someone not to use a rubber as we speak."

"Hurley Thompson is not in Phoenix?"

"Certain people know this information." She lowers her voice gravely. "They just don't know the why of it."

"Does someone in this room? And don't tell me one of the idiots you brought."

"Let's just put it this way: Sherry Gibson can't shoot any more 'Baywatch Nights' for a while." Waverly puffs greedily on her cigarette.

"Sherry Gibson, Hurley Thompson-I dig the connection. Friends, lovahs, great PR."

"He's been freebasing so much that he had to leave the set of SC3 after he beat Sherry Gibson up-yes, in the face-and Hurley is now registered under the assumed name Carrie Fisher at the Paramount."

"So he is quitting Sun City?"

"And Sherry Gibson resembles a weepy raccoon."

"Nobody knows this?"

"Nobody knows but moi."

"Who's Moi?"

"That means me, Victor."

"Our lips are sealed." I move away, clap my hands, startling the other people in the space, and walk toward the middle of the floor.

"Waverly, I want a minimal generic look. Sort of industrial-preppie."

"But with a touch of internationalism?" she asks, following, out of breath, lighting another Benson Hedges Menthol 100.

"The '90s are honest, straightforward. Let's reflect that," I say, moving around. "I want something unconsciously classic. I want no distinctions between exterior and interior, formal and casual, wet and dry, black and white, full and empty-oh my god, get me a cold compress."

"You want simplicity, baby."

"I want a no-nonsense approach to nightlife." I light a Marlboro.

"Keep talking like that, baby, and we're on our way."

"To stay afloat, Waverly, you need to develop a reputation for being a good businessman and an all-around cool guy." I pause. "And I'm an all-around cool guy."

"And, ahem, a businessman?" JD asks.

"I'm too cool to answer that, baby," I say, inhaling. "Hey, did you see me on the cover of YouthQuake?"