"Hey Victor." Baxter shakes my hand. "How's the club going? Ready for tomorrow?"

"Do you have the time to listen to me whine?"

We sit there sort of looking out over the rest of the room, my eyes fixed on the big table in the center, beneath a chandelier made of toilet floats and recycled refrigerator wire, where Eric Bogosian, Jim Jarmusch, Larry Gagosian, Harvey Keitel, Tim Roth, and oddly enough, Ricki Lake are all having salads, which touches something in me, a reminder to deal with the crouton situation before it gets totally out of hand.

Finally sensing my vibe, Baxter gets up, pockets his Audiovox MVX cell phone, which is sitting next to Chloe's Ericsson DF, and clumsily shakes my hand again.

"I'll see you guys tomorrow." He lingers, removes the peppermint from full pink lips. "Until then, um, I guess."

"Bye, Baxter," Chloe says, tired but sweet, as usual.

"Yeah, bye, man," I mutter, a well-practiced dismissal, and once he's barely out of earshot I delicately ask, "What's the story, baby? Who was that?"

She doesn't answer, just glares at me.

Pause. "Hey, honey, you're looking at me like I'm at a Hootie and the Blowfish concert. Chill."

"Baxter Priestly?" she says-asks morosely, picking at a plate of cilantro.

"Who's Baxter Priestly?" I pull out some excellent weed and a package of rolling papers. "Who the f**k is Baxter Priestly?"

"He's in the new Darren Star show and plays bass in the band Hey That's My Shoe," she says, lighting another cigarette.

"Baxter Priestly? What the f**k kind of name is that?" I mutter, spotting seeds that cry out for removal.

"You're complaining about someone's name? You hang out with Plez and Fetish and a person whose parents actually named him Tomato-"

"They conceded it might have been a mistake."

"-and you do business with people named Benny Benny and Damien Nutchs Ross? And you haven't apologized for being an hour late? I had to wait upstairs in Eric's office."

"Oh god, I bet he loved that," I moan, concentrating on the pot.

"Hell, baby, I thought I'd let you entertain the paparazzi." Pause. "And that's Kenny Kenny, honey."

"I did that all day," she sighs.

"Baxter Priestly? Why am I drawing a blank?" I ask earnestly, waving down Cliff the maitre d' for a drink but it's too late: Eric has already sent over a complimentary bottle of Cristal 1985.

"I guess I'm used to your oblivion, Victor," she says.

"Chloe. You do fur ads and donate money to Greenpeace. You're what's known as a bundle of contradictions, baby, not this guy."

"Baxter used to date Lauren Hynde." She stubs her cigarette out, smiles thankfully at the very good-looking busboy pouring the champagne into flutes.

"Baxter used to date Lauren Hynde?"

"Right."

"Who's Lauren Hynde?"

"Lauren Hynde, Victor," she stresses as if the name means something. "You dated her."

"I did? I did? Yeah? Hmm."

"Good night, Victor."

"I just don't remember Lauren Hynde, baby. Solly Cholly."

"Lauren Hynde?" she asks in disbelief. "You don't remember dating her? My god, what are you going to say about me?"

"Nothing, baby," I tell her, finally done deseeding. "We're gonna get married and grow old together. How did the shows go? Look-there's Scott Bakula. Hey, peace, man. Richard's looking for you, bud."

"Lauren Hynde, Victor."

"That's so cool. Hey Alfonse-great tattoo, guy." I turn back to Chloe.

"Did you know Damien wears a hairpiece? He's some kind of demented wig addict."

"Who told you this?"

"One of the guys at the club," I say without pausing.

"Lauren Hynde, Victor. Lauren Hynde."

"Who's dat?" I say, making a crazy face, leaning over, kissing her neck noisily. Suddenly Patrick McMullan glides by, politely asks for a photo, complimenting Chloe on the shows today. We move in close together, look up, smile, the flash goes off. "Hey, crop the pot," I warn as he spots Patrick Kelly and scampers off.

"Do you think he heard me?"

"Lauren Hynde's one of my best friends, Victor."

"I don't know her, but hey, if she's a friend of yours, well, need I say anything but automatically?" I start rolling the joint.