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The instant the light on 47th turns green the Jeep bounds out of its lane and charges forward

Whentraffic forces me to wait to turn left

I look over my shoulder down Park but I can’t see the Jeep anywhere

When I turn back around, it’s idling next tocaboff the bike, and noise is a blur, all I can really hear is , and when I lift the bike up I veer onto 51st ahead of the Jeep

Fifty-first is backed up with ridlock and I maneuver the Vespa onto the sidewalk but the Jeep doesn’t care and careens right behindthe curb, and I’et out of the way, the bike’s wheels kicking up bursts of the confetti that litters the sidewalk in layers, business obscenities, blaring their horns at ht, at Fifth, is yellow I rev up the Vespa and fly off the curb just as the traffic barreling down the avenue is about to sla behind it, the black Jeep stuck on the far side of the light

Fashion Cafe is one block away and at Rockefeller and 51st I hop off the bike and run with it behind the mostly useless vinyl ropes that stand outside the doors keeping away no one because there’s no one to keep away

I’ at Byana, the doorman this afternoon, to let"Those assles tried to kill s "So now you know"

"Listen, I’onna wheel this in" I ht inside here for ten minutes"

"Victor," Byana says, "what about that interview you proivethe bike inside

The black Jeep idles at the corner and I duck down to peer through the glass doors of Fashion Cafe, watching as it slowly hs when she sees iant lens that doubles as a hallway and enter themy hands up "Just ten, baby"

"Oh Victor, co behind the hostess podiuonna leave the bike there" I point back at the Vespa leaning against a wall near coat check

’We’re empty," she relents "Go on in"

The whole place is totally deserted Someone hollohistles "The Sunny Side of the Street" behind me and when I turn around nobody’s there and I realize it could be the last notes of the new Pearl Ja for a new song to start it beco was too hu it off andconfetti off the floor and a couple of bartenders changing shifts and a waitress adding up tips at the Mademoiselle booth

The only person at any of the tables is a youngish guy with a Caesar hair cut looking like a thirtyish Ben Arnold, wearing sunglasses and what looks like a black three-button Agnes B suit, sitting in the Vogue booth behind the fake Arc de Trio rooh pretty sleek nonetheless

He looks up questioningly, lowering the sunglasses, and then I take a se over to the booth

He takes the sunglasses off and says, "Hello" He offers his hand

"Hey, where’s the baggy pants?" I sigh, slipping into the booth, lightly slapping the hand around "Where’s the oversized zigzag-print T-shirt? Where’s the new issue of Urb? Where’s that groovy mop of bleached chopped hair?"

"I’m sorry" He cocks his head "I’ my arms wide "I exist So will you do it or not?"

"Do what?" He puts down a purple menu in the shape of a Hasselblad camera

"One of the DJs we interviewed today actually wanted to play ’Do the Bartman,"’ I moan "He said it was ’unavoidable’ He said it was his ’signature’ song Can you believe how fked up the world is at this uy slowly reaches into his jacket and pulls out a card and hands it to uely catch a name, F Fred Palakon, and below that a phone number