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"Specks—specks all over the thirdpanel, see?—no, that one—the second one up fromthe floor and I wanted to point this out to someone yesterday but aphoto shoot intervened and Yaki Nakamari or whatever the hell thedesigner's name is—a master craftsman not—mistookme for someone else so I couldn't register the complaint, but,gentlemen—and ladies—there they are: specks,annoying, tiny specks, and they don't look accidental but likethey were somehow done by a machine—so I don't want a lot ofdescription, just the story, streamlined, no frills, the lowdown:who, what, where, when and don't leave out why, though I'm gettingthe distinct impression by the looks on your sorry faces that whywon't get answered—now, come on, goddamnit, what's thestory?"

Nobody around here has to wait long for someone to say something.

"Baby, George Nakashima designed this bararea," JD quietly corrects me. "Not, um, Yaki Nakamashi, Imean Yuki Nakamorti, I mean—oh shit, Peyton, get me out ofthis."

"Yoki Nakamuri was approvedfor this floor," Peyton says.

"Oh yeah?" I ask. "Approved bywho?"

"Approved by, well, moi," Peyton says.

A pause. Glares targeted at Peyton and JD.

"Who the fuck is Moi?" I ask. "I have no fucking ideawho this Moi is, baby."

"Victor, please," Peyton says. "I'm sure Damien wentover this with you."

"Damien did, JD. Damien did,Peyton. But just tell me who Moi is, baby," I exclaim. "BecauseI'm, like, shvitzing."

"Moi is Peyton, Victor," JD says quietly.

"I'm Moi," Peyton says, nodding. "Moi is, um, French."