"But that isn't the problem." I pullJD closer and, surprised, he winks and bats his eyes and I have totell him, "Don't get any ideas." I sigh, breathe in. "Theproblem is that a photo exists. A certain cretinous gossipcolumnist is going to run this photo, and if we think PrincessCuddles having a heart attack is bad . . . that's nothing."I keep looking over my shoulder, finally telling everyone, "Wehave to go downstairs to check the magician. Excuse us."

"But what about Matthew Broderick?" Peyton asks. "Whatabout the salads?"

"He can have two!" I shout as I whisk JD down the longsteep ramp of stairs heading into the basement, the light gettingdimmer, both of us moving carefully.

JD keeps babbling. "You know I'm here foryou, Victor. You know I put the stud back in star-studded. You knowI've helped pack this party to the rafters with desirable celebs. Youknow I'll do anything, but I can't help you on this because of—"

"JD. Tomorrow in no particular order I'vegot a photo shoot, a runway show, an MTV interview with `House ofStyle,' lunch with my father, band practice. I even have to pick upmy fucking tux. I'm booked. Plus this dump is opening.I—have—no—time."

"Victor, as usual I'll see what I can do."JD maneuvers down the stairs hesitantly. "Now about themagician—"

"Fuck it. Why don't we just hire some clowns on stilts and busin an elephant or two?"

"He does card tricks. He just did Brad Pitt's birthday at Jonesin L.A."

"He did?" I ask, suspicious. "Who was there?"

"Ed Limato. Mike Ovitz. Julia Ormond. Madonna. Models. A lot oflawyers and `fun' people."

It gets even colder as we near the bottom of the staircase.

"I mean," JD continues, "I think comparatively it'spretty in."

"But in is out," I explain, squinting to see where we'reheading. It's so cold our breath steams, and when I touch thebanister it feels like ice.