Back then, Fashion Week was held in Bryant Park, just east of Times Square, at the top end of the Garment District. Twice a year, the park was occupied by four huge white tents, in which the new spring and fall fashions were trumpeted. As usual, the entrance was lined with white French doors, and a pair of cops had been assigned to those doors. Of the thirty thousand or so police in New York City, of course it was Officer Eddie O’Ryan and his partner who’d drawn those short straws.
“Holy shit! Look at you!” O’Ryan said, inspecting my face and forehead, which were still visibly bruised despite the layers of concealing and foundation I’d applied. “I hear Burnout is putting you in for a commendation.”
“I didn’t hear that.”
“Well you deserve it, after what you’ve been through.”
“Give me a break.”
“Aside from the beating you took, you found the murder weapon! Because of you they’ll be able to put away the cocksucker who butchered those women. That’s amazing.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Listen, Gladyss, you trust me, right?” he asked softly.
“Why?”
“I know that I can be difficult, but I do care about you.”
“And I care about you too, Eddie.”
“I heard a rumor that Internal Affairs is going to call you in.”
“Me?”
“That’s what I heard. I don’t know what it’s about,” he said, looking down Sixth Avenue toward his partner Lombardi who was stationed by the doors at the southern end of the park. “If you want to grab a bite, I’m going on break soon and—”
“Eddie,” I said awkwardly. “I’m off duty. I’m here to see the Rocmarni show with Noel Holden.”
“You’re kidding! I thought you were done with that clown.”
“He turned out to be a nice guy.” I said, not entirely truthfully, given my wild speculations of the previous evening.
He smiled politely, and I said I had to run. “Thanks for the heads up about IA.”
Within the tents, four venues operated simultaneously all day long. Each show lasted only about fifteen minutes, but the load-in and load-out took nearly an hour. The Rocmarni show was taking place in the largest tent, the one in the front that could hold over a thousand people. I had arrived unfashionably early. The previous show was just ending, so most of those present were just staffers. Picture IDs dangled from bright ribbons around everyone’s necks. I was directed to a hip-looking woman with a earpiece and a glass clipboard, who checked my ID, gave me a temporary badge, a seat ticket, and a catalog. She let me inside.
I headed to the back of the heated tent, past the long narrow runway. Glancing into an adjacent tent, I saw that another show was still in progress there. The catwalk was bordered by row after row of rising seats. I hadn’t thought it was possible that there were many women bonier and taller than I was, but a succession of them emerged, scantily clad, one after the next through a narrow space between two brightly lit flats in the rear. Among the bars of swirling colored lights, through the pounding music, they strutted in rapid sequence to the very end of the catwalk. Each one paused there in front of a firing squad of flashes, then turned about face, and hip-snapped her way back to the narrow exit. All I could think was how grateful I was that the heating system pumped out such an abundance of warmth. It was freezing out there.
I heard a commotion, then spotted a crowd of people at the back of the room. Noel, wearing clearly borrowed finery, was busily signing autographs. When he saw me, he excused himself, a sun bursting out of its own little solar system. He dashed over and casually gave me a big hug, as though endless cameras weren’t documenting his every move. Despite an acute ache from my recently pummeled kidneys it felt wonderful. When he finally let me go, a shooting sensation radiated up and down my back that momentarily made me light-headed.
“I don’t suppose you saw today’s Variety?” he asked modestly. “Fashion Dogs topped forty-two mill this weekend.”
I had barely made it through that month’s issue of the PBA newsletter.
“Great,” I said tiredly.
“Here I am bragging about my weekend box, and look at you,” Noel said, closely inspecting my facial contusions under my veil of foundation.
“I’m okay.”
“I meant to pick up something for you in LA,” he said, “but it was crazy. This is a small way of saying I’m sorry.” He handed me the gift basket that Rocmarni was giving all their invitees. In addition to samples of their latest skin cream and perfumes, and CDs by hip hop bands I had never heard of, there were gift coupons for luxury items—but these weren’t exactly free. One coupon offered fifty percent off at an ice spa near the Arctic Circle. Finally, at the very bottom of the cloth bag, I found the only useful item inside, a miniature bottle of designer vodka.
“Perfect,” I said unscrewing the little top. “My back is killing me.”
The throng of guests had not entered the vast showroom yet. Noel took advantage of this to rummage through several other gift baskets placed on nearby seats, harvesting three more small bottles of vodka, which he discreetly slipped into my bag.
Noel parked me in a front row seat. “We’ll talk afterwards,” he promised and dashed.
Spectators entered over the next twenty minutes, filling the seats, as I discreetly sucked down one little vodka bottle after the next and felt the ache in my jaw and forehead replaced by warm giddiness. Eventually after most of the seats were filled, I felt someone gently touch my back.
I turned to see Maggie. I didn’t know if it was my breath or the gloss to my eyes, but she immediately asked, “Are you drunk?”
“Just a couple of minis.” I held up the last empty bottle. “To dull the pain.”
“How are you feeling?”
“A little bruised and battered, but fine.”
“You and Crispin could be twins,” she said, “he got attacked too.”
“My favorite ladies born in the Eighties,” Crispin rhymed, appearing out of nowhere. Sure enough, he had a shiny black eye.
“I was just telling her about your attack,” Maggie said.
“Oh yeah. Some guy walloped me over the head.”
“What happened?” I thought she was referring to his highly publicized fight with Noel.
“I’m staying at the Hyatt and I decided to go for a walk early this morning. So I’m walking to the corner and this guy clobbers me over the head, takes my wallet.”
“Where was this?”
“Forty-third and Eighth.”
“Maybe crime is finally making a comeback,” I said.
“Christ, Venezia looks out of it,” Maggie commented as the big blonde stumbled out from behind the scrim. One of her massive boobs suddenly made an unscheduled appearance, breaking free of its strap. The double-sided tape that presumably epoxied it into the low-cut satin gown prevented full exposure.
“We got a loose beach ball in aisle three,” Crispin muttered as though into a PA system.
One of the behind-the-scenes underlings dashed forward and grabbed her as she began nodding forward. Like a human tugboat, he delicately steered the barge-size model back behind the curtain.
“Since that porn tape came out, she’s been Oxying herself through the floor,” Crispin explained. Then he spotted the famed designer talking to Noel and headed over to them.
As they chatted with Antonio Rocmarni, I told Maggie the odd coincidences I had noted while reading up on Greek mythology. I told her about Nessus the centaur and his clever way of murdering Hercules in the future, then explained how this had strangely been re-enacted in the deaths of Detective Kelly and his ex-hooker wife.
“How the hell did you happen to be studying Greek myths?”
“You’re not going to believe this,” I said, “but during my final relaxation at the end of my yoga class, I had this vision of a statue who turned out to be the goddess Diana, Diana of the Hunt, and since I hunt killers . . .”
“Until recently you were just hunting parking violators,” she pointed out.
“Yes, my Diana identification only began after I got this assignment.”
“What identification? You had a vision in yoga?”
“There have been other similarities.” Like the fact that I’m a virgin, and I’ve always seen myself as a protector of woman, I thought, but didn’t say out loud.
“Tell me one other thing you and the goddess Diana have in common,” she said.
“We’re both twins,” I said.
She chuckled at that and said, “Wow, and I thought I was supposed to be the flaky one.”
Suddenly the music swelled and it became difficult to talk. The unesteemed members of the fashionista brigade, buyers for major outlets, critics and the like, as well as endless minor deities in the fashion pantheon had taken their reserved seats in or near the front rows. Members of the press set up their cameras. Some celebrities made much-heralded entrances and waved at Crispin, who was sitting just behind me. While I was trying to identify faces on the far side of the catwalk, I heard him mutter, “Christ, the girl just doesn’t quit!”
In a slight gap between the outer edge of the scrim and the rear curtain, where few eyes paused, the disinherited heiress was bending mindlessly over a small table. Barely able to keep her eyes open, she fumbled through her tiny wristlet. We watched as she unthinkingly tapped out a small pile of magic powder and used her temporary ID card to cut it into wobbly lines.
“I can’t believe I’m seeing this,” Crispin said, barely restraining a chuckle. “I mean, the Internet tape showed that she’s a slut, but does she have to demonstrate that she’s also an addict?”
Venezia put a thumb over one nostril and snorted with the other. The only problem was, she had forgotten to lean into the powder. She was still two feet above her tiny pile. With closed eyes, and still without closing the gap, she snorted the empty space again. Finally her pinky reached down slowly until she touched the powder from the table and rubbed it along her gums.
Maggie chuckled as Crispin started using his cell phone. “Who’re you calling, darling?”
“Noel, he’s the only one who knows how to handle her.”
“Really?” I said while yawning.
“Yeah, after the premiere, when her sex tape had come out, she went on a real bender. She pulled her clothes off, trying to fuck him right there in the limo. He straightened her out quickly.”
“I’ll bet he straightened her out,” Maggie kidded.
At that moment, I decided to call it a night.
“Where are you off to?” Maggie asked as I rose to leave.
“I’m tired of waiting for this goddamned show.”
“It’s going to begin any second,” Crispin said.
“I’m just not feeling well.”
He handed me a green bottle that I presumed he had pulled from his gift bag. “Have some peppermint schnapps.”
“I really should go home.”
“Have a drink and relax,” Crispin said politely. “Noel really needs your support tonight.”
“Please don’t go,” Maggie pleaded. “Diana wouldn’t abandon a wood nymph in need, would she?”
“If you still want to go in a few minutes, I’ll take you home myself,” Crispin said.
Still feeling too sober to deal with the jealousy Venezia aroused in me, I took his little bottle, twisted off the top, and downed it in two gulps. I’d knocked back the vodkas without much effect, but this one peppermint drink really gave me a jolt. I realized I had to pee badly, and rose slowly to my feet.
“Are you okay?” Crispin’s voice was like tiny fingers in my fuzzy consciousness.
“No . . . I mean, Yes, just . . .” All I knew for sure was that I wanted out of this shiny vortex. I breathed deeply, trying to regain lucidity. Time seemed to be propelling us forward, then stopping abruptly, then speeding up again, like existence was being driven by a bad cabby.
When the lights started to dim, I found myself giggling. The show was finally about to start, and it suddenly seemed very dark. Everything was slowing down. Models were going around this way. Photographers were shooting that way. All in straight lines.
Elaborately dressed crowds of latter-day shamans and sorcerers were casting silent spells. The young models had to be sacrificed to the gods of celebrity. Maggie and I sat perched on the shadowy rim of this event with all the other lesser beings.
Again we watched as some thankless production assistant went over and tried to guide bovine Venezia back into her stall. Snapping awake, Venezia saw the pile of magic dust still on the table and swatted the soap-bubble assailant away. Slowly she began the whole pathetic process once more, but this time she had a coiled hundred dollar bill. She lowered her dinosaur head, dropping it down slowly in front of her, then placed the tip of the bill in the pile and snorted deeply.
At first I simply wanted to be rid of this annoying spectacle. I just wanted to leave this kaleidoscopic chamber and slither back to the warm obscurity from which I had arisen. But as I stepped forth, a thought hit me like a thunderbolt: If gamelegged Bernie Farrell were here, in the same way as he’d shoved O’Flaherty’s face down into his shitter, he’d walk right up and arrest Venezia, because you can’t fucking snort drugs in public!
The crazy ape thing wasn’t really my style, but due to my disdain for Venezia, I figured I’d give my own lite version of it.
When I got up, I’d heard someone say, “Sit down.” As I marched over, I heard, “Where’s she going.” When I reached Venezia, I simply said, “Stop it or I’m going to have to arrest you.”
“Fuck off,” she replied without even looking at me.
“You fucked him, didn’t you?”
“Fuck off, slag,”
“You have to remain silent,” I said screwing up the policeman’s mantra. “If you give up the right . . .” I reached forward and grabbed one of her breadstick wrists and yanked it behind her back. Reaching for my cuffs, I realized of course that I didn’t have them, so I just held her arm tightly.
“Fuck off of me, you ugly freak!”
“You have the right to be quiet,” I slurred to the silicone implants under a blonde wig. “If you give up that rife, everything you can say, everything will be . . .” I couldn’t remember how the Miranda warning ended.
“What the hell is going on!” Noel said, racing up to us before the show could officially commence.
“Your ugly tranny asked me if I fucked you!” Venezia hollered, still trying to break free. “Now she won’t let me go!”
As if from a giant spider web, Crispin slithered down from above and said, “This is fan-fucking-tastic! It’ll be all over the news!”
“GET HER OFF OF ME!” Venezia shrieked, trying to yank her arm free.
“I told her to cease using narcotics,” I said formally. “She declined. I’ve read her her rights and now I’m arresting her.”
“This has got to stop right now,” Noel whispered urgently.
I just held on to Venezia’s wrist.
“Please! Look behind you.”
When I turned I saw that the entire pantheon, all the beautiful witches and warlocks were focused on me—a thousand daggers aimed right at my heart. The moment seemed to hang there, unable to proceed. Something was terribly wrong. I attempted to regain composure with deep breaths, but pulsing waves made up of a thousand tiny flashes were slice-dicing the moment into a zillion luminous lines as it was all parceled out like heroin into little glassine flashes.
“Get this fucking drag king off of me!” Venezia yelled, trying to shake me off.
“Hon, trust me, please,” Maggie whispered out of nowhere. “This is a really bad idea.”
“The girl is an addict and she’s going to kill herself,” I tried to argue. “Do you want that, Noel?”
“That’s not the point,” he said. “You’re clearly drunk and everyone knows it.”
“Get the cops!” someone shouted.
“I am the cops,” I said tiredly. I still wasn’t thinking about what I was going to do next.
Walking in front of me, so that we were eye to eye, Noel said, “Look, you’re right. This is between us. Why don’t you go home and I’ll be there after this is all over.”
It wasn’t what he said, it was his look. At that moment I knew I had him, and he knew it. And I knew he knew I knew he knew it. I felt myself go limp as Venezia limped away.
Some of the other models who had been watching quietly started to applaud. Noel had defeated the Goliath NYPD. I heard some Queer-Eye-For-the-Straight-Guy shout out, “Check the police state at the front door, sweetie!”
A chorus of laughter, boos, and hisses followed me as I was led out of the large white tent. I could barely keep my eyes open as I was handed off from one person to another.
“Can you put her in a cab?”
“Yeah, I’ll take it from here.”