Several years ago Dannatt and I attended a party for Interview Magazine in hopes of speaking with their managing editor. Glenn was an old timer like myself. I had once threw him out of a nightclub.

This evening’s soiree was held at an unfinished hotel.

Very unfinished.

The crowd before the entrance of the construction site was 10 deep. I slid through the expectant entrees and said I was on the list as Johnny Justice.

“We were wondering who you were.” The black-clad press secretary pointed me out to her friends.

“That’s me. International man of mystery.”

Two steps into the work site I was forgotten. My friend Dannatt and I whisked up to the top floor for sushi, champagne, and conversation. Glenn was surrounded by his coterie. I got a wave and went to the bar. After an hour I heard the call of my pumpkin truck.

I shared the service elevator down with a beautiful blonde in jeans. She was in a panic about claustrophobia.

“I hate elevators.”

“They were very terrifying in TOWERING INFERNO.” I had sat in the second row of the Ziegfield Theater for that film. The inferno was very towering at that distance from the screen.

“I hate that film.” She rushed into the corner elevator, face buried in the padding.

“This one is okay.”

“How do you know?”

“Because empty elevator never crash>”

She shddered upon hearing my say ‘crash, but on the ground floor she regained her composure. I held the door open with my hand. Afterwards Adrian said, “That’s Stephanie Seymour.”

“Who?” The name meant something.

“The Victoria Secrets model.” Dannatt rolled his eyes at my ignorance.

Five years out of the country does wonders to your celebrity antennae.

“Her boyfriend is building the hotel.”

“Fabulous.” It sounded like the right thing to say.

I shook hands with Dannatt and took the subway to Brooklyn. No top models on my arm. No limo. No penthouse. Just the A train heading to Lafayette Street.

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