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I'm also the first to make it to the boardroom. Luis Carruthers follows like a puppy dog at my heels, a close second, and takes the seat next to mine which means I'm supposed to take off my Walkman. He's wearing a wool plaid sports jacket, wool slacks, a Hugo Boss cotton shirt and paisley tie - slacks, I'm guessing, from Brooks Brothers. He starts rattling on about a restaurant in Phoenix, Propheteers, that I'm actually interested in hearing about but not from Luis Carruthers, yet I'm on ten milligrams of Valium and for that reason I can manage. On The Patty Winters Show this morning were descendants of members of the Donner Party.

"The clients were total hicks, predict ably," Luis is saying. "They wanted to take me to a local production of Les Miz, which I already saw in Lon don, but - "Advertisement

"Did you have any trouble getting reservations at Propheteers?" I ask, cutting him off.

"No. None at all," he says. "We ate late."

"What did you order?" I ask.

"I had the poached oysters, the lotte and the walnut tart."

"I hear the lotte is good there," I murmur, lost in thought.

"The client had the boudin blanc, the roasted chicken and the cheesecake," he says.

"Cheesecake?" I say, confused by this plain, alien-sounding list. "What sauce or fruits were on the roasted chicken? What shapes was it cut into?"

"None, Patrick," he says, also confused. "It was... roasted."

"And the cheesecake, what flavor? Was it heated?" I say. "Ricotta cheesecake? Goat cheese? Were there flowers or cilantro in it?"

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"It was just... regular," he says, and then, "Patrick, you're sweating."

"What did she have?" I ask, ignoring him. "The client's bimbo."

"Well, she had the country salad, the scallops and the lemon tart," Luis says.

"The scallops were grilled? Were they sashimi scallops? In a ceviche of sorts?" I'm asking. "Or were they gratinized?"

"No, Patrick," Luis says. "They were... broiled."

It's silent in the boardroom as I contemplate this, thinking it through before asking, finally, "What's 'broiled,' Luis?"

"I'm not sure," he says. "I think it involves... a pan."

"Wine?" I ask.

"An '85 Sauvignon blanc," he says. "Jordan. Two bottles."

"Car?" I ask. "Did you rent while in Phoenix?"

"BMW." He smiles. "Little black beamer."

"Hip," I murmur, remembering last night, how I lost it completely in a stall at Nell's - my mouth foaming, all I could think about were insects, lots of insects, and running at pigeons, foaming at the mouth and running at pigeons. "Phoenix. Janet Leigh was from Phoenix..." I stall, then continue. "She got stabbed in the shower. Disappointing scene." I pause. "Blood looked fake."

"Listen, Patrick," Luis says, pressing his handkerchief into my hand, my fingers clenched into a fist that relaxes at Luis's touch. "Dibble and I are having lunch next week at the Yale Club. Would you like to join us?"

"Sure." I think about Courtney's legs, spread and wrapped around my face, and when I look over at Luis in one brief, flashing moment his head looks like a talking vagina and it scares the bejesus out of me, moves me to say something while mopping the sweat off my brow. "That's a nice... suit, Luis." The farthest thing from my mind.

He looks down as if stunned, and then blushing, embarrassed, he touches his own lapel. "Thanks, Pat. You look great too... as usual." And when he reaches out to touch my tie, I catch his hand before his fingers make it, telling him, "Your compliment was sufficient."

Reed Thompson walks in wearing a wool plaid four-button double-breasted suit and a striped cotton shirt and a silk tie, all Armani, plus slightly tacky blue cotton socks by Interwoven and black Ferragamo cap-toe shoes that look exactly like mine, with a copy of the Wall Street Journal held in a nicely manicured fist and a Bill Kaiserman tweed balmacaan overcoat draped casually across the other arm. He nods and sits across from us at the table. Soon after, Todd Broderick walks in wearing a wool chalk-striped six-button double-breasted suit and a striped broadcloth shirt and silk tie, all by Polo, plus an affected linen pocket square that I'm fairly sure is also by Polo. McDermott walks in next, carrying a copy of this week's New York magazine and this morning's Financial Times, wearing new nonprescription Oliver Peoples redwood-framed glasses, a black and white wool houndstooth-check single-breasted suit with notch lapels, a striped cotton dress shirt with spread collar and a silk paisley tie, all of it designed and tailored by John Reyle. pqdm.com