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the doorman’s mother had been prescient. Because Bruno had grown up to be the epitome of Brunoness.
    “Ay, Mista Chevignon,” Bruno said with a wide grin and a little bow. “How ya doon tanight?”
    “Fine, Bruno. Just fine.”
    Keeping his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his Geoffrey Beene tweed slacks, and trapping his open, ankle-length Moschino black leather coat behind his elbows while exposing his collarless white Armani shirt, buttoned to the throat, Marc swiveled and surveyed the line of hopefuls awaiting the privilege of admission to the Spee.
    “Real buncha loooosuhs tanight, Mista C.”
    Marc let his eyes roam the queue, taking in all the well-off and the trying-to-look-it, some natives, some tunnel rats and bridge trolls, all dressed in their absolute best or their most fashionably tacky ensembles, trying to look so cool, so with-it, so very-very, but unable to hide the avid look in their eyes, that hunger to be where it was most in to be, to dance on the rotating floor of the Spee and search for the famous faces that would be on the “Star Tracks” page of next week’s People.
    “Have they been good little aspirants, Bruno?”
    “Yeah. No wise guys so far.”
    “Then let’s make someone’s day, shall we?”
    “Whatever you say, Mista C.”
    He sauntered along outside the cords, watching them stare his way and whisper without taking their eyes off him. Who’s he? … You ever seen him before? … Looks like Johnny Depp … Nah, his shoulders is too big … Gawd, he’s gawgeous! … Well, if he ain’t somebody, how come he’s getting in ahead of us? … I dunno, but I seen him around here before.
    Indeed you have, sweetheart, he thought.
    The last speaker was a bony, brittle, bottle blonde with a white hemline up to here and a black neckline down to there. Knobby knees knocking in the breeze, spiky hair, a mouth full of gum, three different shades of eye shadow going halfway up her forehead, and wearing so many studs and dangles her ears had to be Swiss cheese when her jewelry was off.
    Perfect.
    “What’s your name, honey?”
    She batted her lashes. “Darlene.”
    “Who you with?”
    “My sister Marlene.” She reached back and pulled forward an identically dressed clone. “Who wants t’know?”
    He smiled. “Twins. More than perfect.” He lifted the velvet cord. “Come on, girls. You don’t have to wait any longer.”
    After exchanging wide-eyed glances, they ducked the velvet and followed him to the canopy. Some of the dorks grumbled but a few of them clapped. Soon they were all clapping.
    He ushered them to the door where Bruno stepped aside and passed the giggling twins through into the hallowed inner spaces of the Graf Spee.
    “You’re a prince, Mista C,” Bruno said, grinning.
    “How true.”
    He slowed, almost tripped. What a lame remark. Surely he could have come up with something better than that.
    Bruno stepped into the dark passageway and touched his arm.
    “You feelin’ okay, Mista C?”
    “Of course. Why?”
    “You look a little pale, is all. Need anyting?”
    “No, Bruno. Thanks, but I’m fine.”
    “Okay. But you need anyting, you lemme know an’ it’s done. Know what I’m sayin’?”
    Marc clapped Bruno on the shoulder and nodded. As he walked down the narrow black corridor that led past the coat checkroom he wondered what Bruno had meant. Did he look pale? He didn’t feel pale. He felt fine.
    The twins were hovering near the coat check window, looking lost. They’d finally achieved their dream: They’d made it to the swirling innards of the Spee, and they weren’t sure what to do about it. So they stood and numbly watched the peristalsis. One of them turned to Marc as he approached.
    “Thanks a million, mister. It was, like, really great of you to get us in and like if, you know, you, like, want to get together later, you know, we’d, like, really be glad to show our appreciation, know what I mean?”
    The second twin batted her eyes over