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.A bum I blinded one spring sits cross-legged on a ratty blanket near the corner of Fifty-fifth Street.Moving closer I see the beggar's scarred face and then the sign he's holding beneath it, which reads VIETNAM VET BLINDED IN VIETNAM.PLEASE HELP ME.WE ARE HUNGRY AND HOMELESS.We? Then I notice the dog, who is already eyeing me suspiciously and, as I approach its master, gets up, growling, and when I'm standing over the bum, it finally barks, wagging its tail frantically.I kneel down, threateningly raise a hand at it.The dog backs off, its paws askew.I've pulled out my wallet, pretending to drop a dollar into his empty coffee can, but then realize: Why bother pretending? No one's watching anyway, definitely not him.I retract the dollar, leaning in.He senses my presence and stops shaking the can.The sunglasses he wears don't even begin to cover the wounds I inflicted.His nose is so junked up I can't imagine a person breathing through it."You never were in Vietnam," I whisper in his ear.After a silence, during which he pisses in his pants, the dog whimpering, he croaks, "Please… don't hurt me.""Why would I waste my time?" I mutter, disgusted.I move away from the bum, noticing, instead, a little girl smoking a cigarette, begging for change outside Trump Tower."Shoo," I say.She says "Shoo" back.On The Patty Winters Show this morning a Cheerio sat in a very small chair and was interviewed for close to an hour.Later this afternoon, a woman wearing a silver fox and mink coat has her face slashed in front of the Stanhope by an enraged fur activist.But now, still staring at the sightless bum from across the street, I buy a Dove Bar, a coconut one, in which I find part of a bone.New ClubThursday night I run into Harold Carnes at a party for a new club called World's End that opens in a space where Petty's used to be on the Upper East Side.I'm with Nina Goodrich and Jean in a booth and Harold's standing at the bar drinking champagne.I'm drunk enough to finally confront him about the message I left on his machine.Excused from the booth, I make my way to the other side of the bar, realizing that I need a martini to fortify myself before discussing this with Cannes (it has been a very unstable week for me – I found myself sobbing during an episode of Alf on Monday).Nervously, I approach.Harold is wearing a wool suit by Gieves & Hawkes, a silk twill tie, cotton shirt, shoes by Paul Stuart; he looks heavier than I remember."Face it," he's telling Truman Drake, "the Japanese will own most of this country by the end of the '90s."Relieved that Harold is, as usual, still dispensing valuable and new information, with the addition of a faint but unmistakable trace of, god forbid, an English accent, I find myself brazen enough to blurt out, "Shut up, Carnes, they will not." I down the martini, Stoli, while Cannes, looking quite taken aback, stricken almost, turns around to face me, and his bloated head breaks out into an uncertain smile.Someone behind us is saying, "But look what happened to Gekko…"Truman Drake pats Harold on the back and asks me, "Is there one suspender width that's more, well, appropriate than others?" Irritably I push dim into the crowd and he disappears."So Harold," I say, "did you get my message?"Carnes seems confused at first and, while lighting a cigarette, finally laughs."Jesus, Davis.Yes, that was hilarious.That was you, was it?""Yes, naturally." I'm blinking, muttering to myself, really, waving his cigarette smoke away from my face."Bateman killing Owen and the escort girl?" He keeps chuckling."Oh that's bloody marvelous.Really key, as they say at the Groucho Club.Really key." Then, looking dismayed, he adds, "It was a rather long message, no?"I'm smiling idiotically and then I say, "But what exactly do you mean, Harold?" Secretly thinking to myself that this fat bastard couldn't possibly have gotten into the fucking Groucho Club, and even if he had, to admit it in such a fashion obliterates the fact that his entrance was accepted."Why, the message you left." Carnes is already looking around the club, waving to various people and bimbos."By the way, Davis, how is Cynthia?" He accepts a glass of champagne from a passing waiter."You're still seeing her, right?""But wait, Harold.What-do-you-mean?" I repeat emphatically.He's already bored, neither concerned nor listening, and excusing himself, says, "Nothing.Good to see you.Oh my, is that Edward Towers?"I crane my neck to look, then turn back to Harold."No," I say."Carnes? Wait
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