"Thanks. They're mine," I say. "Listen, if you are Sam Ho, I have a message for you from someone."

"Oh?" Sam's interest perks up. "Are you a little errand boy?"

"Dirty deeds and they're done dirt cheap."

"Oh, and you quote AC/DC lyrics too," Sam says faux-sweetly. "Who wants to give me a message?"

"Bobby Hughes," I say flatly.

Suddenly Sam Ho is in my face, standing so close I have to back away, almost tipping over. "Hey!" I warn.

"What?" Sam's asking, grabbing me. "Where? Where is he? Is he here?"

"Hey, watch the shirt!" I cry out, removing his hand from the collar, gently pushing him away. "No, I'm here instead."

"Oh, sorry," Sam says, backing off a little. "You're very, very cute-whoever you are-but you are no Bobby Hughes." A pause, then Sam seems crestfallen and panicked. "You two aren't a duo-are you?"

"Hey, watch it, Sam," I snap. "I've got a very strong reputation and no."

"Where is he?" Sam demands. "Where's Bobby?"

"Here," I say, handing him the envelope. "I'm just here to give you this and-"

Sam's not listening to me. He tears the envelope open greedily and pulls out the key and squints while reading the note and then he starts shivering uncontrollably and hugging himself, a beatific smile softening the angles of his face, making him seem less queeny, slightly more serene, not so jumpy. In seconds he's matured.

"Oh-my-God," Sam's saying, lost, holding the note against his chest. "Oh my God-he's essential."

"That's a fan talking," I point out.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Sam asks. "Let me guess-a yuppie beer with a lime stuffed in it?"

"The name's Victor," I point out. "Victor Ward."

"Victor, you're the spitting image of a boy I always wanted to f**k in high school but never had the nerve to approach." To calm himself down he lights a Marlboro and exhales dramatically.

"I find that hard to believe, Sam," I sigh. "So, like, spare me, okay?"

"Are you staying with Bobby?" he asks suspiciously.

"Yeah," I say, shrugging. "He's a friend."

"No-he's a god, you're the friend," Sam corrects. "Are you in the house on Charlotte Road?"

"Er, no, we're in Hampstead."

"Hampstead?" Sam looks back at the note. "But it says here you're on Charlotte Road."

"I only stay in hotels," I tell him. "So I'm really not sure where we are." I pause, stub out my cigarette. "It's just a set anyway."

"Okay." Sam breathes in. "Do you have a car, and please say yes because I don't want to have to hijack a cab."

"Actually," I say, "I have a car and driver out back."

"Oh, this is excellent," Sam says. "But we have to elude someone."

"Who?" I ask, glancing around the VIP room.

"Those guys," Sam says, nodding his head. "Don't look, don't look. They're under that gold arch-over there. They just love to play games with me."

What looks like two bodyguards dressed in identical Armani overcoats stand close together not even conferring with each other beneath a blue light that accentuates the size of already enormous heads and they're being cruised by various fashion victims but their arms are crossed and they don't seem distracted. Their focus is on Sam, at the bar, leaning in to me.

"Who are they?"

"My father's idea," Sam says. "He's not happy about certain elements of my life."

"He has you followed?" I'm asking, stunned. "Jesus, and I thought my dad was a major fussbudget."

"I'm going to tell them I need to use the rest room and then"-he raps his fingers against my chest-"ooh, nice pecs-that I'm going home with you." He stuffs the envelope into his pocket. "They're usually too scared to enter the men's room with me-for the obvious reasons." Sam checks his watch and takes a deep breath. "I will tell them-before I disappear into the night-that I'm coming back after a much-needed piss to take you home with me, my little freak. Got it?"

"I-I guess that's, um, cool," I say, making a face.

"What color is the car?"

"It's a black limo," I say, trying not to look over at the bodyguards. "A guy with red hair is driving."