Page 95 of The Picasso Heist
“Don’t answer that,” I tell the driver.
We hit a red light. Skip pulls his sleeve back to look at the Casio G-Shock he’s been wearing since West Point. “Do these events usually start on time?” he asks.
“Almost never,” I say.
“And you know that because you’ve been to, like, what? Zero fashion events?”
“First of all, they’re called fashionshows,not events. Second, unless you live in a cave, everyone knows that. Oh, wait, that’s right. You’ve actually lived in a cave.”
My brother just loves it when I reference his time in the hills of Afghanistan, especially in public. He glances at our driver again before giving me his patented put-a-sock-in-it sidelong glare, as if the man might be a Russian intelligence agent.
“You’re a riot,” says Skip. “Real funny, metalhead.”
That earns him an elbow to the ribs, which triggers his trying to flick my earlobe. We’re officially two kids in the back seat who need to be separated.
Are we there yet?
Ten blocks later we pull up in front of Spring Studios on Varick Street in Tribeca. The paparazzi and Kardashian fan clubs have dispersed, and the fashion beat reporters have made their way inside, but the red carpet remains. We step out and I call the senior of the two cops who arrived ahead of us to make sure they’re in place.
“Here,” I say, handing Skip his lanyard.
He gives it a look and chuckles before hanging it around his neck. “VIPs, huh?”
“I know. Gotta love the irony.”
Bergamo has not only invited us to his own demise; he’s given us backstage passes.
CHAPTER81
“HEY, IS THATAnna Wintour?” someone says.
I don’t have time to look as an usher hurries us along the side wall of the jam-packed studio, the long runway for the models parting the crowd down the middle like a neon-white glow stick. There’s a buzz to the room, an energetic hum. But it’s nothing compared to backstage.
This is chaos. Everyone’s moving all at once. This way, that way. Every model, every dress each one is wearing—all of them are getting the last-minute finishing touches by a hive of workers wielding bobby pins, hair dryers, mascara wands, and lipstick.
“What?”demands a woman with a headset, stopping the usher as soon as we get three steps past the black velvet curtain. There’s noHello,noHow can I help you?Nothing but one word and a nasty look of complete annoyance. She repeats herself, hand on hip.“What?”
“Hi,” I say, stepping in front of the usher. Skip does the same. “We’re here to see Enzio.”
“So is everyone else,” says the woman, seamlessly transitioning from resting-bitch face to active-bitch face. She gives me a quick head-to-toe and delivers an even quicker sniff-like sound as if to suggest she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing what I’m wearing, especially at an Enzio Bergamo fashion show.
I realize I’m going to enjoy this even more than I thought.
“Yes, I saw the crowd out front. He’s the man of the hour, all right. Who wouldn’t want to be at a Bergamo fashionevent,” I say, putting a hand on Skip’s shoulder. “Now, can you please tell Enzio that Halston is here and urgently needs to speak with him? I promise you that he’ll want to see me.”
There’s that sniff-like sound again but it’s followed by the desired result. The woman pivots on her heel and goes off in search of Enzio.
“I think she likes you,” says Skip.
I turn to thank the usher for his time but he’s already disappeared. Can’t blame him in the least, although he’ll regret not sticking around.
Quickly, the woman returns with Bergamo. He dismisses her with a wave of his hand. It’s incredibly rude, but I can’t lie, it’s also incredibly fun to watch.
“What the hell are you doing here right now?” asks Bergamo.
“What do you mean? You invited me,” I say.
“The show’s literally starting in two minutes,” he says. “That’s what I mean.”
