After a moment, her legs also succumb to gravity. They fall to the ottoman, spread wide apart, in the most revealing way possible.

She remains in that position, clearly unconscious, as the stunned guests stare at her crotch like it contains the final clue to the Da Vinci Code.

After what seems like an eternity, Truth Luce shouts, “Do something, Gideon!”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a doctor. Do something!”

I am doing something.

Like everyone else in the room, I’m staring at Bellamy’s panties. Or to put it more accurately, the portion of her anatomy where panties would be if she was wearing any.

Except that she isn’t.

In fact, she’s completely naked from her waist to her Jimmy Choos, and though the visible portion of her skirt is now inside-out, I doubt a single person in the room is focusing on the fabric or lining of it.

The astonishing view we’re getting puts me in mind of a chain store I’ve seen in malls across the country called Victoria’s Secret.

Like Victoria, Bellamy had a secret.

She always claimed to be a natural blonde, and though few of her friends believed her, the proof of her assertion is right here in front of us. She’s definitely a natural blonde, so that’s not the secret. Had she in fact been a brunette, her secret might still be safe.

By going full bush, Bellamy did all she could to hide it, but her pubic hair is so light and fine, and the halogen lighting so revealing, everyone in the room, regardless of vantage point, can see her secret.

It’s a word.

A word that was obviously carved into her mons pubis with a sharp blade years ago. A word that speaks to a secret horror she must have endured as a rape victim.

“ManChild?” Trudy says. “What does that mean?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I say. “Let’s go.”

11.

BECAUSE NO ONE drives their own cars in Manhattan, the standard protocol is to call your driver and wait inside till he arrives. But when your girlfriend decks the hostess, the smart move is to flee the scene with all due haste. We grab Trudy’s purse, rush out the door, and speed-walk to the street, hunting our limo.

“It’ll be easier for him to pick us up if we go to the street corner,” I say.

While walking, I call our driver and learn he’s miles away, in a tow truck. His car broke down, and it’s being towed back to the company’s headquarters.

“We’ve dispatched a new chauffeur for you,” he says. “Carlisle should be there any minute.”

“Can you give me Carlisle’s number?”

Trudy says, “Gideon?”

My driver says, “I texted you Carlisle’s number a half hour ago.”

“Gideon?” Trudy repeats.

“Just a sec…”

I check my texts, and there it is, first on the list. Now all I have to do is dial it. I say, “Trudy, try to remember this number when I call it out.”

When she doesn’t respond, I look up and see a street tough standing in front of us, holding a knife six inches from Trudy’s face.

“Hand over the purse,” he says, “and no one gets hurt.”

“I’d get hurt!” Trudy says. “There’s $227.50 in that purse. And my wallet, ID, and social security number. If the wrong person were to get a hold of those, he could steal my identity!”

The mugger looks at me like what the fuck?

I shrug.

He’s approximately Trudy’s age, Hispanic, and knows what he’s doing. With a simple flick of his wrist he cuts the strap on Trudy’s purse. It’s a practiced move, performed so deftly he didn’t even nick Trudy’s blouse, which would have been easy to do, since she was hugging the purse to her chest when he struck.

She’s still hugging the purse, though the strap is dangling.

He looks at me. “Tell her, Pops.”

“Let him have it,” I say.

“Okay,” Trudy says.

As the mugger reaches for Trudy’s purse, she punches him squarely on the nose, knocking him backward. His feet catch some gravel, and he goes into a short slide.

“Jesus, Trudy!”

“You said let him have it, so I did.”

Our mugger grabs his bloody nose and yells, “You fuckin’ bitch!”

He regains his footing and starts to come at her with the knife, but stops short, seeing me step in front of her with a blade of my own.

“The fuck is that?” he says.

“Scalpel.”

“What, like doctors use?”

“Surgeon.”

“You’re a surgeon?”

“That’s right.”

He looks around to confirm we’re still alone.

We are.

Gotta love the city. A minute ago there were a dozen people within shouting distance.