She turns around. "What are you talking about?"

"Why," I ask, "is Laurence Tisch passing around a tray of canapes?"

"Oh god, Patrick, that's not Laurence Tisch," she says. "That's one of the Christmas elves."

"One of the what? You mean the midgets."

'They're elves," she stresses. "Santa's helpers. God, what a sourpuss. Look at them. They're adorable. That one over there is Rudolph, the one passing out candy canes is Blitzen. The other one is Donner - "

"Wait a minute, Evelyn, wait," I say, closing my eyes, holding up the hand with the Waldorf salad in it. I'm sweating, deja vu, but why? Have I met these elves somewhere? Forget about it. "I... those are the names of reindeer. Not elves. Blitzen was a reindeer."

"The only Jewish one," Petersen reminds us.

"Oh..." Evelyn seems bewildered by this information and she looks over at Petersen to confirm this. "Is this true?"

He shrugs, thinks about it and looks confused. "Hey, baby - reindeer, elves, Grinches, brokers... Hell, what's the difference long as the Cristal flows, hey?" He chuckles, nudging me in the ribs. "Ain't that right, Mr. Grinch?"

"Don't you think it's Christmasy?" she asks hopefully.

"Oh yes, Evelyn," I tell her. "It's very Christmasy and I'm truthful, not lying."

"But Mr. Sourpuss was late," she pouts, shaking that damn piece of mistletoe at me accusingly. "And not a word about the Waldorf salad."

"You know, Evelyn, there were a lot of other Xmas parties in this metropolis that I could have attended tonight yet I chose yours. Why? you might ask. Why? I asked myself. I didn't come up with a feasible answer, yet I'm here, so be, you know, grateful, babe," I say.

"Oh, so this is my Christmas present?" she asks, sarcastic. "How sweet, Patrick, how thoughtful."

"No, this is." I give her a noodle I just noticed was stuck on my shirt cuff. "Here."

"Oh Patrick, I'm going to cry," she says, dangling the noodle up to candlelight. "It's gorgeous. Can I put it on now?"

"No. Feed it to one of the elves. That one over there looks pretty hungry. Excuse me but I need another drink."

I hand Evelyn the plate of Waldorf salad and tweak one of Petersen's antlers and head toward the bar humming "Silent Night," vaguely depressed by what most of the women are wearing - pullover cashmere sweaters, blazers, long wool skirts, corduroy dresses, turtlenecks. Cold weather. No hardbodies.

Paul Owen is standing near the bar holding a champagne flute, studying his antique silver pocket watch (from Harnmahcher Schlemmer, no doubt), and I'm about to walk over and mention something about that damned Fisher account when Humphrey Rhinebeck bumps into me trying to avoid stepping on one of the elves and he's still wearing a cashmere chesterfield overcoat by Crombie from Lord & Taylor, a peak-lapeled double-breasted wool tuxedo, a cotton shirt by Perry Ellis, a bow tie from Hugo Boss and paper antlers in a way that suggests he's completely unaware, and as if by rote the twerp says, "Hey Bateman, last week I brought a new herringbone tweed jacket to my tailor for alterations."

"Well, uh, congratulations seem in order," I say, shaking his hand. "That's... nifty."

"Thanks." He blushes, looking down. "Anyway, he noticed that the retailer had removed the original label and replaced it with one of his own. Now what I want to know is, is this legal?"

"It's confusing, I know," I say, still moving through the crowd. "Once a line of clothing has been purchased from its manufacturer, it's perfectly legal for the retailer to replace the original label with his own. However, it's not legal to replace it with another retailer's label."

"But wait, why is that?" he asks, trying to sip from his martini glass while attempting to follow me.

"Because details regarding fiber content and country of origin or the manufacturer's registration number must remain intact. Label tampering is very hard to detect and rarely reported," I shout over my shoulder. Courtney is kissing Paul Owen on the cheek, their hands already firmly clasped. I stiffen up and stop walking. Rhinebeck bumps into me. But she moves on, waving to someone across the room.

"So what's the best solution?" Rhinebeck calls out behind me.

"Shop for familiar labels from retailers you know and take those f**king antlers off your head, Rhinebeck. You look like a retard. Excuse me." I walk off but not before Humphrey reaches up and feels the headpiece. "Oh my god."