Cocoa butter, cocoa butter, the duty free products have made a wealthy man of that one guy, what’s his name. The bespectacled white cat down the other end of the table in the dusky sun adjusts his glasses and starts explaining how the duty-free king has now gotten into philanthropy, writing checks to community organizers. This fellow is the conduit. Lancelot needs a new place to live. He needs to live in a new apartment. He gets up, shaking, and ventures towards the doorway. Out across the table in the dusky sun over the High Line the young sweet kids let Señor Lancelot walk daintily out the gap in the metal gate. He leaves two empty gin and tonics behind and unpaid for. Ciao, Bella.