The Asylum Read Online Free

over to see Danny.
    â€œ
J’AAA
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
DORE!
” shrieked a greatly amused Carlyne, hurling both bracelet-encrusted arms heavenward, having let out her most extended
J’adore
ever.
    Danny was on the opposite side of the pool, carrying his massive prehistoric-looking prize fish. He was walking from lounger to lounger. His goal? He wanted to turn Winston into some hard cash.
    Sunbathers were being roused from their slumber, not with a spritz of Evian and the offer of a piña colada, but by Danny asking them to “check this mother out.”
    We watched in amazement as he reached Donatella Versace. Back then, before the construction of the famous Versace mansion, Donatella would sleep at the Fontainebleau (the closets were bigger) and lounge by the pool and oversee her shoots at the Raleigh. Danny tapped her on the shoulder and shoved Winnie in her face.
    â€œHey! Lady! Check this out. A hundred bucks.”
    Her visage was a picture of disdain. She waved him away with the hauteur of a great Italian principessa.
    When Danny reached me, I politely declined and asked him what he had done with all the other fish.
    â€œShe wrapped them in my
Women’s Wear Daily
s and stuffed them inside the minibar,” yelled Henry, who loved to refer to Danny as “she” and who was watching the unfolding Benny Hill scene with great amusement from behind a gigantic rubber plant.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    NOT ONLY WAS DANNY integrated into Henry’s vacations and his tussy-flossy fashion milieu, but he also hung with the folks, by which I mean Henry’s mother.
    Henry’s mother, Doris, was a regular visitor to our apartment in New York. She was a plain-speaking broad who hailed from the north of England. Doris had long since ceased to be shocked by her son and was more than familiar with his high-low lifestyle. She was quite accepting. Just don’t touch her Rice-A-Roni.
    The Rice-A-Roni debacle is indelibly etched in my mind. On this particular occasion Doris had just come from visiting relatives in San Francisco. She was on her way home to England and had stopped off in New York to check in with Henry and meet his new friend.
    Doris was unsure of what to make of Danny. She was noncommittal, and understandably so. Since Doris had a thick regional accent and Danny spoke in the patois of the streets, neither was able to understand the other, which was probably just as well.
    Henry took Doris to the Hamptons for “a mother-daughter weekend” of high-thread-count sheets and Barefoot Contessa prepared foods. I headed to Fire Island, where I spent the weekend stuck, intermittently, to a black vinyl couch. (Clarification, dear reader, will be yours when you read the upcoming Suzy Menkes chapter.) Rashly, we left Danny alone in the apartment for an entire weekend.
    We all returned to Manhattan on Sunday night from our respective destinations with a certain level of apprehension. Would Danny have absconded with the contents of the apartment? Maybe he had trashed the place. Maybe he had gone fishing in the East River and stuffed the fridge with bloated bream.
    Danny was nowhere to be seen. He was out having pahty tahme somewhere or other. However, we were relieved to note that the place looked perfectly tidy and normal. Good old Danny. How unfair it was to always assume the worst.
    Mother Doris disappeared into Henry’s bedroom and began repacking her suitcase for her UK