He feigns ignorance. I am not the first person to ask him this question tonight. I wave a hundred dollar bill at him. He walks over and snags it, cocks his head to the right, then moves on to the next customer.

It takes me four minutes to push my way through the crowd and to the VIP tables. Two bouncers guard a thick rope that cordons off ten plush circular tables that currently hold three NBA stars, two rappers, a restaurateur, a comedian, an actress, a supermodel, a late-night host, and the President's son.

Ricky Sullivan is with two other guys and eight scantily clad women. They are sitting on a plush purple sofa. At least a thousand dollars’ worth of bottle service litters the table next to them. Three men in black suits stand close by—Ricky's Secret Service detail.

They look especially alert and I'm guessing the past forty-eight hours have been a deluge of reporters and paparazzi trying to get a snapshot or a comment.

The bouncers appraise me as I approach.

They are checking my wrist for the bright green band that all the “visitors” to the VIP section are wearing.

I have one.

I bought it from a girl on the dance floor for $200. She wiggled it off and I was able to wiggle it on.

What can I say? I have dainty hands.

They let me through and I pick my way past four of the tables. When I am within six feet of Ricky Sullivan and his posse, two of the Secret Service goons jump forward and block my path.

“Hey, guys.”

They don't respond.

“I just need a quick second with Ricky.”

They look at one another.

“Get lost,” says one.

“Ricky!” I yell. He doesn't turn around.

The Secret Service guys start pushing me back.

I pull the watch from my pocket and toss it underhand. It lands on the lap of a girl next to Ricky.

Before my arms are wrenched behind my back, I catch Ricky's eyes as he sees the watch.

“He's good.”

The force that is about to break my wrist lessens slightly.

“I said he’s good! LET HIM THROUGH!”

I dust myself off, give the two SS a little nod, and walk past. Ricky has already ushered all the girls and his two buddies from the table. It’s just him and the watch.

I sit down a couple feet from him.

I grab the Ciroc vodka and pour myself a vodka cranberry.

“Where did you get this?”

I look up.

Ricky Sullivan has his mother's brown, doe eyes and soft features. He has his father's weight, but on a foot shorter frame. He's lost twenty pounds in the past few years but he's still a chubbo.

“I got it from the pawn shop that Jessica sold it to.”

He inhales.

“When did she take it?”

He pours himself a stiff drink, takes a long swallow, and says, “About two months ago.”