Wallace hears laughter, and because he makes a living out of lingering, he's close enough to nose in on the meeting and inquire about the joke. "We're not laughing at you, Wallace," Nikki says. "We could be, though," Brooke snarks accurately. Si decides that Wallace is the perfect man to break the story of a woman's life tragically ended by a potentially drug-addled bus driver. After all, people never, ever die of anything like that, especially not in New York. Wallace is awash in pink tones -- pinkish shirt, maroon tie, and that all-important rum rouge lighting his cheeks from the inside. "The woman's a pancake, I'm sad," Wallace deadpans. "How am I supposed to pull a column from that?" Si pats him on the arm and suggests that Wallace drizzle syrup on the pancake like a good little columnist. No need: Wallace is clearly a man well-versed in dripping, sugared egg-and-butter cakes. "Cheerio," Si grins, and leaves.

Brooke begs Nikki to hold the Sunday front page for her Zander Price feature, swearing that she can pin down the interview. Nikki agrees. "Zander Price? Isn't he the Shaun Cassidy of classical music?" Wallace asks. Brooke acidly replies that Zander is more than looks: he's a great musician disguised as a teen heartthrob. Deborah Gibson sighs, certain that even a modicum of Brooke's musical insight could have salvaged public opinion of her gifts. Brooke invites Wallace to Zander's concert that night. He crudely ponders aloud whether his sometimes-wife will throw her panties at the pianist. Oliver Platt uttering the word "panties" sounds as natural as Kirsten Dunst quoting the laws of thermodynamics. Brooke rolls her eyes, orders him to attend with her and then offers to share a cab uptown. Wallace doesn't get it. "Uptown? Where Catherine was pancaked?" Brooke reminds him. Wallace refuses to do the story until Brooke informs him that Catherine was Zander's manager. "Huh," Wallace says, clearly yet inexplicably intrigued.