“What in the fuck is Morrison wearing?” Preston asks himself. “Is that really a glen-plaid suit with a checkered shirt?”
“That’s not Morrison,” Price says.
“Who is it then?” Preston asks, taking his glasses off again.
“That’s Paul Owen,” Price says.
“That’s not Paul Owen,” I say. “Paul Owen’s on the other side of the bar. Over there.”
Owen stands at the bar wearing a double-breasted wool suit.
“He’s handling the Fisher account,” someone says.
“Lucky bastard,” someone else murmurs.
“Lucky Jew bastard,” Preston says.
“Oh Jesus, Preston,” I say. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Listen, I’ve seen the bastard sitting in his office on the phone with CEOs, spinning a fucking menorah. The bastard brought a Hanukkah bush into the office last December,” Preston says suddenly, peculiarly animated.
“You spin a dreidel, Preston,” I say calmly, “not a menorah. You spin a dreidel.”
“Oh my god, Bateman, do you want me to go over to the bar and ask Freddy to fry you up some fucking potato pancakes?” Preston asks, truly alarmed. “Some … latkes?”
“No,” I say. “Just cool it with the anti-Semitic remarks.”
“The voice of reason.” Price leans forward to pat me on the back. “The boy next door.”
“Yeah, a boy next door who according to you let a British corporate finance analyst intern sodomize him up the ass,” I say ironically.
“I said you were the voice of reason,” Price says. “I didn’t say you weren’t a homosexual.”
“Or redundant,” Preston adds.
“Yeah,” I say, staring directly at Price. “Ask Meredith if I’m a homosexual. That is, if she’ll take the time to pull my dick out of her mouth.”
“Meredith’s a fag hag,” Price explains, unfazed, “that’s why I’m dumping her.”
“Oh wait, guys, listen, I got a joke.” Preston rubs his hands together.
“Preston,” Price says, “you are a joke. You do know you weren’t invited to dinner. By the way, nice jacket; nonmatching but complementary.”
“Price, you are a bastard, you are so fucking mean to me it hurts,” Preston says, laughing. “Anyway, so JFK and Pearl Bailey meet at this party and they go back to the Oval Office to have sex and so they fuck and then JFK goes to sleep and …” Preston stops. “Oh gosh, now what happens … Oh yeah, so Pearl Bailey says Mr. President I wanna fuck you again and so he says I’m going to sleep now and in … thirty—no, wait …” Preston pauses again, confused. “Now … no, sixty minutes … no … okay, thirty minutes I’ll wake up and we’ll do it again but you’ve got to keep one hand on my cock and the other on my balls and she says okay but why do I have to keep one hand on your dick and one … one hand on your balls … and …” He notices that Van Patten is idly doodling something on the back of a napkin. “Hey Van Patten—are you listening to me?”
“I’m listening,” Van Patten says, irritated. “Go ahead. Finish it. One hand on my cock, one hand on my balls, go on.”
Luis Carruthers is still standing at the bar waiting for a drink. Now it looks to me like his silk bow tie is by Agnes B. It’s all unclear.
“I’m not,” Price says.
“And he says because …” Again Preston falters. There’s a long silence. Preston looks at me.
“Don’t look at me,” I say. “It’s not my joke.”
“And he says … My mind’s a blank.”
“Is that the punch line—My mind’s a blank?” McDermott asks.
“He says, um, because …” Preston puts a hand over his eyes and thinks about it. “Oh gosh, I can’t believe I forgot this …”
“Oh great, Preston.” Price sighs. “You are one unfunny bastard.”
“My mind’s a blank?” Craig asks me. “I don’t get it.”
“Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah,” Preston says. “Listen, I remember. Because the last time I fucked a nigger she stole my wallet.” He starts chuckling immediately. And after a short moment of silence, the table cracks up too, except for me.
“That’s it, that’s the punch line,” Preston says proudly, relieved.
Van Patten gives him high-five. Even Price laughs.
“Oh Christ,” I say. “That’s awful.”
“Why?” Preston says. “It’s funny. It’s humor.”
“Yeah, Bateman,” McDermott says. “Cheer up.”
“Oh I forgot. Bateman’s dating someone from the ACLU,” Price says. “What bothers you about that?”
“It’s not funny,” I say. “It’s racist.”
“Bateman, you are some kind of morose bastard,” Preston says. “You should stop reading all those Ted Bundy biographies.” Preston stands up and checks his Rolex. “Listen men, I’m off. Will see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Same Bat Time, same Bat Channel,” Van Patten says, nudging me.
Preston leans forward before leaving. “Because the last time I fucked a nigger she stole my wallet.”
“I get it. I get it,” I say, pushing him away.
“Remember this, guys: Few things perform in life as well as a Kenwood.” He exits.
“Yabba-dabba-do,” Van Patten says.
“Hey, did anyone know cavemen got more fiber than we get?” McDermott asks.
Pastels
I’m on the verge of tears by the time we arrive at Pastels since I’m positive we won’t get seated but the table is good, and relief that is almost tidal in scope washes over me in an awesome wave. At Pastels McDermott knows the maître d’ and though we made our reservations from a cab only minutes ago we’re immediately led past the overcrowded bar into the pink, brightly lit main dining room and seated at an excellent booth for four, up front. It’s really impossible to get a reservation at Pastels and I think Van Patten, myself, even Price, are impressed by, maybe even envious of, McDermott’s prowess in securing a table. After we piled into a cab on Water Street we realized that no one had made reservations anywhere and while debating the merits of a new Californian-Sicilian bistro on the Upper East Side—my panic so great I almost ripped Zagat in two—the consensus seemed to emerge. Price had the only dissenting voice but he finally shrugged and said, “I don’t give a shit,” and we used his portaphone to make the reservation. He slipped his Walkman on and turned the volume up so loud that the sound of Vivaldi was audible even with the windows halfway open and the noise of the uptown traffic blasting into the taxi. Van Patten and McDermott made rude jokes about the size of Tim’s dick and I did too. Outside Pastels Tim grabbed the napkin with Van Patten’s final version of his carefully phrased question for GQ on it and tossed it at a bum huddling outside the restaurant feebly holding up a sloppy cardboard Sign: I AM HUNGRY AND HOMELESS PLEASE HELP ME.
Things seem to be going smoothly. The maître d’ has sent over four complimentary Bellinis but we order drinks anyway. The Ronettes are singing “Then He Kissed Me,” our waitress is a little hardbody and even Price seems relaxed though he hates the place. Plus there are four women at the table opposite ours, all great-looking—blond, big tits: one is wearing a chemise dress in double-faced wool by Calvin Klein, another is wearing a wool knit dress and jacket with silk faille bonding by Geoffrey Beene, another is wearing a symmetrical skirt of pleated tulle and an embroidered velvet bustier by, I think, Christian Lacroix plus high-heeled shoes by Sidonie Larizzi, and the last one is wearing a black strapless sequined gown under a wool crepe tailored jacket by Bill Blass. Now the Shirelles are coming out of the speakers, “Dancing in the Street,” and the sound system plus the acoustics, because of the restaurant’s high ceiling, are so loud that we have to practically scream out our order to the hardbody waitress—who is wearing a bicolored suit of wool grain with passementerie trim by Myrone de Prémonville and velvet ankle boots and who, I’m fairly sure, is flirting with me: laughs sexily when I order, as an appetizer, the monkfish and squid ceviche with g
olden caviar; gives me a stare so steamy, so penetrating when I order the gravlax potpie with green tomatillo sauce I have to look back at the pink Bellini in the tall champagne flute with a concerned, deadly serious expression so as not to let her think I’m too interested. Price orders the tapas and then the venison with yogurt sauce and fiddlehead ferns with mango slices. McDermott orders the sashimi with goat cheese and then the smoked duck with endive and maple syrup. Van Patten has the scallop sausage and the grilled salmon with raspberry vinegar and guacamole. The air-conditioning in the restaurant is on full blast and I’m beginning to feel bad that I’m not wearing the new Versace pullover I bought last week at Bergdorf’s. It would look good with the suit I’m wearing.
“Could you please get rid of these things,” Price tells the busboy as he gestures toward the Bellinis.
“Wait, Tim,” Van Patten says. “Cool out. I’ll drink them.”
“Eurotrash, David,” Price explains. “Eurotrash.”
“You can have mine, Van Patten,” I say.
“Wait,” McDermott says, holding the busboy back. “I’m keeping mine too.”
“Why?” Price asks. “Are you trying to entice that Armenian chick over by the bar?”
“What Armenian chick?” Van Patten is suddenly craning his neck, interested.
“Just take them all,” Price says, practically seething.
The busboy humbly removes the glasses, nodding to no one as he walks away.
“Who made you boss?” McDermott whines.
“Look, guys. Look who just came in.” Van Patten whistles. “Oh boy.”
“Oh for Christ sakes, not fucking Preston,” Price, sighs.
“No. Oh no,” Van Patten says ominously. “He hasn’t spotted us yet.”
“Victor Powell? Paul Owen?” I say, suddenly scared.
“He’s twenty-four and worth, oh, let’s say, a repulsive amount of dough,” Van Patten hints, grinning. He has obviously been spotted by the person and flashes a bright, toothy smile. “A veritable shitload.”
I crane my neck but can’t figure out who’s doing anything.
“It’s Scott Montgomery,” Price says. “Isn’t it? It’s Scott Montgomery.”
“Perhaps,” Van Patten teases.
“It’s that dwarf Scott Montgomery,” says Price.
“Price,” Van Patten says. “You’re priceless.”
“Watch me act thrilled,” Price says, turning around. “Well, as thrilled as I can get meeting someone from Georgia.”
“Whoa,” McDermott says. “And he’s dressed to impress.”
“Hey,” Price says. “I’m depressed, I mean impressed.”
“Wow,” I say, spotting Montgomery. “Elegant navies.”
“Subtle plaids,” Van Patten whispers.
“Lotsa beige,” Price says. “You know.”
“Here he comes,” I say, bracing myself.
Scott Montgomery walks over to our booth wearing a double-breasted navy blue blazer with mock-tortoiseshell buttons, a prewashed wrinkled-cotton striped dress shirt with red accent stitching, a red, white and blue fireworks-print silk tie by Hugo Boss and plum washed-wool trousers with a quadruple-pleated front and slashed pockets by Lazo. He’s holding a glass of champagne and hands it to the girl he’s with—definite model type, thin, okay tits, no ass, high heels—and she’s wearing a wool-crepe skirt and a wool and cashmere velour jacket and draped over her arm is a wool and cashmere velour coat, all by Louis Dell’Olio. High-heeled shoes by Susan Bennis Warren Edwards. Sunglasses by Alain Mikli. Pressed-leather bag from Hermès.
“Hey fellas. How y’all doin’?” Montgomery speaks in a thick Georgia twang. “This is Nicki. Nicki, this is McDonald, Van Buren, Bateman—nice tan—and Mr. Price.” He shakes only Timothy’s hand and then takes the champagne glass from Nicki. Nicki smiles, politely, like a robot, probably doesn’t speak English.
“Montgomery,” Price says in a kindly, conversational tone, staring at Nicki. “How have things been?”
“Well, fellas,” Montgomery says. “See y’all got the primo table. Get the check yet? Just kidding.”
“Listen, Montgomery,” Price says, staring at Nicki but still being unusually kind to someone I thought was a stranger. “Squash?”
“Call me,” Montgomery says absently, looking over the room. “Is that Tyson? Here’s my card.”
“Great,” Price says, pocketing it. “Thursday?”
“Can’t. Going to Dallas tomorrow but …” Montgomery is already moving away from the table, hurrying toward someone else, snapping for Nicki. “Yeah, next week.”
Nicki smiles at me, then looks at the floor—pink, blue, lime green tiles crisscrossing each other in triangular patterns—as if it had some kind of answer, held some sort of clue, offered a coherent reason as to why she was stuck with Montgomery. Idly I wonder if she’s older than him, and then if she’s flirting with me.
“Later,” Price is saying.
“Later, fellas …” Montgomery is already about halfway across the room. Nicki slinks behind him. I was wrong: she does have an ass.
“Eight hundred million.” McDermott whistles, shaking his head.
“College?” I ask.
“A joke,” Price hints.
“Rollins?” I guess.
“Get this,” McDermott says. “Hampden-Sydney.”
“He’s a parasite, a loser, a weasel,” Van Patten concludes.
“But he’s worth eight hundred million,” McDermott repeats emphatically.
“Go over and give the dwarf head—will that shut you up?” Price says. “I mean how impressed can you get, McDermott?”
“Anyway,” I mention, “nice babe.”
“That girl is hot,” McDermott agrees.
“Affirmative.” Price nods, but grudgingly.
“Oh man,” Van Patten says, distressed. “I know that chick.”
“Oh bullshit,” we all moan.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Picked her up at Tunnel, right?”
“No,” he says, then after sipping his drink, “She’s a model. Anorexic, alcoholic, uptight bitch. Totally French.”
“What a joke you are,” I say, unsure if he’s lying.
“Wanna bet?”
“So what?” McDermott shrugs. “I’d fuck her.”
“She drinks a liter of Stoli a day then throws it up and redrinks it, McDermott,” Van Patten explains. “Total alkie.”
“Total cheap alkie,” Price murmurs.
“I don’t care,” McDermott says bravely. “She is beautiful. I want to fuck her. I want to marry her. I want her to have my children.”
“Oh Jesus,” Van Patten says, practically gagging. “Who wants to marry a chick who’s gonna give birth to a jug of vodka and cranberry juice?”
“He has a point,” I say.
“Yeah. He also wants to shack up with the Armenian chick at the bar,” Price sneers. “What’ll she give birth to—a bottle of Korbel and a pint of peach juice?”
“What Armenian chick?” McDermott asks, exasperated, craning his neck.
“Oh Jesus. Fuck off, you faggots.” Van Patten sighs.
The maître d’ stops by to say hello to McDermott, then notices we don’t have our complimentary Bellinis, and runs off before any of us can stop him. I’m not sure how McDermott knows Alain so well—maybe Cecelia?—and it slightly pisses me off but I decide to even up the score a little bit by showing everyone my new business card. I pull it out of my gazelleskin wallet (Barney’s, $850) and slap it on the table, waiting for reactions.
“What’s that, a gram?” Price says, not apathetically.
“New card.” I try to act casual about it but I’m smiling proudly. “What do you think?”
“Whoa,” McDermott says, lifting it up, fingering the card, genuinely impressed. “Very nice. Take a look.” He hands it to Van Patten.
“Picked them up from the printer’s yesterday,” I mention.
“Cool coloring,” Van Patten says, studying the card closely.<
br />
“That’s bone,” I point out. “And the lettering is something called Silian Rail.”
“Silian Rail?” McDermott asks.
“Yeah. Not bad, huh?”
“It is very cool, Bateman,” Van Patten says guardedly, the jealous bastard, “but that’s nothing.…” He pulls out his wallet and slaps a card next to an ashtray. “Look at this.”
We all lean over and inspect David’s card and Price quietly says, “That’s really nice.” A brief spasm of jealousy courses through me when I notice the elegance of the color and the classy type. I clench my fist as Van Patten says, smugly, “Eggshell with Romalian type …” He turns to me. “What do you think?”
“Nice,” I croak, but manage to nod, as the busboy brings four fresh Bellinis.
“Jesus,” Price says, holding the card up to the light, ignoring the new drinks. “This is really super. How’d a nitwit like you get so tasteful?”
I’m looking at Van Patten’s card and then at mine and cannot believe that Price actually likes Van Patten’s better. Dizzy, I sip my drink then take a deep breath.
“But wait,” Price says. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.…” He pulls his out of an inside coat pocket and slowly, dramatically turns it over for our inspection and says, “Mine.”
Even I have to admit it’s magnificent.
Suddenly the restaurant seems far away, hushed, the noise distant, a meaningless hum, compared to this card, and we all hear Price’s words: “Raised lettering, pale nimbus white …”
“Holy shit,” Van Patten exclaims. “I’ve never seen …”
“Nice, very nice,” I have to admit. “But wait. Let’s see Montgomery’s.”
Price pulls it out and though he’s acting nonchalant, I don’t see how he can ignore its subtle off-white coloring, its tasteful thickness. I am unexpectedly depressed that I started this.
“Pizza. Let’s order a pizza,” McDermott says. “Doesn’t anyone want to split a pizza? Red snapper? Mmmmm. Bateman wants that,” he says, rubbing his hands eagerly together.
I pick up Montgomery’s card and actually finger it, for the sensation the card gives off to the pads of my fingers.
“Nice, huh?” Price’s tone suggests he realizes I’m jealous.
American Psycho Page 5