“Heads, heads, heads,” I hiss, praying.
He lifts his palm. “It’s tails,” he says, looking at me.
I stare at the quarter for a long time before asking, “Do it again.”
“So long,” he says, looking over at the girls before getting up, then he glances at me, rolls his eyes, gives his head a curt shake. “Listen,” he reminds me. “I want another martini. Absolut. Double. No olive.”
“Hurry,” I call after him, then under my breath, watching as he waves gaily from the top of the stairs, “Fucking moron.”
I turn back to the booth. Behind us, a table of Eurotrash hardbodies that suspiciously resemble Brazilian transvestites shriek in unison. Let’s see … Saturday night I’m going to a Mets game with Jeff Harding and Leonard Davis. I’m renting Rambo movies on Sunday. The new Lifecycle will be delivered on Monday.… I stare at the three models for an agonizing amount of time, minutes, before saying anything, noticing that someone has ordered a plate of papaya slices and someone else a plate of asparagus, though both remain untouched. Daisy carefully looks me over, then aims her mouth in my direction and blows smoke toward my head, exhaling, and it floats over my hair, missing my eyes, which are protected anyway by the Oliver Peoples nonprescription redwood-framed glasses I’ve been wearing most of the night. Another one, Libby, the bimbo with jet lag, is trying to figure out how to unfold her napkin. My frustration level is surprisingly low, because things could be worse. After all, these could be English girls. We could be drinking … tea.
“So!” I say, clapping my hands together, trying to seem alert. “It was hot out today. No?”
“Where did Greg go?” Libby asks, noticing McDermott’s absence.
“Well, Gorbachev is downstairs,” I tell her. “McDermott, Greg, is going to sign a peace treaty with him, between the United States and Russia.” I pause, trying to gauge her reaction, before adding, “McDermott’s the one behind glasnost, you know.”
“Well … yeah,” she says, her voice impossibly toneless, nodding. “But he told me he was in mergers and … aquasessions.”
I’m looking over at Taylor, who’s still sleeping. I snap one of his suspenders but there’s no reaction, no movement, then I turn back to Libby. “You’re not confused, are you?”
“No,” she says, shrugging. “Not really.”
“Gorbachev’s not downstairs,” Caron says suddenly.
“Are you lying?” Daisy asks, smiling.
I’m thinking: Oh boy. “Yes. Caron’s right. Gorbachev’s not downstairs. He’s at Tunnel. Excuse me. Waitress?” I grab at a passing hardbody who’s wearing a Bill Blass navy lace gown with a silk organza ruffle. “I’ll have a J&B on the rocks and a butcher knife or something sharp from the kitchen. Girls?”
None of them say anything. The waitress is staring at Taylor. I look over at him, then back at the hardbody waitress, then back at Taylor. “Bring him the, um, grapefruit sorbet and, oh, let’s say, a Scotch, okay?”
The waitress just stares at him.
“Ahem, honey?” I wave my hand in front of her face. “J&B? On the rocks?” I tell her, enunciating over the jazz band, who are in the middle of a fine rendition of “Take Five.”
She finally nods.
“And bring them”—I gesture toward the girls—“whatever it was they’re drinking. Ginger ale? Wine cooler?”
“No,” Libby says. “It’s champagne.” She points, then says to Caron, “Right?”
“I guess.” Caron shrugs.
“With peach schnapps,” Daisy reminds her.
“Champagne,” I repeat, to the waitress. “With, uh-huh, peach schnapps. Catch that?”
Waitress nods, writes something down, leaves, and I’m checking out her ass as she walks away, then I look back at the three of them, studying each one very carefully for any signs, a flicker of betrayal that would cross their faces, the one gesture that would give away this robot act, but it’s fairly dark in Nell’s and my hope—that this is the case—is just wishful thinking and so I clap my hands together again and breathe in. “So! It was really hot out today. Right?”
“I need a new fur,” Libby sighs, staring into her champagne glass.
“Full length or ankle length?” Daisy asks in the same toneless voice.
“A stole?” Caron suggests.
“Either a full length or …” Libby stops and thinks hard for a minute. “I saw this short, cuddly wrap …”
“But mink, right?” Daisy asks. “Definitely mink?”
“Oh yeah. Mink,” Libby says.
“Hey Taylor,” I whisper, nudging him. “Wake up. They’re talking. You’ve gotta see this.”
“But which kind?” Caron’s on a roll.
“Don’t you find some minks are too … fluffy?” Daisy asks.
“Some minks are too fluffy.” Libby this time.
“Silver fox is very popular,” Daisy murmurs.
“Beige tones are also increasingly popular,” Libby says.
“Which ones are those?” someone asks.
“Lynx. Chinchilla. Ermine. Beaver—”
“Hello?” Taylor wakes up, blinking. “I’m here.”
“Go back to sleep, Taylor,” I sigh.
“Where’s Mr. McDermott?” he asks, stretching.
“Wandering around downstairs. Looking for coke.” I shrug.
“Silver fox is very popular,” one of them says.
“Raccoon. Fitch. Squirrel. Muskrat. Mongolian lamb.”
“Am I dreaming,” Taylor asks me, “or … am I really hearing an actual conversation?”
“Well, I suppose what passes for one.” I wince. “Shhh. Listen. It’s inspiring.”
At the sushi restaurant tonight McDermott, in a state of total frustration, asked the girls if they knew the names of any of the nine planets. Libby and Caron guessed the moon. Daisy wasn’t sure but she actually guessed … Comet. Daisy thought that Comet was a planet. Dumbfounded, McDermott, Taylor and I all assured her that it was.
“Well, it’s easy to find a good fur now,” Daisy says slowly. “Since more ready-to-wear designers have now entered the fur field, the range increases because each designer selects different pelts to give his collection an individual character.”
“It’s all so scary,” Caron says, shivering.
“Don’t be intimidated,” Daisy says. “Fur is only an accessory. Don’t be intimidated by it.”
“But a luxurious accessory,” Libby points out.
I ask the table, “Has anyone ever played around with a TEC nine-millimeter Uzi? It’s a gun. No? They’re particularly useful because this model has a threaded barrel for attaching silencers and barrel extensions.” I say this nodding.
“Furs shouldn’t be intimidating.” Taylor looks over at me and blankly says, “I’m gradually uncovering some startling information here.”
“But a luxurious accessory,” Libby points out again.
The waitress reappears, setting the drinks down along with a bowl of grapefruit sorbet. Taylor looks at it and says, blinking, “I didn’t order this.”
“Yes you did,” I tell him. “In your sleep you ordered this. You ordered this in your sleep.”
“No I didn’t,” he says, unsure.
“I’ll eat it,” I say. “Just listen.” I’m tapping my fingers against the table loudly.
“Karl Lagerfeld hands down,” Libby’s saying.
“Why?” Caron.
“He created the Fendi collection, of course,” Daisy says, lighting a cigarette.
“I like the Mongolian lamb mixed with mole or”—Caron stops to giggle—“this black leather jacket lined with Persian lamb.”
“What do you think of Geoffrey Beene?” Daisy asks her.
Caron ponders this. “The white satin collars … iffy.”
“But he does marvelous things with Tibetan lambs,” Libby says.
“Carolina Herrera?” Caron asks.
“No, no, too fluffy,” Daisy says, shaking her head.
“Too sch
oolgirl,” Libby agrees.
“James Galanos has the most wonderful Russian lynx bellies, though,” Daisy says.
“And don’t forget Arnold Scaasi. The white ermine,” Libby says. “To die for.”
“Really?” I smile and lift my lips into a depraved grin. “To die for?”
“To die for,” Libby says again, affirmative about something for the first time all night.
“I think you’d look adorable in, oh, a Geoffrey Beene, Taylor,” I whine in a high, faggy voice, flopping a limp wrist on his shoulder, but he’s sleeping again so it doesn’t matter. I remove the hand with a sigh.
“That’s Miles …” Caron peers over at some aging gorilla in the next booth with a graying crew cut and an eleven-year-old bimbo balanced on his lap.
Libby turns around to make sure. “But I thought he was filming that Vietnam movie in Philadelphia.”
“No. The Philippines,” Caron says. “It wasn’t in Philadelphia.”
“Oh yeah,” Libby says, then, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. In fact it’s over,” Caron says in a tone that’s completely undecided. She blinks. “In fact it’s … out.” She blinks again. “In fact I think it came out … last year.”
The two of them are looking over at the next booth disinterestedly, but when they turn back to our table, their eyes falling on the sleeping Taylor, Caron turns to Libby and sighs. “Should we go over and say hello?”
Libby nods slowly, her features quizzical in the candlelight, and stands up. “Excuse us.” They leave. Daisy stays, sips Caron’s champagne. I imagine her naked, murdered, maggots burrowing, feasting on her stomach, tits blackened by cigarette burns, Libby eating this corpse out, then I clear my throat. “So it was really hot out today, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” she agrees.
“Ask me a question,” I tell her, feeling suddenly, well, spontaneous.
She inhales on the cigarette, then blows out. “So what do you do?”
“What do you think I do?” And frisky too.
“A model?” She shrugs. “An actor?”
“No,” I say. “Flattering, but no.”
“Well?”
“I’m into, oh, murders and executions mostly. It depends.” I shrug.
“Do you like it?” she asks, unfazed.
“Um … It depends. Why?” I take a bite of sorbet.
“Well, most guys I know who work in mergers and acquisitions don’t really like it,” she says.
“That’s not what I said,” I say, adding a forced smile, finishing my J&B. “Oh, forget it.”
“Ask me a question,” she says.
“Okay. Where do you …” I stop for a moment, stuck, then, “summer?”
“Maine,” she says. “Ask me something else.”
“Where do you work out?”
“Private trainer,” she says. “How about you?”
“Xclusive,” I say. “On the Upper West Side.”
“Really?” She smiles, then notices someone behind me, but her expression doesn’t change, and her voice remains flat. “Francesca. Oh my god. It’s Francesca. Look.”
“Daisy! And Patrick, you devil!” Francesca screeches. “Daisy, what in god’s name are you doing with a stud like Batman?” She overtakes the booth, sliding in with this bored blond girl I don’t recognize. Francesca is wearing a velvet dress by Saint Laurent Rive Gauche and the girl I don’t recognize is wearing a wool dress by Geoffrey Beene. Both are wearing pearls.
“Hello, Francesca,” I say.
“Daisy, oh my god, Ben and Jerry’s here. I love Ben and Jerry,” I think is what she says, all in a breathless rush, shouting over the light din—actually, drowning out the light din—of the jazz band. “Don’t you love Ben and Jerry?” she asks, her eyes wide, and then she rasps out to a passing waitress, “Orange juice! I need orange juice! Jesus fucking Christ the help here has got to go. Where’s Nell? I’ll tell her,” she mutters, looking around the room, then turns to Daisy. “How’s my face? Bateman, Ben and Jerry are here. Don’t sit there like an idiot. Oh god I’m kidding. I adore Patrick but come on, Batman, look lively, you stud, Ben and Jerry are here.” She winks lasciviously then wets both lips with her tongue. Francesca writes for Vanity Fair.
“But I already …” I stop and look down at my sorbet, troubled. “I already ordered this grapefruit sorbet.” Gloomily I point at the dish, confused. “I don’t want any ice cream.”
“For Christ sakes, Bateman, Jagger is here. Mick. Jerry. You know,” Francesca says, talking to the booth but constantly scanning the room. Daisy’s expression hasn’t changed once all evening. “What a y-u-p-p-i-e,” she spells to the blond girl, then Francesca’s eyes land on my sorbet. I pull it toward me protectively.
“Oh yeah,” I say. “‘Just another night, just another night with you …’” I sing, sort of. “I know who he is.”
“You look thin, Daisy, you’re making me sick. Anyway, this is Alison Poole, who is also too thin and makes me sick,” Francesca says, lightly slapping my hands covering the sorbet, pulling the dish back toward her. “And this is Daisy Milton and Patrick—”
“We’ve met,” Alison says, glaring at me.
“Hi, Alison. Pat Bateman,” I say, holding out my hand.
“We’ve met,” she says again, glaring harder.
“Uh … we have?” I ask.
Francesca screams, “God, look at that profile of Bateman’s. Totally Roman. And those lashes!” she shrieks.
Daisy smiles approvingly. I play it cool, ignoring them.
I recognize Alison as a girl I did last spring while at the Kentucky Derby with Evelyn and her parents. I remember she screamed when I tried to push my entire arm, gloved and slathered with Vaseline, toothpaste, anything I could find, up into her vagina. She was drunk, wasted on coke, and I had tied her up with wire, slapped duct tape all over her mouth, her face, her breasts. Francesca has given me head before. I don’t remember the place, or when, but she’s given me head and liked it. I suddenly remember, painfully, that I would have liked to see Alison bleed to death that afternoon last spring but something stopped me. She was so high—“oh my god,” she kept moaning during those hours, blood bubbling out of her nose—she never wept. Maybe that was the problem; maybe that was what saved her. I won a lot of money that weekend on a horse called Indecent Exposure.
“Well … Hi.” I smile weakly but soon regain my confidence. Alison would never have told anyone that story. Not a soul could’ve possibly heard about that lovely, horrible afternoon. I grin at her in the darkness of Nell’s. “Yeah, I remember you. You were a real …” I pause, then growl, “manhandler.”
She says nothing, just looks at me like I’m the opposite of civilization or something.
“Jesus. Is Taylor sleeping or just dead?” Francesca asks while gobbling up what’s left of my sorbet. “Oh my God, did anyone read Page Six today? I was in it, so was Daisy. And Taffy too.”
Alison gets up without looking over at me. “I’m going to find Skip downstairs and dance.” She walks away.
McDermott comes back and gives Alison, who’s squeezing past him, the once-over before taking the seat next to mine.
“Any luck?” I ask.
“No dice,” he says, wiping his nose. He lifts my drink to his face and sniffs it, then takes a sip and lights one of Daisy’s cigarettes. He looks back at me while lighting it and introduces himself to Francesca before looking back at me. “Don’t look so, you know, astounded, Bateman. It happens.”
I pause, staring at him, before asking, “Are you, uh, like, shitting me, McDermott?”
“No,” he says. “No luck.”
I pause again, then look down at my lap and sigh. “Look, McDermott, I’ve pulled this act before. I know what you’re doing.”
“I fucked her.” He sniffs again, pointing at some girl in one of the booths up front. McDermott’s sweating profusely and reeks of Xeryus.
“You did? Wow. Now listen to me,” I say, then notice something out of
the corner of my eye. “Francesca …”
“What?” She looks up, a dribble of sorbet running down her chin.
“You’re eating my sorbet?” I point at the dish.
She swallows, glaring at me. “Lighten up, Bateman. What do you want from me, you gorgeous stud? An AIDS test? Oh my god, speaking of which, that guy over there, Krafft? Yep. No loss.”
The guy Francesca pointed out is sitting in a booth near the stage where the jazz band plays. His hair is slicked back over a very boyish face and he’s wearing a suit with pleated trousers and a silk shirt with light gray polka dots by Comme des Garçons Homme and sipping a martini and it’s not difficult to imagine him in someone’s bedroom tonight, lying, probably to the girl he’s sitting with: blonde, big tits, wearing a metal-studded dress by Giorgio di Sant’Angelo.
“Should we tell her?” someone asks.
“Oh no,” Daisy says. “Don’t. She looks like a real bitch.”
“Listen to me, McDermott.” I lean in toward him. “You have drugs. I can see it in your eyes. Not to mention that fucking sniffing.”
“Nope. Negatif. Not tonight, honey.” He wags his head.
Applause for the jazz band—the whole table claps, even Taylor, whom Francesca has inadvertently woken up, and I turn away from McDermott, heavily pissed, and bring my hands together like everyone else. Caron and Libby walk up-to the table and Libby says, “Caron’s got to go to Atlanta tomorrow. Vogue shoot. We have to leave.” Someone gets the check and McDermott puts it on his gold AmEx card, which conclusively proves that he’s high on coke since he’s a famous tightwad.
Outside it’s muggy and there’s a faint drizzle, almost like a mist, lightning but no thunder. I trail McDermott, hoping to confront him, almost bumping into someone in a wheelchair who I remember rolling up to the ropes when we first arrived and the guy’s still sitting there, wheels moving up then backing away, up then back on the pavement, totally ignored by the doormen.
“McDermott,” I call. “What are you doing? Give me your drugs.”
He turns, facing me, and breaks into this weird jig, twirling around, then just as abruptly he stops and walks over to a black woman and child who are sitting in the doorway of the closed deli next to Nell’s and predictably she’s begging for food, a predictable cardboard sign at her feet. It’s hard to tell if the kid, six or seven, is black or not, even if it’s really hers, since the light outside Nell’s is too bright, really unflattering, and tends to make everyone’s skin look the same yellowish, washed-out color.
American Psycho Page 24