American Psycho (44 page)

In the ride back toward Nell’s Christie had admitted that she was still upset about the last time we shared together, and that she had major reservations about tonight, but the money I’ve offered is simply too good to pass up and I promised her that nothing like last time will be repeated. Though she was still scared, a few shots of vodka in the back of the limo along with the money I’d given her so far, over sixteen hundred dollars, relaxed her like a tranquilizer. Her moodiness turned me on and she acted like a total sex kitten when I first handed her the cash amount—six bills attached to a Hughlans silver money clip—but after I urged her into the limo she told me that she might need surgery after what happened last time, or a lawyer, so I wrote out a check to cash in the amount of one thousand dollars, but since I knew it would never be cashed I didn’t have a panic attack about it or anything. Looking over at Elizabeth right now, in my apartment, I’m noticing how well endowed she is in the chest area and I’m hoping that after the Ecstasy hits her system I can convince the two girls to have sex in front of me.

Elizabeth is asking Christie if she’s ever met some asshole named Spicey or been to Au Bar. Christie is shaking her head. I hand Elizabeth the Ecstasy-laden sauvignon blanc while she stares at Christie like she was from Neptune, and after recovering from Christie’s admission she yawns. “Anyway, Au Bar
sucks
now. It’s terrible. I went to a birthday party there for Malcolm Forbes. Oh my god,
please.
” She downs the wine, grimacing. I take a seat in one of the chrome and oak Sottsass chairs and reach over to the ice bucket that sits on the glass-top coffee table, adjusting the bottle of wine in order to chill it better. Immediately Elizabeth makes a move for it, pouring herself another glass. I dissolve two more tabs of the Ecstasy in the bottle before bringing it into the living room. A sullen Christie sips her untainted wine cautiously and tries not to stare at the floor; she still seems scared, and finding the silence unbearable or incriminating she asks Elizabeth where she met me.

“Oh god,” Elizabeth starts, moaning as if she falsely remembered something embarrassing. “I met Patrick at, oh god, the Kentucky Derby in ’86—no, ’87, and …” She turns to me. “You were hanging out with that bimbo Alison something … Stoole?”

“Poole, honey,” I reply calmly. “Alison Poole.”

“Yeah, that was her name,” she says, then with unmasked sarcasm, “Hot number.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, offended. “She
was
a hot number.”

Elizabeth turns to Christie and unfortunately says, “If you had an American Express card she’d give you a blow-job,” and I’m hoping to god that Christie doesn’t look over at Elizabeth, confused, and say “But we don’t take credit cards.” To make sure this doesn’t happen, I bellow “Oh, bullshit,” but good-naturedly.

“Listen,” Elizabeth tells Christie, holding her hand out like a fag offering gossipy information. “This girl worked at a tanning salon, and”—and in the same sentence, without changing tone—“what do you do?”

After a long silence, Christie turning redder and even more scared, I say, “She’s … my cousin.”

Slowly, Elizabeth takes this in and says, “Uh-huh?”

After another long silence, I say, “She’s … from France.”

Elizabeth looks at me skeptically—like I’m completely crazy—but chooses not to pursue this line of questioning and asks instead, “Where’s your phone? I’ve
got
to call Harley.”

I move over to the kitchen and bring the cordless phone to her, pulling up its antenna. She dials a number and, while waiting
for someone to answer, stares at Christie. “Where do you summer?” she asks. “Southampton?”

Christie looks at me and then back at Elizabeth and quietly says, “No.”

“Oh
god
,” Elizabeth wails, “it’s his
machine.
”

“Elizabeth.” I point at my Rolex. “It’s
three
in the morning.”

“He’s a goddamn
drug
dealer,” she says, exasperated. “These are his peak hours.”

“Don’t tell him you’re here,” I warn.

“Why would I?” she asks. Distracted, she reaches for her wine and downs another full glass and makes a face. “This tastes weird.” She checks the label, then shrugs. “Harley? It’s me. I need your services. Translate that any way you’d like. I’m at—” She looks over at me.

“You’re at Marcus Halberstam’s,” I whisper.

“Who?” Leaning in, she grins mischievously.

“Mar-cus Hal-ber-stam,” I whisper again.

“I want the
number
, idiot.” She waves me away and continues, “Anyway, I’m at Mark Hammerstein’s and I’ll try you later and if I don’t see you at Canal Bar tomorrow night I’m going to sic my hairdresser on you. Bon voyage. How do I hang this thing up?” she asks, even though she expertly pushes the antenna down and presses the Off button, tossing the phone onto the Schrager chair that I’ve moved next to the jukebox.

“See.” I smile. “You did it.”

Twenty minutes later Elizabeth is squirming on the couch and I’m trying to coerce her into having sex with Christie in front of me. What started out as a casual suggestion is now at the forefront of my brain and I’m insistent. Christie stares impassively at a stain I hadn’t noticed on the white-oak floor, her wine mostly untouched.

“But I’m
not
a lesbian,” Elizabeth protests again, giggling. “I’m
not
into girls.”

“Is this a
firm
no?” I ask, staring at her glass, then at the near-empty bottle of wine.

“Why’d you think I’d be into
that
?” she asks. Because of the Ecstasy, the question is flirtatious and she seems genuinely interested.
Her foot is rubbing against my thigh. I’ve moved over to the couch, sitting between the two girls, and I’m massaging one of her calves.

“Well, you went to Sarah Lawrence for one thing,” I tell her. “You never know.”

“Those are Sarah Lawrence
guys
, Patrick,” she points out, giggling, rubbing harder, causing friction, heat, everything.

“Well, I’m sorry,” I admit. “I don’t usually deal with a lot of guys who wear panty hose on the Street.”

“Patrick,
you
went to Patrick, I mean, Harvard, oh god, I’m
so
drunk. Anyway, listen, I mean, wait—” She pauses, takes a deep breath, mumbles an unintelligible remark about feeling bizarre, then, after closing her eyes, opens them and asks, “Do you have any coke?”

I’m staring at her glass, noticing that the dissolved Ecstasy has slightly changed the color of the wine. She follows my gaze and takes a gulp of it as if it were some kind of elixir that could soothe her increasing agitation. She leans her head back, woozily, on one of the pillows on the couch. “Or Halcion. I’d take a Halcion.”

“Listen, I would just like to see … the two of you … get it on,” I say innocently. “What’s wrong with that? It’s totally disease-free.”

“Patrick.” She laughs. “You’re a lunatic.”

“Come on,” I urge. “Don’t you find Christie attractive?”

“Let’s not get lewd,” she says, but the drug is kicking in and I can sense that she’s excited but doesn’t want to be. “I’m in no mood to have lewd conversation.”

“Come on,” I say. “I think it would be a turn-on.”

“Does he do this all the time?” Elizabeth asks Christie.

I look over at Christie.

Christie shrugs, noncommittal, and studies the back of a compact disc before setting it on the table next to the stereo.

“Are you telling me you’ve never gotten it on with a girl?” I ask, touching a black stocking, then, beneath it, a leg.

“But I’m
not
a lesbian,” she stresses. “And no, I never have.”

“
Never
?” I ask, arching my eyebrows. “Well, there’s always a first time.…”

“You’re making me feel weird,” Elizabeth moans, losing control of her facial features.

“
I’m
not,” I say, shocked.

Elizabeth is making out with Christie, both of them naked on my bed, all the lights in the room burning, while I sit in the Louis Montoni chair by the side of the futon, watching them very closely, occasionally repositioning their bodies. Now I make Elizabeth lie on her back and hold both legs up, open, spreading them as wide as possible, and then I push Christie’s head down and make her lap at her cunt—not suck on it but lap at it, like a thirsty dog—while fingering the clit, then, with her other hand, she sticks two fingers into the open, wet cunt, while her tongue replaces the fingers and then she takes the dripping fingers she’s fucked Elizabeth’s cunt with and forces them into Elizabeth’s mouth, making her suck on them. Then I have Christie lie on top of Elizabeth and make her suck and bite at Elizabeth’s full, swollen tits, which Elizabeth is also squeezing, and then I tell the two of them to kiss each other, hard, and Elizabeth takes the tongue that’s been licking at her own small, pink cunt into her mouth hungrily, like an animal, and uncontrollably they start humping each other, pressing their cunts together, Elizabeth moaning loudly, wrapping her legs around Christie’s hips, bucking up against her, Christie’s legs spread in such a way that, from behind, I can see her cunt, wet and spread, and above it, her hairless pink asshole.

Christie sits up and turns herself around and while still on top of Elizabeth presses her cunt into Elizabeth’s gasping face and soon, like in a movie, like animals, the two of them start feverishly licking and fingering each other’s cunts. Elizabeth, totally red-faced, her neck muscles straining like a madwoman’s, tries to bury her head in Christie’s pussy and then spreads Christie’s ass cheeks open and starts tonguing the hole there, making guttural sounds. “Yeah,” I say in monotone. “Stick your tongue up that bitch’s asshole.”

While this is going on I’m greasing with Vaseline a large white dildo that’s connected to a belt. I stand up and hoist Christie off Elizabeth, who is writhing mindlessly on the futon, and I attach the belt around Christie’s waist, and then I turn Elizabeth around and position her on all fours and I make Christie
fuck her with it doggy style, while I finger Christie’s cunt, then her clit, then her asshole, which is so wet and loose from Elizabeth’s saliva I’m able to force my index finger into it effortlessly and her sphincter tightens, relaxes, then contracts around it. I make Christie pull the dildo out of Elizabeth’s cunt and have Elizabeth lie on her back while Christie fucks her in the missionary position. Elizabeth is fingering her clit while madly French-kissing Christie until, involuntarily, she brings her head back, legs wrapped around Christie’s pumping hips, her face tense, her mouth open, her lipstick smeared by Christie’s cunt juice, and she yells “oh god I’m coming I’m coming fuck me I’m coming” because I told both of them to let me know when they had orgasms and to be very vocal about it.

Soon it’s Christie’s turn and Elizabeth eagerly straps on the dildo and fucks Christie’s cunt with it while I spread Elizabeth’s asshole and tongue it and soon she pushes me away and starts fingering herself desperately. Then Christie puts the dildo on again and she fucks Elizabeth in the ass with it while Elizabeth fingers her clit, bucking her ass up against the dildo, grunting, until she has another orgasm. After pulling the dildo from her ass I make Elizabeth suck on it before she straps it on again and while Christie lies on her back Elizabeth pushes it easily into her cunt. During this I lick Christie’s tits and suck hard on each nipple until both of them are red and stiff. I keep fingering them to make sure they stay that way. During this Christie has kept on a pair of thigh-high suede boots from Henri Bendel that I’ve made her wear.

Elizabeth, naked, running from the bedroom, blood already on her, is moving with difficulty and she screams out something garbled. My orgasm had been prolonged and its release was intense and my knees are weak. I’m naked too, shouting “You bitch, you piece of bitch trash” at her and since most of the blood is coming from her feet, she slips, manages to get up, and I strike out at her with the already wet butcher knife that I’m gripping in my right hand, clumsily, slashing her neck from behind, severing something, some veins. When I strike out a second time while she’s trying to escape, heading for the door, blood shoots even into the living room, across the apartment, splattering against the tempered glass and the laminated oak
panels in the kitchen. She tries to run forward but I’ve cut her jugular and it’s spraying everywhere, blinding both of us momentarily, and I’m leaping at her in a final attempt to finish her off. She turns to face me, her features twisted in anguish, and her legs give out after I punch her in the stomach and she hits the floor and I slide in next to her. After I’ve stabbed her five or six times—the blood’s spurting out in jets; I’m leaning over to inhale its perfume—her muscles stiffen, become rigid, and she goes into her death throes; her throat becomes flooded with dark-red blood and she thrashes around as if tied up, but she isn’t and I have to hold her down. Her mouth fills with blood that cascades over the sides of her cheeks, over her chin. Her body, shaking spasmodically, resembles what I imagine an epileptic goes through in a fit and I hold down her head, rubbing my dick, stiff, covered with blood, across her choking face, until she’s motionless.

Back in my bedroom, Christie lies on the futon, tied to the legs of the bed, bound up with rope, her arms above her head, ripped pages from last month’s
Vanity Fair
stuffed into her mouth. Jumper cables hooked up to a battery are clipped to both breasts, turning them brown. I had been dropping lit matches from Le Relais onto her belly and Elizabeth, delirious and probably overdosing on the Ecstasy, had been helping before I turned on her and chewed at one of her nipples until I couldn’t control myself and bit it off, swallowing. For the first time I notice just how small and delicately structured Christie is, was. I start kneading her breasts with a pair of pliers, then I’m mashing them up, things are moving fast, I’m making hissing noises, she spits out the pages from the magazine, tries to bite my hand, I laugh when she dies, before she does she starts crying, then her eyes roll back in some kind of horrible dream state.

In the morning, for some reason, Christie’s battered hands are swollen to the size of footballs, the fingers are indistinguishable from the rest of her hand and the smell coming from her burnt corpse is jolting and I have to open the Venetian blinds, which are spattered with burnt fat from when Christie’s breasts burst apart, electrocuting her, and then the windows, to air out the room. Her eyes are wide open and glazed over and her
mouth is lipless and black and there’s also a black pit where her vagina should be (though I don’t remember doing anything to it) and her lungs are visible beneath the charred ribs. What is left of Elizabeth’s body lies crumpled in the corner of the living room. She’s missing her right arm and chunks of her right leg. Her left hand, chopped off at the wrist, lies clenched on top of the island in the kitchen, in its own small pool of blood. Her head sits on the kitchen table and its blood-soaked face—even with both eyes scooped out and a pair of Alain Mikli sunglasses over the holes—looks like it’s frowning. I get very tired looking at it and though I didn’t get any sleep last night and I’m utterly spent, I still have a lunch appointment at Odeon with Jem Davies and Alana Burton at one. That’s very important to me and I have to debate whether I should cancel it or not.