American Psycho (48 page)

McDermott and I are supposed to have dinner tonight at 1500 and he calls me around six-thirty, forty minutes before our actual reservation (he couldn’t get us in at any other time, except for six-ten or nine, which is when the restaurant closes—it serves Californian cuisine and its seating times are an affectation carried over from that state), and though I’m in the middle of flossing my teeth, all of my cordless phones lie by the sink in the bathroom and I’m able to pick the right one up on the second ring. So far I’m wearing black Armani trousers, a white Armani shirt, a red and black Armani tie. McDermott lets me
know that Hamlin wants to come with us. I’m hungry. There’s a pause.

“So?” I ask, straightening my tie. “Okay.”

“So?” McDermott sighs. “Hamlin doesn’t want to go to 1500.”

“Why not?” I turn off the tap in the sink.

“He was
there
last night.”

“So … what are
you
, McDermott, trying to tell
me
?”

“That we’re
going
someplace else,” he says.

“Where?” I ask cautiously.

“Alex Goes to Camp is where
Hamlin
suggested,” he says.

“Hold on. I’m Plaxing.” After swishing the antiplaque formula around in my mouth and inspecting my hairline in the mirror, I spit out the Plax. “Veto. Bypass.
I
went
there
last week.”

“I
know.
So did I,” McDermott says. “Besides, it’s cheap. So where do we go instead?”

“Didn’t Hamlin have a fucking backup?” I growl, irritated.

“Er, no.”

“Call him back and get one,” I say, walking out of the bathroom. “I seem to have misplaced my Zagat.”

“Do you want to hold or should I call you back?” he asks.

“Call me back, bozo.” We hang up.

Minutes pass. The phone rings. I don’t bother screening it. It’s McDermott again.

“Well?” I ask.

“Hamlin doesn’t have a backup and he wants to invite Luis Carruthers and what I want to know is, does this mean Courtney’s coming?” McDermott asks.

“Luis can
not
come,” I say.

“Why not?”

“He just
can’t.
” I ask, “Why does he want Luis to come?”

There’s a pause. “Hold on,” McDermott says. “He’s on the other line. I’ll ask him.”

“Who?” A flash of panic. “Luis?”

“Hamlin.”

While holding I move into the kitchen, over to the refrigerator, and take out a bottle of Perrier. I’m looking for a glass when I hear a click.

“Listen,” I say when McDermott gets back on the line. “I don’t want to see Luis
or
Courtney so, you know, dissuade them or something. Use your charm. Be charming.”

“Hamlin has to have dinner with a client from Texas and—”

I cut him off. “Wait, this has nothing to do with Luis. Let Hamlin take the fag out himself.”

“Hamlin wants Carruthers to come because Hamlin is supposed to be dealing with the Panasonic case, but Carruthers knows a lot more about it and that’s why he wants Carruthers to come,” McDermott explains.

I pause while taking this in. “If Luis comes I’ll kill him. I swear to god I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Jeez, Bateman,” McDermott murmurs, concerned. “You’re a real humanitarian. A sage.”

“No. Just …” I start, confused, irritated. “Just … sensible.”

“I just want to know if Luis comes does this mean that Courtney will come too?” he wonders again.

“Tell Hamlin to invite—oh shit, I don’t know.” I stop. “Tell Hamlin to have dinner with the Texas guy alone.” I stop again, realizing something. “Wait a minute. Does this mean Hamlin will … take
us
out? I mean pay for it, since it’s a business dinner?”

“You know, sometimes I think you’re very smart, Bateman,” McDermott says. “Other times …”

“Oh shit, what the hell am I saying?” I ask myself out loud, annoyed. “You and I can have a goddamn
business
dinner together. Jesus. I’m not going. That’s it. I’m not going.”

“Not even if Luis
doesn’t
come?” he asks.

“No. Nope.”

“Why not?” he whines. “We
have
reservations at 1500.”

“I … have to … watch
The Cosby Show.
”

“Oh
tape
it for Christ sakes, you
ass.
”

“Wait.” I’ve realized something else. “Do you think Hamlin will”—I pause awkwardly—“have some drugs, perhaps … for the Texan?”

“What does Bateman think?” McDermott asks, the jaded asshole.

“Hmmm. I’m thinking about it. I’m thinking about this.”

After a pause McDermott says “Tick-tock, tick-tock” in
singsong. “We’re getting nowhere. Of
course
Hamlin is going to be carrying.”

“Get Hamlin, have him … get him on three-way,” I sputter, checking my Rolex. “Hurry. Maybe we can talk him into 1500.”

“Okay,” McDermott says. “Hold on.”

There are four clicking noises and then I hear Hamlin saying, “Bateman, is it okay to wear argyle socks with a business suit?” He’s attempting a joke but it fails to amuse me.

Sighing inwardly, my eyes closed, I answer, impatient, “Not really, Hamlin. They’re too sporty. They interfere with a business image. You can wear them with casual suits. Tweeds, whatever. Now Hamlin?”

“Bateman?” And then he says, “Thank you.”

“Luis
cannot
come,” I tell him. “And you’re welcome.”

“No prob,” he says. “The Texan’s not coming anyway.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Hay letsyall go to See Bee Jee Bees I har that’s pretty new wave. Lifestyle difference,” Hamlin explains. “The Texan is not accepted until Monday. I quickly, and quite nimbly I might add, rearranged my hectic schedule. A sick father. A forest fire. An excuse.”

“How does that take care of Luis?” I ask suspiciously.

“
Luis
is having dinner with the Texan tonight, which saves me a whole lotta trouble, pardner.
I’m
seeing him at Smith and Wollensky on Monday,” Hamlin says, pleased with himself. “So everything is A-okay.”

“Wait,” McDermott asks tentatively, “does this mean that Courtney isn’t coming?”

“We have missed or are going to miss our reservations at 1500,” I point out. “Besides, Hamlin, you went there last night, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s got passable carpaccio. Decent wren. Okay sorbets. But let’s go somewhere else and, uh, then go on the search for the, uh, perfect body. Gentlemen?”

“Sounds good,” I say, amused that Hamlin, for once, has the right idea. “But what is Cindy going to say about this?”

“Cindy has to go to a charity thing at the Plaza, something—”

“That’s the
Trump
Plaza,” I note absently, while finally opening the Perrier bottle.

“Yeah, the Trump Plaza,” he says. “Something about trees near the library. Money for trees or a bush of some kind,” he says, unsure. “Plants? Beats me.”

“So where to?” McDermott asks.

“Who cancels 1500?” I ask.

“You do,” McDermott says.

“Oh McDermott,” I moan, “just do it.”

“Wait,” Hamlin says. “Let’s decide where we’re
going
first.”

“Agreed.” McDermott, the parliamentarian.

“I am fanatically opposed to anywhere
not
on the Upper West or Upper East side of this city,” I say.

“Bellini’s?” Hamlin suggests.

“Nope. Can’t smoke cigars there,” McDermott and I say at the same time.

“Cross that one out,” Hamlin says. “Gandango?” he suggests.

“Possibility, possibility,” I murmur, mulling it over. “Trump eats there.”

“Zeus Bar?” one of them asks.

“Make a reservation,” says the other.

“Wait,” I tell them, “I’m thinking.”

“Bate
man
…,” Hamlin warns.

“I’m toying with the idea,” I say.

“
Bateman
…”

“Wait. Let me toy for a minute.”

“I’m really too irritated to be dealing with this right now,” McDermott says.

“Why don’t we just forget this shit and bash some Japs,” Hamlin suggests. “
Then
find the perfect body.”

“Not a bad idea, actually.” I shrug. “Decent combo.”

“What do
you
want to do, Bateman?” McDermott asks.

Thinking about it, thousands of miles away, I answer, “I want to …”

“Yes …?” they both ask expectantly.

“I want to … pulverize a woman’s face with a large, heavy brick.”

“
Besides
that,” Hamlin moans impatiently.

“Okay, fine,” I say, snapping out of it. “Zeus Bar.”

“You sure? Right? Zeus Bar?” Hamlin concludes, he hopes.

“Guys. I am finding myself increasingly incapable of dealing with this
at all
,” McDermott says. “Zeus Bar. That’s final.”

“Hold on,” Hamlin says. “I’ll call and make a reservation.” He clicks off, leaving McDermott and myself on hold. It’s silent for a long time before either one of us says anything.

“You know,” I finally say. “It will probably be impossible to get a reservation there.”

“Maybe we should go to M.K. The Texan would probably like to go to M.K.,” Craig says.

“But, McDermott, the
Texan
isn’t coming,” I point out.

“I can’t go to M.K. anyway,” he says, not listening, and he doesn’t mention why.

“I don’t want to know about it.”

We wait two more minutes for Hamlin.

“What in the hell is he doing?” I ask, then my call waiting clicks in.

McDermott hears it too. “Do you want to take that?”

“I’m thinking.” It clicks again. I moan and tell McDermott to hold on. It’s Jeanette. She sounds tired and sad. I don’t want to get back on the other line so I ask her what she did last night.

“After you were supposed to meet me?” she asks.

I pause, unsure. “Uh, yeah.”

“We ended up at Palladium which was completely empty. They were letting in people for free.” She signs. “We saw maybe four or five people.”

“That you knew?” I ask hopefully.

“In … the … club,” she says, spacing each word out bitterly.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say. “I had to … return some videotapes.…” And then, reacting to her silence, “You know, I
would’ve
met you—”

“I don’t want to hear about it,” she sighs, cutting me off. “What are you doing tonight?”

I pause, wondering how to answer, before admitting, “Zeus Bar at nine. McDermott. Hamlin.” And then, less hopefully, “Would you like to meet us?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs. Without a trace of softness she asks, “Do you want me to?”

“Must you insist on being so pathetic?” I ask back.

She hangs up on me. I get back on the other line.

“Bateman, Bateman, Bateman, Bateman,” Hamlin is droning.

“I’m here. Shut the fuck up.”

“Are we still procrastinating?” McDermott asks. “Don’t procrastinate.”

“I’ve decided I’d rather play golf,” I say. “I haven’t been golfing in a long time.”

“Fuck golf, Bateman,” Hamlin says. “We have a nine o’clock reservation at Kaktus—”

“
And
a reservation to cancel at 1500 in, um, let’s see … twenty minutes ago, Bateman,” McDermott says.

“Oh shit, Craig.
Cancel
them
now
,” I say tiredly.

“God, I hate golf,” Hamlin says, shuddering.

“
You
cancel them,” McDermott says, laughing.

“What name are they under?” I ask, not laughing, my voice rising.

After a pause, McDermott says “Carruthers” softly.

Hamlin and I burst out laughing.

“Really?” I ask.

“We couldn’t get into Zeus Bar,” Hamlin says. “So it’s Kaktus.”

“Hip,” I say dejectedly. “I guess.”

“Cheer up.” Hamlin chortles.

My call waiting buzzes again and before I can even decide whether to take it or not, Hamlin makes up my mind for me. “Now if you guys don’t want to go to Kaktus—”

“Wait, my call waiting,” I say. “Hold on.”

Jeanette is in tears. “What aren’t you capable of?” she asks, sobbing. “Just tell me what you are
not
capable of.”

“Baby. Jeanette,” I say soothingly. “Listen, please. We’ll be at Zeus Bar at ten. Okay?”

“Patrick, please,” she begs. “I’m okay. I just want to talk—”

“I’ll see you at nine or ten, whenever,” I say. “I’ve gotta go. Hamlin and McDermott are on the other line.”

“Okay.” She sniffs, composing herself, clearing her throat. “I’ll see you there. I’m really sor—”

I click back onto the other line. McDermott is the only one left.

“Where’s Hamlin?”

“He got off,” McDermott says. “Hell see us at nine.”

“Great,” I murmur. “I feel settled.”

“Who was that?”

“Jeanette,” I say.

I hear a faint click, then another one.

“Was that yours or mine?” McDermott asks.

“Yours,” I say. “I think.”

“Hold on.”

I wait, impatiently pacing the length of the kitchen. McDermott clicks back on.

“It’s Van Patten,” he says. “I’m putting him on three-way.”

Four more clicks.

“Hey Bateman,” Van Patten cries out. “
Buddy.
”

“Mr. Manhattan,” I say. “I’m acknowledging you.”

“Hey, what’s the correct way to wear a cummerbund?” he asks.