American Psycho (6 page)

“Ah,” Price exclaims. “One of those young British faggots serving internship at …?”

“How do you know he’s a faggot?” I ask him.

“They’re all faggots.” Price shrugs. “The British.”

“How would
you
know, Timothy?” Van Patten grins.

“I saw him fuck Bateman up the ass in the men’s room at Morgan Stanley,” Price says.

I sigh and ask Preston, “Where
is
Morrison interning?”

“I forget,” Preston says, scratching his head. “Lazard?”

“Where?” McDermott presses. “First Boston? Goldman?”

“I’m not sure,” Preston says. “Maybe Drexel? Listen, he’s just an assistant corporate finance analyst and his ugly, black-tooth girlfriend is in some dinky
rat
hole doing leveraged
buy
outs.”

“Where are we
eat
ing?” I ask, my patience at an all-time low. “We need to make a reservation. I’m not standing at some fucking
bar.
”

“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
list
ening,” 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.

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 golden 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.”

“
Euro
trash, David,” Price explains. “
Euro
trash.”

“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
shit
load.”

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 im
press.
”

“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?”