American Psycho (60 page)

Thursday night I run into Harold Carnes at a party for a new club called World’s End that opens in a space where Petty’s used to be on the Upper East Side. I’m with Nina Goodrich and Jean in a booth and Harold’s standing at the bar drinking champagne. I’m drunk enough to finally confront him about the message I left on his machine. Excused from the booth, I make my way to the other side of the bar, realizing that I need a martini to fortify myself before discussing this with Carnes (it has been a
very
unstable week for me—I found myself sobbing during an episode of
Alf
on Monday). Nervously, I approach. Harold is wearing a wool suit by Gieves & Hawkes, a silk twill tie, cotton shirt, shoes by Paul Stuart; he looks heavier than I remember. “Face it,” he’s telling Truman Drake, “the Japanese will own most of this country by the end of the ’90s.”

Relieved that Harold is, as usual, still dispensing valuable and
new
information, with the addition of a faint but unmistakable trace of, god forbid, an English accent, I find myself brazen enough to blurt out, “Shut up, Carnes, they will
not.
” I down the martini, Stoli, while Carnes, looking quite taken aback, stricken almost, turns around to face me, and his bloated head
breaks out into an uncertain smile. Someone behind us is saying, “But look what happened to Gekko …”

Truman Drake pats Harold on the back and asks me, “Is there one suspender width that’s more, well, appropriate than others?” Irritably I push him into the crowd and he disappears.

“So Harold,” I say, “did you get my message?”

Carnes seems confused at first and, while lighting a cigarette, finally laughs. “Jesus, Davis. Yes, that was hi
lar
ious. That
was
you, was it?”

“Yes, naturally.” I’m blinking, muttering to myself, really, waving his cigarette smoke away from my face.

“Bateman killing Owen and the escort girl?” He keeps chuckling. “Oh that’s bloody marvelous. Really key, as they say at the Groucho Club. Really key.” Then, looking dismayed, he adds, “It was a rather long message, no?”

I’m smiling idiotically and then I say, “But what exactly do you mean, Harold?” Secretly thinking to myself that this fat bastard couldn’t possibly have gotten into the fucking Groucho Club, and even if he had, to admit it in such a fashion obliterates the fact that his entrance was accepted.

“Why, the message you left.” Carnes is already looking around the club, waving to various people and bimbos. “By the way, Davis, how is Cynthia?” He accepts a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “You’re still seeing her, right?”

“But wait, Harold. What-do-you-mean?” I repeat emphatically.

He’s already bored, neither concerned nor listening, and excusing himself, says, “Nothing. Good to see you. Oh my, is that Edward Towers?”

I crane my neck to look, then turn back to Harold. “No,” I say. “Carnes?
Wait.
”

“Davis,” he sighs, as if patiently trying to explain something to a child, “I am not one to bad-mouth anyone, your joke
was
amusing. But come on, man, you had one fatal flaw: Bateman’s such a bloody ass-kisser, such a brown-nosing goody-goody, that I couldn’t fully appreciate it. Otherwise it was amusing. Now let’s have lunch, or we’ll have dinner at 150 Wooster or something with McDermott or Preston. A real raver.” He tries to move on.

“Ray-vah? Ray-vah? Did you say
ray-vah
, Carnes?” I’m
wide-eyed, feeling wired even though I haven’t done any drugs. “What are you
talking
about? Bateman is
what
?”

“Oh good god, man. Why else would Evelyn Richards dump him? You know, really. He could barely
pick up
an escort girl, let alone … what was it you said he did to her?” Harold is still looking distractedly around the club and he waves to another couple, raising his champagne glass. “Oh yes, ‘chop her up.’” He starts laughing again, though this time it sounds polite. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must really.”

“Wait. Stop,” I shout, looking up into Carnes’ face, making sure he’s listening. “You don’t seem to understand. You’re not really comprehending any of this.
I
killed him.
I
did it, Carnes.
I
chopped Owen’s fucking head off.
I
tortured dozens of girls. That whole message I left on your machine was
true.
” I’m drained, not appearing calm, wondering why this doesn’t feel like a blessing to me.

“Excuse me,” he says, trying to ignore my outburst. “I really
must
be going.”

“No!” I shout. “Now, Carnes. Listen to me. Listen very, very carefully. I-killed-Paul-Owen-and-I-liked-it. I can’t make myself any clearer.” My stress causes me to choke on the words.

“But that’s simply not possible,” he says, brushing me off. “And I’m not finding this amusing anymore.”

“It never was supposed to be!” I bellow, and then, “Why isn’t it possible?”

“It’s just not,” he says, eyeing me worriedly.

“Why not?” I shout again over the music, though there’s really no need to, adding, “You stupid bastard.”

He stares at me as if we are both underwater and shouts back, very clearly over the din of the club, “Because … I had … dinner … with Paul Owen … twice … in London …
just ten days ago.
”

After we stare at each other for what seems like a minute, I finally have the nerve to say something back to him but my voice lacks any authority and I’m not sure if I believe myself when I tell him, simply, “No, you … didn’t.” But it comes out a question, not a statement.

“Now, Donaldson,” Carnes says, removing my hand from his arm. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Oh you’re excused,” I sneer. Then I make my way back to our booth where John Edmonton and Peter Beavers are now sitting and I numb myself with a Halcion before taking Jean home, back to my place. Jean is wearing something by Oscar de la Renta. Nina Goodrich was wearing a sequined dress by Matsuda and refused to give me her number, even though Jean was in the women’s room downstairs.

Another broken scene in what passes for my life occurs on Wednesday, seemingly pointing to someone’s fault, though whose I can’t be sure. Stuck in gridlock in a cab heading downtown toward Wall Street after a power breakfast at the Regency with Peter Russell, who used to be my dealer before he got a real job, and Eddie Lambert. Russell was wearing a two-button wool sport coat by Redaelli, a cotton shirt by Hackert, a silk tie by Richel, pleated wool trousers by Krizia Uomo and leather Cole-Haan shoes.
The Patty Winters Show
this morning was about girls in the fourth grade who trade sex for crack and I almost canceled with Lambert and Russell to catch it. Russell ordered for me while I was in the lobby on the phone. It was, unfortunately, a high-fat, high-sodium breakfast and before I could comprehend what was happening, plates of herbed waffles with ham in Madeira cream sauce, grilled sausages and sour cream coffee cake were set at our table and I had to ask the waiter for a pot of decaf herbal tea, a plate of sliced mango with blueberries and a bottle of Evian. In the early morning light that poured through the windows at the Regency I watched as our waiter shaved black truffles gracefully over Lambert’s steaming eggs. Overcome, I broke down and demanded to have the black truffles shaved over my mango slices. Nothing much happened during the breakfast. I had to make another phone call, and when I returned to our table I noticed that a mango slice was missing, but I didn’t accuse anyone. I had other things
on my mind: how to help America’s schools, the trust gap, desk sets, a new era of possibilities and what’s in it for me, getting tickets to see Sting in
The Threepenny Opera
, which just opened on Broadway, how to take more and remember less …

In the cab I’m wearing a double-breasted cashmere and wool overcoat by Studio 000.1 from Ferré, a wool suit with pleated trousers by DeRigueur from Schoeneman, a silk tie by Givenchy Gentleman, socks by Interwoven, shoes by Armani, reading the
Wall Street Journal
with my Ray-Ban sunglasses on and listening to a Walkman with a Bix Beiderbecke tape playing in it. I put down the
Journal
, pick up the
Post
, just to check Page Six. At the light on Seventh and Thirty-fourth, in the cab next to this one sits, I think, Kevin Gladwin, wearing a suit by Ralph Lauren. I lower my sunglasses. Kevin looks up from the new issue of
Money
magazine and spots me looking over at him in a curious way before his cab moves forward in the traffic. The cab I’m in suddenly breaks free of the gridlock and turns right on Twenty-seventh, taking the West Side Highway down to Wall Street. I put the paper down, concentrate on the music and the weather, how unseasonably cool it is, and I’m just beginning to notice the way the cabdriver looks at me in the rearview mirror. A suspicious, hungry expression keeps changing the features on his face—a mass of clogged pores, ingrown hairs. I sigh, expecting this, ignoring him. Open the hood of a car and it will tell you something about the people who designed it, is just one of many phrases I’m tortured by.

But the driver knocks on the plexiglass divider, motions to me. While taking the Walkman off I notice he’s locked all the doors—I see the locks lower in a flash, hear the hollow clicking noise, the moment I turn the volume off. The cab is speeding faster than it should down the highway, in the far right lane. “Yes?” I ask irritably. “What?”

“Hey, don’t I know you?” he asks in a thick, barely penetrable accent that could easily be either New Jersey or Mediterranean.

“No.” I start putting the Walkman back on.

“You look familiar,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“No I don’t. You don’t either,” I say, then, an afterthought, “Chris Hagen.”

“Come on.” He’s smiling like there’s something wrong. “I know who you are.”

“I’m in a movie. I’m an actor,” I tell him. “A model.”

“Nah, that’s not it,” he says grimly.

“Well”—I lean over, checking his name—“Abdullah, do you have a membership at M.K.?”

He doesn’t answer. I reopen the
Post
to a photo of the mayor dressed as a pineapple, then close it again and rewind the tape in my Walkman. I start counting to myself—one, two, three, four—my eyes focus in on the meter. Why didn’t I carry a gun with me this morning? Because I didn’t think I had to. The only weapon on me is a used knife from last night.

“No,” he says again. “I’ve seen your face somewhere.”

Finally, exasperated, I ask, trying to appear casual, “You have?
Really
? Interesting. Just watch the road, Abdullah.”

There’s a long, scary pause while he stares at me in the rearview mirror and the grim smile fades. His face is blank. He says, “I know. Man, I know who you are,” and he’s nodding, his mouth drawn tight. The radio that was tuned in to the news is shut off.

Buildings pass by in a gray-red blur, the cab passes other cabs, the sky changes color from blue to purple to black back to blue. At another light—a red one he races straight through—we pass, on the other side of the West Side Highway, a new D’Agostino’s on the corner where Mars used to be and it moves me to tears, almost, because it’s something that’s identifiable and I get as nostalgic for the market (even though it’s not one I will ever shop at) as I have about anything and I almost interrupt the driver, tell him to pull over, have him let me out, let him keep the change from a ten—no, a twenty—but I can’t move because he’s driving too fast and something intervenes, something unthinkable and ludicrous, and I hear him say it, maybe. “You’re the guy who kill Solly.” His face is locked into a determined grimace. As with everything else, the following happens very quickly, though it feels like an endurance test.

I swallow, lower my sunglasses and tell him to slow down before asking, “Who, may I ask, is Sally?”

“Man, your face is on a wanted poster downtown,” he says, unflinching.

“I think I would like to stop here,” I manage to croak out.

“You’re the guy, right?” He’s looking at me like I’m some kind of viper.

Another cab, its light on, empty, cruises past ours, going at least eighty. I’m not saying anything, just shaking my head. “I am going to take”—I swallow, trembling, open my leather datebook, pull out a Mount Blanc pen from my Bottega Veneta briefcase—“your license number down …”