American Psycho (8 page)

“Who is Paul Owen with?” I hear McDermott asking Price.

“Some weasel from Kicker Peabody,” Price says distractedly. “
He
knew McCoy.”

“Then why is he sitting with those dweebs from Drexel?” McDermott asks. “Isn’t that Spencer Wynn?”

“Are you freebasing or
what
?” Price asks. “That’s not Spencer Wynn.”

I look over at Paul Owen, sitting in a booth with three other guys—one of whom could be Jeff Duvall, suspenders, slicked-back hair, horn-rimmed glasses, all of them drinking champagne—and I lazily wonder about how Owen got the Fisher account. It makes me not hungry but our meals arrive almost immediately after our appetizers are taken away and we begin to eat. McDermott undoes his suspenders. Price calls him a slob. I feel paralyzed but manage to turn away from Owen and stare at my plate (the potpie a yellow hexagon, strips of smoked salmon circling it, squiggles of pea-green tomatillo sauce artfully surrounding the dish) and then I gaze at the waiting crowd. They seem hostile, drunk on complimentary Bellinis perhaps, tired of waiting hours for shitty tables near the open kitchen even though they had reservations. Van Patten interrupts the silence at our table by slamming his fork down and pushing his chair back.

“What’s wrong?” I say, looking up from my plate, a fork poised over it, but my hand will not move; it’s as if it appreciated the plate’s setup too much, as if my hand had a mind of its own and refused to break up its design. I sigh and put the fork down, hopeless.

“Shit. I have to
tape
this movie on cable for
Mandy.
” He wipes his mouth with a napkin, stands up. “I’ll be back.”

“Have
her
do it, idiot,” Price says. “What are you, demented?”

“She’s in Boston, seeing her
den
tist.” Van Patten shrugs, pussywhipped.

“What in the hell are
you
going to do?” My voice wavers. I’m still thinking about Van Patten’s card. “Call up HBO?”

“No,” he says. “I have a touch-tone phone hooked up to program a Videonics VCR programmer I bought at Hammacher Schlemmer.” He walks away pulling his suspenders up.

“How hip,” I say tonelessly.

“Hey, what do you want for dessert?” McDermott calls out.

“Something chocolate and flourless,” he shouts back.

“Has Van Patten stopped working out?” I ask. “He looks puffy.”

“It looks that way, doesn’t it,” Price says.

“Doesn’t he have a membership at the Vertical Club?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Price murmurs, studying his plate, then sitting up he pushes it away and motions to the waitress for another Finlandia on the rocks.

Another hardbody waitress approaches us tentatively, bringing over a bottle of champagne, Perrier-Jouët, nonvintage, and tells us it’s complimentary from Scott Montgomery.

“Nonvintage, that weasel,” Price hisses, craning his neck to find Montgomery’s table. “Loser.” He gives him a thumbs-up sign from across the room. “The fucker’s so short I could barely see him. I think I gave thumbs-up to Conrad. I can’t be sure.”

“Where’s Conrad?” I ask. “I should say hello to him.”

“The dude who called you Hamilton,” Price says.

“That wasn’t Conrad,” I say.

“Are you sure? It looked a helluva lot like him,” he says but he’s not really listening; he blatantly stares at the hardbody waitress, at exposed cleavage as she leans down to get a firmer grip on the bottle’s cork.

“No. That wasn’t Conrad,” I say, surprised at Price’s inability to recognize co-workers. “That guy had a better haircut.”

We sit in silence while the hardbody pours the champagne. Once she leaves, McDermott asks if we liked the food. I tell him the potpie was fine but there was way too much tomatillo sauce. McDermott nods, says, “That’s what I’ve heard.”

Van Patten returns, mumbling, “They don’t have a good bathroom to do coke in.”

“Dessert?” McDermott suggests.

“Only if I can order the Bellini sorbet,” Price says, yawning.

“How about just the check,” Van Patten says.

“Time to go bird-dogging, gentlemen,” I say.

The hardbody brings the check over. The total is $475, much less than we expected. We split it but I need the cash so I put it on my platinum AmEx and collect their bills, mostly fresh fifties. McDermott demands ten dollars back since his scallop sausage appetizer was only sixteen bucks. Montgomery’s bottle of champagne is left at the table, undrunk. Outside Pastels a different bum sits in the street, with a sign that says something completely illegible. He gently asks us for some change and then, more hopefully, for some food.

“That dude needs a facial
real
bad,” I say.

“Hey McDermott,” Price cackles. “Throw him your tie.”

“Oh shit. What’s
that
gonna get him?” I ask, staring at the bum.

“Appetizers at Jams.” Van Patten laughs. He gives me high-five.

“
Dude
,” McDermott says, inspecting his tie, clearly offended.

“Oh, sorry … cab,” Price says, waving down a cab. “…
and
a beverage.”

“Off to Tunnel,” McDermott tells the driver.

“Great, McDermott,” Price says, getting in the front seat. “You sound really excited.”

“So what if I’m not some burned-out decadent faggot like yourself,” McDermott says, getting in ahead of me.

“Did anyone know cavemen got more fiber than we do?” Price asks the cabdriver.

“Hey,
I
heard that too,” McDermott says.

“Van Patten,” I say. “Did you see the comp bottle of champagne Montgomery sent over?”

“Really?” Van Patten asks, leaning over McDermott. “Let me guess. Perrier-Jouët?”

“
Bingo
,” Price says. “Nonvintage.”

“Fucking weasel,” Van Patten says.

All of the men outside Tunnel tonight are for some reason wearing tuxedos, except for a middle-aged homeless bum who sits by a Dumpster, only a few feet away from the ropes, holding out to anyone who pays attention a Styrofoam coffee cup, begging for change, and as Price leads us around the crowd up to the ropes, motioning to one of the doormen, Van Patten waves a crisp one-dollar bill in front of the homeless bum’s face, which momentarily lights up, then Van Patten pockets it as we’re whisked into the club, handed a dozen drink tickets and two VIP Basement passes. Once inside we’re vaguely hassled by two more doormen—long wool coats, ponytails, probably German—who demand to know why we’re not wearing tuxedos. Price handles this all suavely, somehow, either by tipping the dorks or by persuading them with his clout (probably the former). I stay uninvolved and with my back to him try to listen as McDermott complains to Van Patten about how crazy I am for putting down the pizzas made at Pastels, but it’s hard to hear anything with Belinda Carlisle’s version of “I Feel Free” blasting over the sound system. I have a knife with a serrated blade in the pocket of my Valentino jacket and I’m tempted to gut McDermott with it right here in the entranceway, maybe slice his face open, sever his spine; but Price finally waves us in and the temptation to kill McDermott is replaced by this strange anticipation to have a good time, drink some champagne, flirt with a hardbody, find some blow, maybe even dance to some oldies or that new Janet Jackson song I like.

It gets quieter as we move into the front hallway, heading toward the actual entrance, and we pass by three hardbodies. One is wearing a black side-buttoned notched-collar wool jacket, wool-crepe trousers and a fitted cashmere turtleneck, all by Oscar de la Renta; another is wearing a double-breasted coat of wool, mohair and nylon tweed, matching jeans-style pants
and a man’s cotton dress shirt, all by Stephen Sprouse; the best-looking one is wearing a checked wool jacket and high-waisted wool skirt, both from Barney’s, and a silk blouse by Andra Gabrielle. They’re definitely paying attention to the four of us and we repay the compliment, turning our heads—except for Price, who ignores them and says something rude.

“Jesus Christ, Price, lighten up,” McDermott whines. “What’s your problem? Those girls were
very
hot.”

“Yeah, if you speak Farsi,” Price says, handing McDermott a couple of drink tickets as if to placate him.

“What?” Van Patten says. “They didn’t look Spanish to me.”

“You know, Price, you’re going to have to change your attitude if you want to get laid,” McDermott says.

“
You’re
telling
me
about getting laid?” Price asks Craig. “
You
, who scored with a hand-job the other night?”

“Your outlook
sucks
, Price,” Craig says.

“Listen, you think I act like I do around you guys when I want some
pussy
?” Price challenges.

“Yeah, I
do
,” McDermott and Van Patten say at the same time.

“You know,” I say, “it’s possible to act differently from how one actually feels to get sex, guys. I hope I’m not causing you to relose your innocence, McDermott.” I start walking faster, trying to keep up with Tim.

“No, but that doesn’t explain why Tim acts like such a
major
asshole,” McDermott says, trying to catch up with me.

“Like these girls
care
,” Price snorts. “When I tell them what my annual income is, believe me, my behavior couldn’t matter less.”

“And how do you drop this little tidbit of info?” Van Patten asks. “Do you say, Here’s a Corona and by the way I pull in a hundred eighty thou a year and what’s your sign?”

“One ninety,” Price corrects him, and then, “Yeah, I do. Subtlety is not what these girls are after.”

“And what are these girls after, O knowledgeable one?” McDermott asks, bowing slightly as he walks.

Van Patten laughs and still in motion they give each other high-five.

“Hey,” I laugh, “you wouldn’t ask if you
knew.
”

“They want a hardbody who can take them to Le Cirque twice a week, get them into Nell’s on a regular basis. Or maybe a close personal acquaintance of Donald Trump,” Price says flatly.

We hand our tickets to an okay-looking girl wearing a wool-melton duffel coat and a silk scarf from Hermes. As she lets us in, Price winks at her and McDermott is saying, “I worry about disease just walking into this place. These are some skanky chicks. I can just
feel
it.”

“I told you, dude,” Van Patten says and then patiently restates his facts. “We can’t get
that.
It’s like zero zero zero point oh one percentage—”

Luckily, the long version of “New Sensation” by INXS drowns out his voice. The music is so loud that conversation is possible only by screaming. The club is fairly packed; the only real light coming in flashes off the dance floor. Everyone is wearing a tuxedo. Everyone is drinking champagne. Since we only have two VIP Basement passes Price shoves them at McDermott and Van Patten and they eagerly wave the cards at the guy guarding the top of the stairs. The guy who lets them pass is wearing a double-breasted wool tuxedo, a cotton wing-collar shirt by Cerruti 1881 and a black and white checkered silk bow tie from Martin Dingman Neckwear.

“Hey,” I shout to Price. “Why didn’t
we
use those?”

“Because,” he screams over the music, grabbing me by the collar, “
we
need some Bolivian Marching Powder.…”

I follow him as he rushes through the narrow corridor that runs parallel to the dance floor, then into the bar and finally into the Chandelier Room, which is jammed with guys from Drexel, from Lehman’s, from Kidder Peabody, from First Boston, from Morgan Stanley, from Rothschild, from Goldman, even from
Citibank
for Christ sakes, all of them wearing tuxedos, holding champagne flutes, and effortlessly, almost as if it were the same song, “New Sensation” segues into “The Devil Inside” and Price spots Ted Madison leaning against the railing in the back of the room, wearing a double-breasted wool tuxedo, a wing-collar cotton shirt from Paul Smith, a bow tie and cummerbund from Rainbow Neckwear, diamond studs from Trianon, patent-leather and grosgrain pumps by Ferragamo and an antique
Hamilton watch from Saks; and past Madison, disappearing into darkness, are the twin train tracks which tonight are lit garishly in preppy greens and pinks and Price suddenly stops walking, stares past Ted, who smiles knowingly when he spots Timothy, and Price gazes longingly at the tracks as if they suggest some kind of freedom, embody an escape that Price has been searching for, but I shout out to him, “Hey, there’s Teddy,” and this breaks his gaze and he shakes his head as if to clear it, refocuses his gaze on Madison and shouts decisively, “No, that’s not Madison for Christ sakes, that’s
Turnball
,” and the guy who I thought was Madison is greeted by two other guys in tuxedos and he turns his back to us and suddenly, behind Price, Ebersol wraps an arm around Timothy’s neck and laughingly pretends to strangle him, then Price pushes the arm away, shakes Ebersol’s hand and says, “Hey Madison.”

Madison, who I thought was Ebersol, is wearing a splendid double-breasted white linen jacket by Hackett of London from Bergdorf Goodman. He has a cigar that hasn’t been lit in one hand and a champagne glass, half full, in the other.