I take it from him, carefully unfolding the edges of the tiny white package, exposing the supposed gram – it looks like less to the dim fluorescent light of the men's room.
"Jeez," Price whispers in a surprisingly gentle way. "That's not a helluva lot, is it?" He leans forward to inspect it.
"Maybe it's just the light," I mention.
"What the fuck is Ricardo's problem?" Price asks, gaping at the coke.
"Shhh," I whisper, taking out my platinum American Express card. "Let's just do it."
"Is he fucking selling it by the milligram?" Price asks. He sticks his own platinum American Express card into the powder, bringing it up to his nose to inhale it. He stands there silently for a moment, and then gasps "Oh my god" in a low, throaty voice.
"What?" I ask.
"It's a fucking milligram of… Sweet'n Low," he chokes.
I do some of it and come to the same conclusion. "It's definitely weak but I have a feeling if we do enough of it we'll be okay–" But Price is furious, red-faced and sweating; he screams at me as if this was my fault, as if buying the gram from Madison was my idea.
"I want to get high off this, Bateman," Price says slowly, his voice rising. "Not sprinkle it on my fucking All-Bran!"
"You can always put it in your café au lait," this prissy voice in the next stall cries out.
Price stares at me, eyes widening in disbelief, then flies into a rage and whirls around, pounding his fist against the side of the stall.
"Calm down," I tell him. "Let's do it anyway."
Price turns back to me and, after running a hand over his stiff, slicked-back hair, seems to relent. "I guess you're right," and then he raises his voice, "that is, if the faggot in the next stall thinks it's okay."
We wait for a sign and then the voice in the next stall finally lisps, "It's okay with me…"
"Fuck yourself!" Price roars.
"Fuck yourself," the voice mimics.
"No, fuck yourself," Price screams back, trying to scramble over the aluminum divider, but I pull him down with one hand and in the next stall the toilet flushes and the unidentified person, obviously unnerved, scampers out of the men's room. Price leans against the door of our stall and stares at me in this hopeless way. He rubs a trembling hand over his still-crimson face and shuts his eyes tightly, lips white, slight residue of cocaine under one nostril – and then quietly he says, without opening his eyes, "Okay. Let's do it."
"That's the spirit," I say. We take turns digging our respective cards into the envelope until what we can't get with the cards we press our fingers into and snort or lick off the tips then rub into our gums. I'm not anywhere near high but another J&B might give the body a false enough impression to kick in some kind of rush no matter how weak.
Stepping out of the stall we wash our hands, inspecting our reflections in the mirror, and, once satisfied, head back to the Chandelier Room. I'm beginning to wish I'd checked my overcoat (Armani) but no matter what Price says I feel kind of high and minutes later as I wait at the bar trying to get this hardbody's attention it starts not to matter. I finally have to lay a twenty on the counter to get her attention, even though I have plenty of drink tickets left. It works. Taking advantage of the drink tickets, I order two double Stolis on the rocks. She pours the drinks in front of me.
I'm feeling good and I shout out to her, "Hey, don't you go to NYU?"
She shakes her head, unsmiling.
"Hunter?" I shout.
She shakes her head again. Not Hunter.
"Columbia?" I shout – though that's a joke.
She continues to concentrate on the bottle of Stoli. I decide not to continue the conversation and just slap the drink tickets on the bar as she places the two glasses in front of me. But she shakes her head and shouts, "It's after eleven. Those aren't good anymore. It's a cash bar. That'll be twenty-five dollars," and without complaining, playing it totally cool, I pull out my gazelleskin wallet and hand her a fifty which she eyes, I swear, contemptuously and, sighing, turns to the cash register and finds my change and I say, staring at her, quite clearly but muffed by "Pump Up the Volume" and the crowd, "You are a fucking ugly bitch I want to stab to death and play around with your blood," but I'm smiling. I leave the cunt no tip and find Price who is standing again, morosely, by the railings, his hands gripping the steel bars. Paul Owen, who is handling the Fisher account, is wearing a six-button double-breasted wool tuxedo and he stands next to Price screaming something like "Ran five hundred iterations of discounted cash flow minus on an ICM PC took company cab to Smith and Wollensky."
I hand the drink to Price, while nodding to Paul. Price says nothing, not even thanks. He just holds the drink and mournfully stares at the tracks and then he squints and bends his head down to the glass and when the strobe lights start flashing, he stands up straight and murmurs something to himself.
"Aren't you high?" I ask him.
"How are you?" Owen shouts.
"Very happy," I say.
The music is one long, unending song that overlaps with other, separate songs connected only by a dull thumping beat and it obliterates all conversation which, while I'm talking to a weasel like Owen, is perfectly okay with me. There seem to be more girls in the Chandelier Room now and I try to make eye contact with one of them – model type with big tits. Price nudges me and I lean in to ask if we should perhaps get another am.
"Why aren't you wearing a tuxedo?" Owen asks, behind me.
"I'm leaving," Price shouts. "I'm getting out."
"Leaving what?" I shout back, confused.
"This," he shouts, referring to, I'm not sure but I think, his double Stoli.
"Don't," I tell him. "I'll drink it."
"Listen to me, Patrick," he screams. "I'm leaving."
"Where to?" I really am confused. "You want me to find Ricardo?"
"I'm leaving," he screams. "I… am… leaving!"
I start laughing, not knowing what he means. "Well, where are you going to go?"
"Away!" he shouts.
"Don't tell me," I shout back at him. "Merchant banking?"
"No, Bateman. I'm serious you dumb son-of-a-bitch. Leaving. Disappearing."
"Where to?" I'm still laughing, stilt confused, still shouting. "Morgan Stanley? Rehab?What?"
He looks away from me, doesn't answer, just keeps staring past the railings, trying to find the point where the tracks come to an end, find what lies behind the blackness. He's becoming a drag but Owen seems worse and I've already accidentally made eye contact with the weasel.
"Tell him don't worry, be happy," Owen shouts.
"Are you still handling the Fisher account?" What else can I say to him?
"What?" Owen asks. "Wait. Is that Conrad?"
He points at some guy wearing a shawl-collar, single-breasted wool tuxedo, a cotton shirt with a bow tie, all by Pierre Cardin, who stands near the bar, directly beneath the chandelier, holding a glass of champagne, inspecting his nails. Owen pulls out a cigar, then asks for a light. I'm bored so I go for the bar without excusing myself to ask the hardbody I want to cut up for some matches. The Chandelier Room is packed and everyone looks familiar, everyone looks the same. Cigar smoke hangs heavy, floating in midair, and the music, INXS again, is louder than ever, but building toward what? I touch my brow by mistake and my fingers come back wet. At the bar I pick up some matches. On my way back through the crowd I bump into McDermott and Van Patten, who start begging me for more drink tickets. I hand them the rest of the tickets knowing that they are no longer valid, but we're crushed together in the middle of the room and the drink tickets don't offer enough incentive for them to make the trek to the bar.
"Skanky chicks," Van Patten says. "Beware. No hardbodies."