"Did you talk to him?" I ask.
"Yeah, yeah."
"What did he say happened to Owen?"
"Vanished. Just vanished. Poof," he says. I can hear him opening a refrigerator. "No incident. Nothing. The authorities have nada."
"Yeah," I say. "I'm in heavy turmoil over it."
"Well, Owen was… I don't know," he says. I can hear a beer being opened.
"What else did you tell him, Van Patten?" I ask.
"Oh the usual," he sighs. "That he wore yellow and maroon ties. That he had lunch at '21.' That in reality he was not an arbitrageur – which was what Thimble thought he was – but a merger-maker. Only the usual." I can almost hear him shrug.
"What else?" I ask.
"Let's see. That he didn't wear suspenders. A belt man. That he stopped doing cocaine, simpatico beer. You know, Bateman."
"He was a moron," I say. "And now he's in London."
"Christ," he mutters, "general competence is on the fucking decline."
McDermott clicks back on. "Okay. Now where to?"
"What time is it?" Van Patter asks.
"Nine-thirty," both of us answer.
"Wait, what happened to 1969?" I ask van Patter.
"What's this about 1969?" McDermott doesn't have a clue.
"I don't remember," I say.
"Closed. No reservations," Van Patter reminds me.
"Can we get back to 1500?" I ask.
"1500 is now closed," McDermott shouts. "The kitchen is closed. The restaurant is closed. It's over. We have to go to Kaktus."
Silence.
"Hello? Hello? Are you guys there?" he hollers, losing it.
"Bouncy as a beach ball," Van Patter says.
I laugh.
"If you guys think this is funny," McDermott warns.
"Oh yeah, what? What are you going to do?" I ask.
"Guys, it's just that I am apprehensive about failure in terms of securing a table before, like, well, midnight."
"Are you sure about 1500?" I ask. "That seems really bizarre."
"That suggestion is moot!" McDermott screams. "Why, you may ask? Because-they-are-closed! Because-they-are-closed-they-have-stopped-taking-reservations! Are-you-following-this?"
"Hey, no sweat, babe," Van Patter says coolly. "We'll go to Kaktus.
"We have a reservation there in ten, no, fifteen minutes ago," McDermott says.
"But I canceled them, I thought," I say, taking another Xanax.
"I remade them,'. McDermott says.
"You are indispensable," I tell him in monotone.
"I can be there by ten," McDermott says.
"By the time I stop at my automated teller, I can be there by ten-fifteen," Van Patter says slowly, counting the minutes.
"Does anyone have any idea that Jeanette and Evelyn are meeting us at Zeus Bar, where we do not have a reservation? Has this passed through anyone's mind?" I ask, doubting it.
"But Zeus Bar is closed. and besides that we canceled a reservation we didn't even have there," McDermott says, trying to stay calm.
"But I think I told Jeanette and Evelyn to meet us there," I say, bringing my fingers up to my mouth, horrified by this possibility.
After a pause McDermott asks, "Do you want to get into trouble? Are you asking for it or something?"
"My call waiting," I say. "Oh my god. What time is it? My call waiting."
"It's gotta be one of the girls," Van Patten says gleefully.
"Hold on," I croak.
"Good luck," I hear Van Patten say before I click off.
"Hello?" I ask meekly. "You have reached the–"
"It's me," Evelyn shouts, the noise in the background almost drowning her out.
"Oh hi," I say casually. "What's going on?"
"Patrick, what are you doing.at home?"
"Where are you?" I ask good-naturedly.
"I-am-at-Kaktus," she hisses.
"What are you doing there?" I ask.
"You said you'd meet me here, that-is-what," she says. "I confirmed your reservations."
"Oh god, I'm sorry," I say. "I forgot to tell you."
"Forgot-to-tell-me-what?"
"To tell you that we aren't" – I gulp – "going there." I close my eyes.
"Who-in-the-hell-is-Jeanette?" she hisses calmly.
"Well, aren't you guys having fun?" I ask, ignoring her question.
"No-we-are-not."
"Why not?" I ask. "We'll be there… soon."
"Because this whole thing feels, gee, I don't know… inappropriate?" she screams.
"Listen, I'll call you right back." I'm about to pretend to take the number down.
"You won't be able to," Evelyn says, her voice tense and lowered.
"Why not? The phone strike's over," I joke, sort of.
"Because-Jeanette-is-behind-me-and-wants-to-use-it," Evelyn says.
I pause for a very long time.
"Pat-rick?"
"Evelyn. Let it slide. I'm leaving right now. We'll all be there shortly. I promise."
"Oh my god–"
I click back to the other line.
"Guys, guys, someone fucked up. I fucked up. You fucked up. I don't know," I say in a total panic.
"What's wrong?" one of them asks.
"Jeanette and Evelyn are at Kaktus," I say.
"Oh boy." Van Patter cracks up.
"You know, guys, it's not beyond my capacity to drive a lead pipe repeatedly into a girl's vagina," I tell Van Patter and McDermott, then add, after a silence I mistake for shock, finally on their parts an acute perception of my cruelty, "but compassionately."
"We all know about your lead pipe, Bateman," McDermott says. "Stop bragging."
"Is he like trying to tell us he has a big dick?" Van Patter asks Craig.
"Gee, I'm not sure," McDermott says. "Is that what you're trying to tell us, Bateman?"
I pause before answering. "It's… well, no, not exactly." My call waiting buzzes.
"Fine, I'm officially jealous," McDermott wisecracks. "Now where? Christ, what time is it?"
"It doesn't really matter. My mind has already gone numb."
I'm so hungry now that I'm eating oat bran cereal out of a box.
My call waiting buzzes again.
"Maybe we can get some drugs."
"Call Hamlin."
"Jesus, you can't walk into a bathroom in this city without coming out with a gram, so don't worry."
"Anyone hear about Bell South's cellular deal?"
"Spuds McKenzie is on The Patty Winters Show tomorrow.
Girl
On a Wednesday night another girl, who I meet at M.K. and I plan to torture and film. This one remains nameless to me and she sits on the couch in the living room of my apartment. A bottle of champagne, Cristal, half empty, sits on the glass table. I punch in tunes, numbers that light up the Wurlitzer. She finally asks, "What's that… smell in here?" and I answer, under my breath, "A dead… rat," and then I'm opening the windows, the sliding glass door that leads out to the terrace, even though it's a chilly night, mid-autumn, and she's dressed scantily, but she has another glass of the Cristal and it seems to warm her enough so that she is able to ask me what I do for a living. I tell her that I went to Harvard then started working on Wall Street, at Pierce & Pierce, after I graduated from business school there, and when she asks, either confused or jokingly, "What's that?" I swallow and with my back to her, straightening the new Onica, find the strength to force out, "A… shoe store." I did a line of cocaine I found in my medicine cabinet when we first came back to my place, and the Cristal takes the edge off it, but only slightly: The Patty Winters Show this morning was about a machine that lets people talk to the dead. This girl is wearing a wool barathea jacket and skirt, a silk georgette blouse, agate and ivory earrings by Stephen Dweck, a silk jacquard torsolette vest, all from… where? Charivari, I'm guessing.
In the bedroom she's naked and oiled and sucking my dick and I'm standing over her and then I'm slapping her in the face with it, grabbing her hair with my hand, calling her a "fucking whore bitch," and this turns her on even more and while lamely sucking my cock she starts fingering her clit and when she's asking me "Do you like this?" while licking at the balls, I'm answering "yap, yap" and breathing hard. Her breasts are high and full and firm, both nipples very stiff, and while she's choking on my cock while I'm fucking her mouth roughly with it, I reach down to squeeze them and then while I'm fucking her, after ramming a dildo up her ass and keeping it there with a strap, I'm scratching at her tits, until she warns me to stop. Earlier in the evening I was having dinner with Jeanette at a new Northern Italian restaurant near Central Park on the Upper East Side that was very expensive. Earlier in the evening I was wearing a suit tailored by Edward Sexton and thinking sadly about my family's house in Newport. Earlier in the night after dropping Jeanette off I stopped at M.K. for a fund-raiser that had something to do with Dan Quayle, who even I don't like. At M.K. the girl I'm fucking came on to me, hard, upstairs on a couch while I was waiting to play pool. "Oh god," she's saying. Excited, I slap her, then lightly punch her in the mouth, then kiss it, biting her lips. Fear, dread, confusion overwhelm her. The strap breaks and the dildo slides out of her ass while she tries to push me off. I roll away and pretend to let her escape and then, while she's gathering her clothes, muttering about what a "crazy fucking bastard" I am, I leap out at her, jackal-like, literally foaming at the mouth. She cries, apologizing, sobbing hysterically, begging for me not to hurt her, in tears, covering her breasts, now shamefully. But even her sobs fail to arouse me. I feel little gratification when I Mace her, less when I knock her head against the wall four or five times, until she loses consciousness, leaving a small stain, hair stuck to it. After she drops to the floor I head for the bathroom and cut another line of the mediocre coke I scored at Nells or Au Bar the other night. I can hear a phone ringing, an answering machine picking up the call. I'm bent low, over a mirror, ignoring the message, not even bothering to screen it.