American Psycho (15 page)

Tonight the talk centers around Elmore Leonard’s new book—which I haven’t read; certain restaurant critics—who I have; the British sound track from
Les Misérables
versus the American cast recording; that new Salvadorian bistro on Second and Eighty-third; and which gossip columns are better written—the
Post
’s or the
News
’s. It seems that Anne Smiley and I share a mutual acquaintance, a waitress from Abetone’s in Aspen who I raped with a can of hairspray last Christmas when I was skiing there over the holidays. Deck Chairs is crowded, earsplitting, the acoustics lousy because of the high ceilings, and if I’m not mistaken, accompanying the din is a New Age version of “White Rabbit” blaring from speakers mounted in the ceiling corners. Someone who looks like Forrest Atwater—slicked-back blond hair, nonprescription redwood-framed glasses, Armani suit with suspenders—is sitting with Caroline Baker, an investment banker at Drexel, maybe, and she doesn’t look too good. She needs more makeup, the Ralph Lauren tweed outfit is too severe. They’re at a mediocre table up front by the bar.

“It’s called California
classic
cuisine,” Anne tells me, leaning in close, after we ordered. The statement deserves a reaction, I suppose, and since Scott and Courtney are discussing the merits of the
Post
’s gossip column, it’s up to me to reply.

“You mean compared to, say, Cali
fornia
cuisine?” I ask carefully, measuring each word, then lamely add, “Or
post
-California cuisine?”

“I mean I know it sounds so trendy but there
is
a world of difference. It’s
sub
tle,” she says, “but it’s
there.
”

“I’ve heard of post-California cuisine,” I say, acutely aware of the design of the restaurant: the exposed pipe and the columns and the open pizza kitchen and the … deck chairs. “In fact I’ve even eaten it. No baby vegetables? Scallops in burritos?
Wasabi crackers? Am I on the right track? And by the way, did anyone ever tell you that you look exactly like Garfield but run over and skinned and then someone threw an ugly Ferragamo sweater over you before they rushed you to the vet? Fusilli? Olive oil on Brie?”

“Exactly,” Anne says, impressed. “Oh Courtney, where
did
you find Patrick? He’s so knowledgeable about things. I mean Luis’s idea of California cuisine is half an orange and some
gelati
,” she gushes, then laughs, encouraging me to laugh with her, which I do, hesitantly.

For an appetizer I ordered radicchio with some kind of free-range squid. Anne and Scott both had the monkfish ragout with violets. Courtney almost fell asleep when she had to exert the energy to read the menu, but before she slid off her chair I grabbed both shoulders, propping her up, and Anne ordered for her, something simple and light like Cajun popcorn perhaps, which wasn’t on the menu but since Anne knows Noj, the chef, he made up a special little batch …
just for Courtney
! Scott and Anne insisted that we all order some kind of blackened medium-rare redfish, a Deck Chairs specialty which was, luckily for them, an entrée on one of the mock menus that Jean made up for me. If it hadn’t, and if they nevertheless insisted on my ordering it, the odds were pretty good that after dinner tonight I would have broken into Scott and Anne’s studio at around two this morning—after
Late Night with David Letterman
—and with an ax chopped them to pieces, first making Anne watch Scott bleed to death from gaping chest wounds, and then I would have found a way to get to Exeter where I would pour a bottle of acid all over their son’s slanty-eyed zipperhead face. Our waitress is a little hardbody who is wearing gold faux-pearl tasseled lizard sling-back pumps. I forgot to return my videotapes to the store tonight and I curse myself silently while Scott orders two large bottles of San Pellegrino.

“It’s called California
classic
cuisine,” Scott is telling me.

“Why don’t we all go to Zeus Bar next week?” Anne suggests to Scott. “You think we’d have a problem getting a table on Friday?” Scott is wearing a red and purple and black striped cashmere intarsia sweater from Paul Stuart, baggy Ralph Lauren corduroys and Cole-Haan leather moccasins.

“Well … maybe,” he says.

“That’s a
good
idea. I
like
it a lot,” Anne says, picking up a small violet off her plate and sniffing the flower before placing it carefully on her tongue. She’s wearing a red, purple and black hand-knitted mohair and wool sweater from Koos Van Den Akker Couture and slacks from Anne Klein, with suede open-toe pumps.

A waiter, though not the hardbody, strides over to take another drink order.

“J&B. Straight,” I say before anyone else orders.

Courtney orders a champagne on the rocks, which secretly appalls me. “Oh,” she says as if reminded by something, “can I have that with a twist?”

“A twist of
what
?” I ask irritably, unable to stop myself. “Let me guess.
Melon
?” And I’m thinking oh my god why didn’t you return those goddamn videos Bateman you dumb son-of-a-bitch.

“You mean
lemon
, miss,” the waiter says, giving
me
an icy stare.

“Yes, of course. Lemon.” Courtney nods, seeming lost in some kind of dream—but enjoying it, oblivious to it.

“I’ll have a glass of the … oh gosh, I guess the Acacia,” Scott says and then addresses the table: “Do I want a white? Do I really want a chardonnay? We can eat the redfish with a cabernet.”

“Go for it,” Anne says cheerily.

“Okay, I’ll have the … oh jeez, the sauvignon blanc,” Scott says.

The waiter smiles, confused.

“
Scottie
,” Anne shrieks. “The sauvignon
blanc
?”

“Just teasing,” he snickers. “I’ll have the chardonnay. The Acacia.”

“You complete
jerk.
” Anne smiles, relieved. “You’re
fun
ny.”

“I’m having the chardonnay,” Scott tells the waiter.

“That’s nice,” Courtney says, patting Scott’s hand.

“I’ll just have …” Anne stalls, deliberating. “Oh, I’ll just have a Diet Coke.”

Scott looks up from a piece of corn bread he was dipping into a small tin of olive oil. “You’re not drinking tonight?”

“No,” Anne says, smiling naughtily. Who knows why? And who fucking cares? “I’m not in the mood.”

“Not even for a glass of the chardonnay?” Scott asks. “How about a sauvignon blanc?”

“I have this aerobics class at nine,” she says, slipping, losing control. “I really shouldn’t.”

“Well then, I don’t want anything,” Scott says, disappointed. “I mean I have one at eight at Xclusive.”

“Does anyone want to guess where I
won’t
be tomorrow morning at eight?” I ask.

“No, honey. I know how much you like the Acacia.” Anne reaches out and squeezes Scott’s hand.

“No, babe. I’ll stick to the Pellegrino,” Scott says, pointing.

I’m tapping my fingers very loudly on the tabletop, whispering “shit, shit, shit, shit” to myself. Courtney’s eyes are half closed and she’s breathing deeply.

“Listen. I’ll be
daring
,” Anne says finally. “I’ll have a Diet Coke with
rum.
”

Scott sighs, then smiles, beaming really. “Good.”

“That’s a
caffeine-free
Diet Coke, right?” Anne asks the waiter.

“You know,” I interrupt, “you should have it with Diet Pepsi. It’s much better.”

“Really?” Anne asks. “What do you mean?”

“You should have the Diet Pepsi instead of the Diet Coke,” I say. “It’s much better. It’s fizzier. It has a cleaner taste. It mixes better with rum and has a lower sodium content.”

The waiter, Scott, Anne, and even Courtney—they all stare at me as if I’ve offered some kind of diabolical, apocalyptic observation, as if I were shattering a myth highly held, or destroying an oath that was solemnly regarded, and it suddenly seems almost hushed in Deck Chairs. Last night I rented a movie called
Inside Lydia’s Ass
and while on two Halcion and in fact sipping a Diet Pepsi, I watched as Lydia—a totally tan bleached-blonde hardbody with a perfect ass and great full tits—while on all fours gave head to this guy with a huge cock while another gorgeous blonde little hardbody with a perfectly trimmed blond pussy knelt behind Lydia and after eating her ass out and sucking on her cunt, started to push a long, greased silver vibrator into Lydia’s ass and fucked her with it while she
continued to eat her pussy and the guy with the huge cock came all over Lydia’s face as she sucked his balls and then Lydia bucked to an authentic-looking, fairly strong orgasm and then the girl behind Lydia crawled around and licked the come from Lydia’s face and then made Lydia suck on the vibrator. The new Stephen Bishop came out last Tuesday and at Tower Records yesterday I bought the compact disc, the cassette and the album because I wanted to own all three formats.

“Listen,” I say, my voice trembling with emotion, “have whatever you want but I’m telling you I recommend the Diet Pepsi.” I look down at my lap, at the blue cloth napkin, the words Deck Chairs sewn into the napkin’s edge, and for a moment think I’m going to cry; my chin trembles and I can’t swallow.

Courtney reaches over and touches my wrist gently, stroking my Rolex. “It’s okay Patrick. It really is.…”

A sharp pain near my liver overcomes the surge of emotion and I sit up in my chair, startled, confused, and the waiter leaves and then Anne asks if we’ve seen the recent David Onica exhibit and I’m feeling calmer.

It turns out we haven’t seen the show but I don’t want to be tacky enough to bring up the fact I own one, so I lightly kick Courtney under the table. This raises her out of the lithium-induced stupor and she says robotically, “Patrick owns an Onica. He really does.”

I smile, pleased; sip my J&B.

“Oh that’s fan
tas
tic, Patrick,” Anne says.

“Really? An Onica?” Scott asks. “Isn’t he
quite
expensive?”

“Well, let’s just say …” I sip my drink, suddenly confused: say … say what? “Nothing.”

Courtney sighs, anticipating another kick. “Patrick’s cost twenty thousand dollars.” She seems bored out of her mind, picking at a flat, warm piece of corn bread.

I give her a sharp look and try not to hiss. “Uh, no, Courtney, it was really
fifty.
”

She slowly looks up from the corn bread she’s mashing between her fingers and even in her lithium haze manages a stare so malicious that it automatically humbles me, but not enough to tell Scott and Anne the truth: that the Onica cost only
twelve grand. But Courtney’s frightening gaze—though I might be overreacting; she might be staring disapprovingly at the patterns on the columns, the Venetian blinds on the skylight, the Montigo vases full of purple tulips lining the bar—scares me enough to not elaborate on the procedure of purchasing an Onica. It’s a stare that I can interpret fairly easily. It warns: Kick me again and no pussy, do you understand?

“That seems …,” Anne starts.

I hold my breath, my face tight with tension.

“…
low
,” she murmurs.

I exhale. “It
is.
But I got a fabulous deal,” I say, gulping.

“But
fifty
thousand?” Scott asks suspiciously.

“Well, I think his work … it has a kind of … wonderfully proportioned, purposefully mock-superficial quality.” I pause, then, trying to remember a line from a review I saw in
New York
magazine: “Purposefully mock …”

“Doesn’t Luis own one, Courtney?” Anne asks, and then tapping Courtney’s arm, “Courtney?”

“Luis … owns … what?” Courtney shakes her head as if to clear it, widening her eyes to make sure they don’t close on her.

“Who’s Luis?” Scott asks, waving to the waitress to have the butter the busboy recently placed on the table removed—what a
party animal.

Anne answers for Courtney. “Her
boyfriend
,” she says after seeing Courtney, confused, actually looking at me for help.

“Where’s he at?” Scott asks.

“Texas,” I say quickly. “He’s out of town in Phoenix, I mean.”

“No,” Scott says. “I meant what
house.
”

“L. F. Rothschild,” Anne says, about to look at Courtney for confirmation, but then at me. “Right?”

“No. He’s at P & P,” I say. “We work together, sort of.”

“Wasn’t he dating Samantha Stevens at one point?” Anne asks.

“No,” Courtney says. “That was just a photo someone took of them that was in
W.
”

I down my drink as soon as it arrives and wave almost immediately for another and I’m thinking Courtney
is
a babe
but no sex is worth this dinner. The conversation violently shifts while I’m staring across the room at a great-looking woman—blonde, big tits, tight dress, satin pumps with gold cones—when Scott starts telling me about his new compact disc player while Anne unwittingly prattles on to a stoned and completely oblivious Courtney about new kinds of low-sodium wheat-rice cake, fresh fruits and New Age music, particularly Manhattan Steamroller.

“It’s Aiwa,” Scott’s saying. “You’ve
got
to hear it. The sound”—he pauses, closes his eyes in ecstasy, chewing on corn bread—“is
fantastic.
”

“Well, you know, Scottie, the Aiwa
is
okay.” Oh holy shit,
dream on, Scot-tie
, I’m thinking. “But Sansui is really
top
of the line.” I pause, then add, “I should know. I own one.”

“But I thought
Aiwa
was top of the line.” Scott looks worried but not yet upset enough to please me.

“No way, Scott,” I say. “Does Aiwa have digital remote control?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Computer controls?”

“Uh-huh.” What a complete and total
dufus.

“Does the system come with a turntable that has a metacrylate and brass platter?”

“Yes,” the bastard lies!

“Does your system have an … Accophase T-106 tuner?” I ask him.

“Sure,” he says, shrugging.

“Are you sure?” I say. “Think carefully.”

“Yeah. I think so,” he says, but his hand shakes as it reaches for more of the corn bread.