American Psycho (7 page)

“Call me,” Montgomery says absently, looking over the room. “Is that Tyson? Here’s my card.”

“Great,” Price says, pocketing it. “Thursday?”

“Can’t. Going to Dallas tomorrow but …” Montgomery is already moving away from the table, hurrying toward someone else, snapping for Nicki. “Yeah, next week.”

Nicki smiles at me, then looks at the floor—pink, blue, lime green tiles crisscrossing each other in triangular patterns—as if it had some kind of answer, held some sort of clue, offered a coherent reason as to why she was stuck with Montgomery. Idly I wonder if she’s older than him, and then if she’s flirting with me.

“Later,” Price is saying.

“Later, fellas …” Montgomery is already about halfway across the room. Nicki slinks behind him. I was wrong: she
does
have an ass.

“Eight hundred million.” McDermott whistles, shaking his head.

“College?” I ask.

“A joke,” Price hints.

“Rollins?” I guess.

“Get this,” McDermott says. “Hampden-Sydney.”

“He’s a parasite, a loser, a weasel,” Van Patten concludes.

“But he’s worth eight hundred
million
,” McDermott repeats emphatically.

“Go over and give the dwarf
head
—will that shut you up?” Price says. “I mean how impressed can you
get
, McDermott?”

“Anyway,” I mention, “nice babe.”

“That girl
is
hot,” McDermott agrees.

“Affirmative.” Price nods, but grudgingly.

“Oh man,” Van Patten says, distressed. “I
know
that chick.”

“Oh bullshit,” we all moan.

“Let me guess,” I say. “Picked her up at Tunnel, right?”

“No,” he says, then after sipping his drink, “She’s a model. Anorexic, alcoholic, uptight bitch.
Totally
French.”

“What a joke you are,” I say, unsure if he’s lying.

“Wanna bet?”

“So what?” McDermott shrugs. “I’d fuck her.”

“She drinks a liter of Stoli a day then throws it up and
redrinks
it, McDermott,” Van Patten explains. “Total alkie.”

“Total
cheap
alkie,” Price murmurs.

“I don’t care,” McDermott says bravely. “She is beautiful. I want to fuck her. I want to marry her. I want her to have my children.”

“Oh Jesus,” Van Patten says, practically gagging. “Who wants to marry a chick who’s gonna give birth to a jug of vodka and cranberry juice?”

“He
has
a point,” I say.

“Yeah. He also wants to shack up with the Armenian chick at the bar,” Price sneers. “What’ll she give birth to—a bottle of Korbel and a pint of peach juice?”

“
What
Armenian chick?” McDermott asks, exasperated, craning his neck.

“Oh Jesus. Fuck off, you faggots.” Van Patten sighs.

The maître d’ stops by to say hello to McDermott, then notices we don’t have our complimentary Bellinis, and runs off before any of us can stop him. I’m not sure how McDermott knows Alain so well—maybe Cecelia?—and it slightly pisses me
off but I decide to even up the score a little bit by showing everyone my new business card. I pull it out of my gazelleskin wallet (Barney’s, $850) and slap it on the table, waiting for reactions.

“What’s that, a gram?” Price says, not apathetically.

“New card.” I try to act casual about it but I’m smiling proudly. “What do you think?”

“Whoa,” McDermott says, lifting it up, fingering the card, genuinely impressed. “Very nice. Take a look.” He hands it to Van Patten.

“Picked them up from the printer’s yesterday,” I mention.

“Cool coloring,” Van Patten says, studying the card closely.

“That’s bone,” I point out. “And the lettering is something called Silian Rail.”

“Silian Rail?” McDermott asks.

“Yeah. Not bad, huh?”

“It
is
very cool, Bateman,” Van Patten says guardedly, the jealous bastard, “but that’s nothing.…” He pulls out his wallet and slaps a card next to an ashtray. “Look at this.”

We all lean over and inspect David’s card and Price quietly says, “That’s
really
nice.” A brief spasm of jealousy courses through me when I notice the elegance of the color and the classy type. I clench my fist as Van Patten says, smugly, “Eggshell with Romalian type …” He turns to me. “What do you think?”

“Nice,” I croak, but manage to nod, as the busboy brings four fresh Bellinis.

“Jesus,” Price says, holding the card up to the light, ignoring the new drinks. “This is really super. How’d a nitwit like you get so tasteful?”

I’m looking at Van Patten’s card and then at mine and cannot believe that Price actually likes Van Patten’s better. Dizzy, I sip my drink then take a deep breath.

“But wait,” Price says. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.…” He pulls his out of an inside coat pocket and slowly, dramatically turns it over for our inspection and says, “
Mine.
”

Even I have to admit it’s magnificent.

Suddenly the restaurant seems far away, hushed, the noise distant, a meaningless hum, compared to this card, and we all hear Price’s words: “Raised lettering, pale nimbus white …”

“Holy shit,” Van Patten exclaims. “I’ve never seen …”

“Nice, very nice,” I have to admit. “But wait. Let’s see Montgomery’s.”

Price pulls it out and though he’s acting nonchalant, I don’t see how he can ignore its subtle off-white coloring, its tasteful thickness. I am unexpectedly depressed that I started this.

“Pizza. Let’s order a pizza,” McDermott says. “Doesn’t anyone want to split a pizza? Red snapper? Mmmmm. Bateman wants
that
,” he says, rubbing his hands eagerly together.

I pick up Montgomery’s card and actually finger it, for the sensation the card gives off to the pads of my fingers.

“Nice, huh?” Price’s tone suggests he realizes I’m jealous.

“Yeah,” I say offhandedly, giving Price the card like I don’t give a shit, but I’m finding it hard to swallow.

“Red snapper pizza,” McDermott reminds me. “I’m fucking starving.”

“No pizza,” I murmur, relieved when Montgomery’s card is placed away, out of sight, back in Timothy’s pocket.

“Come on,” McDermott says, whining. “Let’s order the red snapper pizza.”

“Shut up, Craig,” Van Patten says, eyeing a waitress taking a booth’s order. “But call that hardbody over.”

“But she’s not ours,” McDermott says, fidgeting with the menu he’s yanked from a passing busboy.

“Call her over
any
way,” Van Patten insists. “Ask her for water or a Corona or something.”

“Why
her
?” I’m asking no one in particular. My card lies on the table, ignored next to an orchid in a blue glass vase. Gently I pick it up and slip it, folded, back into my wallet.

“She looks exactly like this girl who works in the Georgette Klinger section of Bloomingdale’s,” Van Patten says. “Call her over.”

“Does anyone want the pizza or not?” McDermott’s getting testy.

“How would
you
know?” I ask Van Patten.

“I buy Kate’s perfume
there
,” he answers.

Price’s gestures gather the table’s attention. “Did I forget to tell everyone that Montgomery’s a dwarf?”

“Who’s Kate?” I say.

“
Kate
is the chick who Van Patten’s having the affair with,” Price explains, staring back at Montgomery’s table.

“What happened to Miss
Kitt
ridge?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Price smiles. “What
about
Amanda?”

“Oh god, guys,
lighten
up. Fidelity?
Right.
”

“Aren’t you afraid of
diseases
?” Price asks.

“From
who
, Amanda or Kate?” I ask.

“I thought we agreed that
we
can’t get it.” Van Patten’s voice rises. “So-o-o-o … shithead. Shut up.”

“Didn’t I tell you—”

Four more Bellinis arrive. There are now eight Bellinis on the table.

“Oh my god,” Price moans, trying to grab at the busboy before he scampers off.

“Red snapper pizza … red snapper pizza …” McDermott has found a mantra for the evening.

“We’ll soon become targets for horny Iranian chicks,” Price drones.

“It’s like zero zero zero percentage whatever, you know—are you listening?” Van Patten asks.

“… snapper pizza … red snapper pizza …” Then McDermott slams his hand on the table, rocking it. “Goddamnit, isn’t anybody listening to me?”

I’m still tranced out on Montgomery’s card—the classy coloring, the thickness, the lettering, the print—and I suddenly raise a fist as if to strike out at Craig and scream, my voice booming, “No one wants the fucking
red snapper pizza
! A pizza should be
yeasty
and slightly
bready
and have a
cheesy crust
! The crusts here are too fucking thin because the shithead chef who cooks here overbakes everything! The pizza is dried out and brittle!” Red-faced, I slam my Bellini down on the table and when I look up our appetizers have arrived. A hardbody waitress stands looking down at me with this strange, glazed expression. I wipe a hand over my face, genially smiling up at her. She stands there looking at me as if I were some kind of monster—she actually looks
scared
—and I glance over at Price—for what? guidance?—and he mouths “Cigars” and pats his coat pocket.

McDermott quietly says, “I don’t think they’re brittle.”

“Honey,” I say, ignoring McDermott, taking an arm and
pulling her toward me. She flinches but I smile and she lets me pull her closer. “Now we’re all going to eat a nice big meal here—” I start to explain.

“But this isn’t what I ordered,” Van Patten says, looking at his plate. “I wanted the
mussel
sausage.”

“Shut up.” I shoot him a glance then calmly turn toward the hardbody, grinning like an idiot, but a handsome idiot. “Now listen, we are good customers here and we’re probably going to order some fine brandy, cognac, who knows, and we want to relax and bask in this”—I gesture with my arm—“atmosphere. Now”—with the other hand I pull out my gazelleskin wallet—“we would like to enjoy some
fine
Cuban cigars afterwards and we don’t want to be bothered by some
lout
ish—”

“
Lout
ish.” McDermott nods to Van Patten and Price.

“
Lout
ish and inconsiderate patrons or tourists who are inevitably going to complain about our innocuous little habit.… So”—I press what I hope is fifty into a small-boned hand—“if you could make sure we aren’t bothered while we do, we would
grate
fully appreciate it.” I rub the hand, closing it into a fist over the bill. “And if anyone complains, well …” I pause, then warn menacingly, “Kick em out.”

She nods mutely and backs away with this dazed, confused look on her face.

“And,” Price adds, smiling, “if another round of Bellinis comes within a twenty-foot radius of this table we are going to set the maître d’ on fire. So, you know, warn him.”

After a long silence during which we contemplate our appetizers, Van Patten speaks up. “Bateman?”

“Yes?” I fork a piece of monkfish, push it into some of the golden caviar, then place the fork back down.

“You are pure prep perfection,” he purrs.

Price spots another waitress approaching with a tray of four champagne flutes filled with pale pinkish liquid and says, “Oh for Christ sakes, this is getting
ridic
ulous.…” She sets them down, however, at the table next to us, for the four babes.

“She is
hot
,” Van Patten says, ignoring his scallop sausage.

“Hardbody.” McDermott nods in agreement. “Definitely.”

“I’m not impressed,” Price sniffs. “Look at her knees.”

While the hardbody stands there we check her out, and
though her knees do support long, tan legs, I can’t help noticing that one knee is, admittedly, bigger than the other one. The left knee is knobbier, almost imperceptibly thicker than the right knee and this unnoticeable flaw now seems overwhelming and we all lose interest. Van Patten is looking at his appetizer, stunned, and then he looks at McDermott and says, “That isn’t what you ordered either. That’s
sushi
, not sashimi.”

“Jesus,” McDermott sighs. “You don’t come here for the food anyway.”

Some guy who looks exactly like Christopher Lauder comes over to the table and says, patting me on the shoulder, “Hey Hamilton, nice tan,” before walking into the men’s room.

“Nice tan, Hamilton,” Price mimics, tossing tapas onto my bread plate.

“Oh gosh,” I say, “hope I’m not blushin’.”

“Actually, where
do
you go, Bateman?” Van Patten asks. “For a tan.”

“Yeah, Bateman. Where
do
you go?” McDermott seems genuinely intrigued.

“Read my lips,” I say, “a tanning salon,” then irritably, “like
everyone
else.”

“I have,” Van Patten says, pausing for maximum impact, “a tanning bed at … home,” and then he takes a large bite out of his scallop sausage.

“Oh bullshit,” I say, cringing.

“It’s
true
,” McDermott confirms, his mouth full. “I’ve seen it.”

“That is
fuck
ing outrageous,” I say.

“Why the hell is it
fuck
ing outrageous?” Price asks, pushing tapas around his plate with a fork.

“Do you know how expensive a fucking tanning salon membership
is
?” Van Patten asks me. “A
member
ship for a
year
?”

“You’re crazy,” I mutter.

“Look, guys,” Van Patten says. “Bateman’s indignant.”

Suddenly a busboy appears at our table and without asking if we’re finished removes our mostly uneaten appetizers. None of us complain except for McDermott, who asks, “Did he just take our appetizers away?” and then laughs uncomprehendingly. But when he sees no one else laughing he stops.

“He took them away because the portions are so small he probably thought we were finished,” Price says tiredly.

“I just think that’s crazy about the tanning bed,” I tell Van Patten, though secretly I think it would be a hip luxury except I really have no room for one in my apartment. There are things one could do with it besides getting a tan.