American Psycho

I crane my neck but can’t figure out who’s doing anything.

“It’s Scott Montgomery,” Price says. “Isn’t it? It’s Scott Montgomery.”

“Perhaps,” Van Patten teases.

“It’s that dwarf Scott Montgomery,” says Price.

“Price,” Van Patten says. “You’re priceless.”

“Watch me act thrilled,” Price says, turning around. “Well, as thrilled as I can get meeting someone from Georgia.”

“Whoa,” McDermott says. “And he’s dressed to impress.”

“Hey,” Price says. “I’m depressed, I mean impressed.”

“Wow,” I say, spotting Montgomery. “Elegant navies.”

“Subtle plaids,” Van Patten whispers.

“Lotsa beige,” Price says. “You know.”

“Here he comes,” I say, bracing myself.

Scott Montgomery walks over to our booth wearing a double-breasted navy blue blazer with mock-tortoiseshell buttons, a prewashed wrinkled-cotton striped dress shirt with red accent stitching, a red, white and blue fireworks-print silk tie by Hugo Boss and plum washed-wool trousers with a quadruple-pleated front and slashed pockets by Lazo. He’s holding a glass of champagne and hands it to the girl he’s with—definite model type, thin, okay tits, no ass, high heels—and she’s wearing a wool-crepe skirt and a wool and cashmere velour jacket and draped over her arm is a wool and cashmere velour coat, all by Louis Dell’OliO. High-heeled shoes by Susan Be

“Hey fellas. How y’all doin?” Montgomery speaks in a thick Georgia twang. “This is Nicki. Nicki, this is McDonald, Van Buren, Bateman—nice tan—and Mr. Price.” He shakes only Timothy’s hand and then takes the champagne glass from Nicki. Nicki smiles, politely, like a robot, probably doesn’t speak English.

“Montgomery,” Price says in a kindly, conversational tone, staring at Nicki. “How have things been?”

“Well, fellas,” Montgomery says. “See y’all got the primo table. Get the check yet? Just kidding.”

“Listen, Montgomery,” Price says, staring at Nicki but still being unusually kind to someone I thought was a stranger. “Squash?”

“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 Tu

“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.

“Wa

“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 go

“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 ca

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.”