American Psycho

“Jesus Christ, Price, lighten up,” McDermott whines. “What’s your problem? Those girls were very hot.”

“Yeah, if you speak Farsi,” Price says, handing McDermott a couple of drink tickets as if to placate him.

“What?” Van Patten says. “They didn’t look Spanish to me.”

“You know, Price, you’re going to have to change your attitude if you want to get laid,” McDermott says.

“You’re telling me about getting laid?” Price asks Craig. “You, who scored with a hand job the other night?”

“Your outlook sucks, Price,” Craig says.

“Listen, you think I act like I do around you guys when I want some pussy?” Price challenges.

“Yeah, I do,” McDermott and Van Patten say at the same time.

“You know,” I say, “it’s possible to act differently from how one actually feels to get sex, guys. I hope I’m not causing you to relose your i

“No, but that doesn’t explain why Tim acts like such a major asshole,” McDermott says, trying to catch up with me.

“Like these girls care,” Price snorts. “When I tell them what my a

“And how do you drop this little tidbit of info?” Van Patten asks. “Do you say, Here’s a Corona and by the way I pull in a hundred eighty thou a year and what’s your sign?”

“One ninety,” Price corrects him, and then, “Yeah, I do. Subtlety is not what these girls are after.”

“And what are these girls after, O knowledgeable one?” McDermott asks, bowing slightly as he walks.

Van Patten laughs and still in motion they give each other high-five.

“Hey,” I laugh, “you wouldn’t ask if you knew.”

‘They want a hardbody who can take them to Le Cirque twice a week, get them into Nell’s on a regular basis. Or maybe a close personal acquaintance of Donald Trump,” Price says flatly.

We hand our tickets to an okay-looking girl wearing a wool-melton duffel coat and a silk scarf from Hermès. As she lets us in, Price winks at her and McDermott is saying, “I worry about disease just walking into this place. These are some skanky chicks. I can just feel it.”

“I told you, dude,” Van Patten says and then patiently restates his facts. “We can’t get that. It’s like zero zero zero point oh one percentage—”

Luckily, the long version of “New Sensation” by INXS drowns out his voice. The music is so loud that conversation is possible only by screaming. The club is fairly packed; the only real light coming in flashes off the dance floor. Everyone is wearing a tuxedo. Everyone is drinking champagne. Since we only have two VIP Basement passes Price shoves them at McDermott and Van Patten and they eagerly wave the cards at the guy guarding the top of the stairs. The guy who lets them pass is wearing a double-breasted wool tuxedo, a cotton wing-collar shirt by Cerruti 1881 and a black and white checkered silk bow tie from Martin Dingman Neckwear.

“Hey,” I shout to Price. “Why didn’t we use those?”

“Because,” he screams over the music, grabbing me by the collar, “we need some Bolivian Marching Powder…”

I follow him as he rushes through the narrow corridor that runs parallel to the dance floor, then into the bar and finally into the Chandelier Room, which is jammed with guys from Drexel, from Lehman’s, from Kidder Peabody, from First Boston, from Morgan Stanley, from Rothschild, from Goldman, even from Citibank for Christ sakes, all of them wearing tuxedos, holding champagne flutes, and effortlessly, almost as if it were the same song, “New Sensation” segues into “The Devil Inside” and Price spots Ted Madison leaning against the railing in the back of the room, wearing a double-breasted wool tuxedo, a wing-collar cotton shirt from Paul Smith, a bow tie and cummerbund from Rainbow Neckwear, diamond studs from Trianon, patent-leather and grosgrain pumps by Ferragamo and an antique Hamilton watch from Saks; and past Madison, disappearing into darkness, are the twin train tracks which tonight are lit garishly in preppy greens and pinks and Price suddenly stops walking, stares past Ted, who smiles knowingly when he spots Timothy, and Price gazes longingly at the tracks as if they suggest some kind of freedom, embody an escape that Price has been searching for, but I shout out to him, “Hey, there’s Teddy,” and this breaks his gaze and he shakes his head as if to clear it, refocuses his gaze on Madison and shouts decisively, “No, that’s not Madison for Christ sakes, that’s Turnball,” and the guy who I thought was Madison is greeted by two other guys in tuxedos and he turns his back to us and suddenly, behind Price, Ebersol wraps an arm around Timothy’s neck and laughingly pretends to strangle him, then Price pushes the arm away, shakes Ebersol’s hand and says, “Hey Madison.”

Madison, who I thought was Ebersol, is wearing a splendid double-breasted white linen jacket by Hackett of London from Bergdorf Goodman. He has a cigar that hasn’t been lit in one hand and a champagne glass, half full, in the other.

“Mr. Price,” shouts Madison. “Very good to see you, sir.”

“Madison,” Price cries back. “We need your services.”

“Looking for trouble?” Madison smiles.

“Something more immediate,” Price shouts back.

“Of course,” Madison shouts and then, coolly for some reason, nods at me, shouting, I think, “Bateman,” and then, “Nice tan.”

A guy standing behind Madison who looks a lot like Ted Dreyer is wearing a double-breasted shawl-collared tuxedo, a cotton shirt and a silk tartan bow tie, all of it, I’m fairly sure, from Polo by Ralph Lauren. Madison stands around, nodding to various people who pass by in the crush.

Finally Price loses his cool. “Listen. We need drugs,” I think I hear him shout.

“Patience, Price, patience,” Madison shouts. “I’ll talk to Ricardo.”

But he still stands there, nodding to people who push past

“Like what about now?” Price screams.

“Why aren’t you wearing a tux?” Madison shouts.

“How much do we want?” Price asks me, looking desperate.

“A gram is fine,” I shout. “I have to be at the office early tomorrow.”

“Do you have cash?”

I can’t lie, nod, hand him forty.

“A gram,” Price shouts to Ted

“Hey,” Madison says, introducing his friend, “this is You.”

“A gram.” Price presses cash into Madison s hand. “You? What?”

This guy and Madison both smile and Ted shakes his head and shouts a name I can’t hear.

“No,” Madison shouts, “Hugh.” I think.

“Yeah. Great to meet you, Hugh.” Price holds up his wrist and taps the gold Rolex with his index finger.

“I’ll be right back,” Madison shouts. “Keep my friend company. Use your drink tickets.” He disappears. You, Hugh, Who, fades into the crowd. I follow Price over to the railings.

I want to light my cigar but don’t have any matches; yet just holding it, catching some of its aroma along with the knowledge that drugs are incoming, comforts me and I take two of the drink tickets from Price and try to get him a Finlandia on the rocks which they don’t have, the hardbody behind the bar informs me bitchily, but she’s got a rad body and is so hot-looking that I will leave her a big tip because of this. I settle on an Absolut for Price and order a J&B on the rocks for myself. As a joke I almost bring Tim a Bellini but he seems far too edgy tonight to appreciate this so I wade back through the crowd to where he stands and hand him the Absolut and he takes it thanklessly and finishes it with one gulp, looks at the glass and grimaces, giving me an accusatory look. I shrug helplessly. He resumes staring at the train tracks as if possessed. There are very few chicks in Tu

“Hey, I’m going out with Courtney tomorrow night.”

“Her?” he shouts back, staring at the tracks. “Great.” Even with the noise I catch the sarcasm.