American Psycho

“Listen to me, Patrick,” he screams. “I’m leaving.”

“Where to?” I really am confused. “You want me to find Ricardo?”

“I’m leaving,” he screams. “I… am… leaving!”

I start laughing, not knowing what he means. “Well, where are you going to go?”

“Away! ” he shouts.

“Don’t tell me,” I shout back at him. “Merchant banking?”

“No, Bateman. I’m serious you dumb son-of-a-bitch. Leav ing. Disappearing.”

“Where to?” I’m still laughing, stilt confused, still shouting. “Morgan Stanley? Rehab?What?”

He looks away from me, doesn’t answer, just keeps staring past the railings, trying to find the point where the tracks come to an end, find what lies behind the blackness. He’s becoming a drag but Owen seems worse and I’ve already accidentally made eye contact with the weasel.

“Tell him don’t worry, be happy,” Owen shouts.

“Are you still handling the Fisher account?” What else can I say to him?

“What?” Owen asks. “Wait. Is that Conrad?”

He points at some guy wearing a shawl-collar, single-breasted wool tuxedo, a cotton shirt with a bow tie, all by Pierre Cardin, who stands near the bar, directly beneath the chandelier, holding a glass of champagne, inspecting his nails. Owen pulls out a cigar, then asks for a light. I’m bored so I go for the bar without excusing myself to ask the hardbody I want to cut up for some matches. The Chandelier Room is packed and everyone looks familiar, everyone looks the same. Cigar smoke hangs heavy, floating in midair, and the music, INXS again, is louder than ever, but building toward what? I touch my brow by mistake and my fingers come back wet. At the bar I pick up some matches. On my way back through the crowd I bump into McDermott and Van Patten, who start begging me for more drink tickets. I hand them the rest of the tickets knowing that they are no longer valid, but we’re crushed together in the middle of the room and the drink tickets don’t offer enough incentive for them to make the trek to the bar.

“Skanky chicks,” Van Patten says. “Beware. No hardbodies.”

“Basement sucks,” McDermott shouts.

“Did you find drugs?” Van Patten shouts. “We saw Ricardo.”

“No,” I shout. “Negative. Madison couldn’t find any.”

“Service, damnit, service,” the guy behind me shouts.

“It’s useless,” I shout. “I can’t hear anything.”

“What?” Van Patten shouts. “I can’t hear anything.”

Suddenly McDermott grabs my arm. “What the fuck is Price doing? Look.”

As in a movie, I turn around with some difficulty, standing on my toes to see Price perched on the rails, trying to balance himself, and someone has handed him a champagne glass and drunk or wired he holds both arms out and closes his eyes, as if blessing the crowd. Behind him the strobe light continues to flash off and on and off and on and the smoke machine is going like crazy, gray mist billowing up, enveloping him. He’s shouting something but I cant hear what—the room is jammed to overcapacity, the sound level an earsplitting combination of Eddie Murphy’s “Party All the Time” and the constant din of businessmen—so I push my way forward, my eyes glued on Price, and manage to pass Madison and Hugh and Turnball and Cu

“Price! Come back!” I yell but the crowd is actually applauding his performance. “Price!” I yell once more, over the clapping. But he’s gone and it’s doubtful that if he did hear me he would do anything about it. Madison is standing nearby and sticks his hand out as if to congratulate me for something. “That guy’s a riot.”

McDermott appears behind me and pulls at my shoulder. “Does Price know about a VIP room that we don’t?” He looks worried.

Outside Tu

“Lunch?” I ask them, yawning. “Tomorrow?”

“Can’t,” McDermott says. “Haircut at the Pierre.”

“What about breakfast?” I suggest.

“Nope,” Van Patten says. “Gio’s. Manicure.”

“That reminds me,” I say, inspecting a hand. “I need one too.”

“How about di

“I’ve got a date,” I say. “Shit.”

“What about you?” McDermott asks Van Patten.

“No can do,” Van Patten says. “I’ve got to go to Sunmakers. Then private workout.”

Office

In the elevator Frederick Dibble tells me about an item on Page Six, or some other gossip column, about Ivana Trump and then about this new Italian-Thai place on the Upper East Side that he went to last night with Family Hamilton and starts raving about this great fusilli shiitake dish. I have taken out a gold Cross pen to write down the name of the restaurant in my address book. Dibble is wearing a subtly striped double-breasted wool suit by Canali Milano, a cotton shirt by Bill Blass, a mini-glen-plaid woven silk tie by Bill Blass Signature and he’s holding a Missoni Uomo raincoat. He has a good-looking, expensive haircut and I stare at it, admiringly, while he starts humming along to the Muzak station—a version of what could be “Sympathy for the Devil”—that plays throughout all the elevators in the building our offices are in. I’m about to ask Dibble if he watched The Patty Winters Show this morning—the topic was Autism—but he gets out on the floor before mine and repeats the name of the restaurant, “Thaidialano,” and then “See you, Marcus” and steps out of the elevator. The doors shut. I am wearing a mini-houndstooth-check wool suit with pleated trousers by Hugo Boss, a silk tie, also by Hugo Boss, a cotton broadcloth shirt by Joseph Abboud and shoes from Brooks Brothers. I flossed too hard this morning and I can still taste the coppery residue of swallowed blood in the back of my throat. I used Listerine afterwards and my mouth feels like it’s on fire but I manage a smile to no one as I step out of the elevator, brushing past a hung-over Wittenborn, swinging my new black leather attaché case from Bottega Veneta.

My secretary, Jean, who is in love with me and who I will probably end up marrying, sits at her desk and this morning, to get my attention as usual, is wearing something improbably expensive and completely inappropriate: a Chanel cashmere cardigan, a cashmere crewneck and a cashmere scarf, faux-pearl earrings, wool-crepe pants from Barney’s. I pull my Walkman off from around my neck as I approach her desk. She looks up and smiles shyly.

“Late?” she asks.

“Aerobics class.” I play it cool. “Sorry. Any messages?”

“Ricky Hendricks has to cancel today,” she says. “He didn’t say what it was he is canceling or why.”

“I occasionally box with Ricky at the Harvard Club,” I explain. “Anyone else?”