“I don’t want to know about it.”
We wait two more minutes for Hamlin.
“What in the hell is he doing?” I ask, then my call waiting clicks in.
McDermott hears it too. “Do you want to take that?”
“I’m thinking.” It clicks again. I moan and tell McDermott to hold on. It’s Jeanette. She sounds tired and sad. I don’t want to get back on the other line so I ask her what she did last night.
“After you were supposed to meet me?” she asks.
I pause, unsure. “Uh, yeah.”
“We ended up at Palladium which was completely empty. They were letting in people for free.” She signs. “We saw maybe four or five people.”
“That you knew?” I ask hopefully.
“In … the … club,” she says, spacing each word out bitterly.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say. “I had to … return some videotapes.…” And then, reacting to her silence, “You know, I would’ve met you—”
“I don’t want to hear about it,” she sighs, cutting me off. “What are you doing tonight?”
I pause, wondering how to answer, before admitting, “Zeus Bar at nine. McDermott. Hamlin.” And then, less hopefully, “Would you like to meet us?”
“I don’t know,” she sighs. Without a trace of softness she asks, “Do you want me to?”
“Must you insist on being so pathetic?” I ask back.
She hangs up on me. I get back on the other line.
“Bateman, Bateman, Bateman, Bateman,” Hamlin is droning.
“I’m here. Shut the fuck up.”
“Are we still procrastinating?” McDermott asks. “Don’t procrastinate.”
“I’ve decided I’d rather play golf,” I say. “I haven’t been golfing in a long time.”
“Fuck golf, Bateman,” Hamlin says. “We have a nine o’clock reservation at Kaktus—”
“And a reservation to cancel at 1500 in, um, let’s see … twenty minutes ago, Bateman,” McDermott says.
“Oh shit, Craig. Cancel them now,” I say tiredly.
“God, I hate golf,” Hamlin says, shuddering.
“You cancel them,” McDermott says, laughing.
“What name are they under?” I ask, not laughing, my voice rising.
After a pause, McDermott says “Carruthers” softly.
Hamlin and I burst out laughing.
“Really?” I ask.
“We couldn’t get into Zeus Bar,” Hamlin says. “So it’s Kaktus.”
“Hip,” I say dejectedly. “I guess.”
“Cheer up.” Hamlin chortles.
My call waiting buzzes again and before I can even decide whether to take it or not, Hamlin makes up my mind for me. “Now if you guys don’t want to go to Kaktus—”
“Wait, my call waiting,” I say. “Hold on.”
Jeanette is in tears. “What aren’t you capable of?” she asks, sobbing. “Just tell me what you are not capable of.”
“Baby. Jeanette,” I say soothingly. “Listen, please. We’ll be at Zeus Bar at ten. Okay?”
“Patrick, please,” she begs. “I’m okay. I just want to talk—”
“I’ll see you at nine or ten, whenever,” I say. “I’ve gotta go. Hamlin and McDermott are on the other line.”
“Okay.” She sniffs, composing herself, clearing her throat. “I’ll see you there. I’m really sor—”
I click back onto the other line. McDermott is the only one left.
“Where’s Hamlin?”
“He got off,” McDermott says. “Hell see us at nine.”
“Great,” I murmur. “I feel settled.”
“Who was that?”
“Jeanette,” I say.
I hear a faint click, then another one.
“Was that yours or mine?” McDermott asks.
“Yours,” I say. “I think.”
“Hold on.”
I wait, impatiently pacing the length of the kitchen. McDermott clicks back on.
“It’s Van Patten,” he says. “I’m putting him on three-way.”
Four more clicks.
“Hey Bateman,” Van Patten cries out. “Buddy.”
“Mr. Manhattan,” I say. “I’m acknowledging you.”
“Hey, what’s the correct way to wear a cummerbund?” he asks.
“I already answered that twice today,” I warn.
The two of them start talking about whether or not Van Patten can get to Kaktus by nine and I’ve stopped concentrating on the voices coming through the cordless phone and started watching instead, with growing interest, the rat I’ve bought—I still have the mutant one that emerged from the toilet—in its new glass cage, heave what’s left of its acid-ridden body halfway across the elaborate Habitrail system that sits on the kitchen table, where it attempts to drink from the water holder that I filled with poisoned Evian this morning. The scene seems too pitiful to me or not pitiful enough. I can’t decide. A call-waiting noise takes me out of my mindless delirium and I tell Van Patten and McDermott to please hold.
I click off, then pause before saying, “You have reached the home of Patrick Bateman. Please leave a message after—”
“Oh for god’s sake, Patrick, grow up,” Evelyn moans. “Just stop it. Why do you insist on doing that? Do you really think you’re going to get away with it?”
“With what?” I ask innocently. “Protecting myself?”
“With torturing me,” she pouts.
“Honey,” I say.
“Yes?” she sniffs.
“You don’t know what torture is. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell her. “You really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says. “It’s over. Now, what are you doing for dinner tonight?” Her voice softens. “I was thinking maybe dinner at TDK at, oh, say ninish?”
“I’m eating at the Harvard Club by myself tonight,” I say.
“Oh don’t be silly,” Evelyn says. “I know you’re having dinner at Kaktus with Hamlin and McDermott.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, not caring if I’ve been caught in a lie. “Anyway, it’s Zeus Bar, not Kaktus.”
“Because I just talked to Cindy,” she says.
“I thought Cindy was going to this plant or tree—this bush benefit,” I say.
“Oh no, no, no,” Evelyn says. “That’s next week. Do you want to go?”
“Hold on,” I say.
I get back on the line with Craig and Van Patten.
“Bateman?” Van Patten asks. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“How the hell does Cindy know we’re having dinner at Kaktus?” I demand.
“Hamlin told her?” McDermott guesses. “I don’t know. Why?”
“Because now Evelyn knows,” I say.
“When the fuck is Wolfgang Puck going to open a restaurant in this goddamn city?” Van Patten asks us.
“Is Van Patten on his third six-pack of Foster’s or is he still, like, working on his first?” I ask McDermott.
“The question you’re asking, Patrick,” McDermott begins, “is, should we exclude the women or not? Right?”
“Something is turning into nothing very quickly,” I warn. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“Should you invite Evelyn?” McDermott asks. “Is this what you want to know?”
“No, we should not,” I stress.
“Well, hey, I wanted to bring Elizabeth,” Van Patten says timidly (mock-timidly?).
“No,” I say. “No women.”
“What’s wrong with Elizabeth?” Van Patten asks.
“Yeah?” McDermott follows.
“She’s an idiot. No, she’s intelligent. I can’t tell. Don’t invite her,” I say.
After a pause I hear Van Patten say, “I sense weirdness starting.”
“Well, if not Elizabeth, what about Sylvia Josephs?” McDermott suggests.
“Nah, too old to fuck,” Van Patten says.
“Oh
Christ,” McDermott says. “She’s twenty-three.”
“Twenty-eight,” I correct.
“Really?” a concerned McDermott asks, after pausing.
“Yes,” I say. “Really.”
McDermott’s left saying “Oh.”
“Shit, I just forgot,” I say, slapping my hand to my forehead. “I invited Jeanette.”
“Now that is one babe I would not mind, ahem, inviting,” Van Patten says lewdly.
“Why does a nice young babe like Jeanette put up with you?” McDermott asks. “Why does she put up with you, Bateman?”
“I keep her in cashmere. A great deal of cashmere,” I murmur, and then, “I’ve got to call her and tell her not to come.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” McDermott asks me.
“What?” I’m lost in thought.
“Is, like, Evelyn still on the other line?”
“Oh shit,” I exclaim. “Hold on.”
“Why am I even bothering with this?” I hear McDermott ask himself, sighing.
“Bring Evelyn,” Van Patten cries out. “She’s a babe too! Tell her to meet us at Zeus Bar at nine-thirty!”
“Okay, okay,” I shout before clicking back to the other line.
“I do not appreciate this, Patrick,” Evelyn is saying.
“How about meeting us at Zeus Bar at nine-thirty?” I suggest.
“Can I bring Stash and Vanden?” she asks coyly.
“Is she the one with a tattoo?” I ask back, coyly.
“No,” she sighs. “No tattoo.”
“Bypass, bypass.”
“Oh Patrick,” she whines.
“Look, you were lucky you were even invited, so just …” My voice trails off.
Silence, during which I don’t feel bad.
“Come on, just meet us there,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh all right,” she says, resigned. “Nine-thirty?”
I click back onto the other line, interrupting Van Patten and McDermott’s conversation about whether it’s proper or not to wear a blue suit as one would a navy blazer.
“Hello?” I interrupt. “Shut up. Does everyone have my undivided attention?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Van Patten sighs, bored.
“I am calling Cindy up to get Evelyn out of coming to dinner with us,” I announce.
“Why in the hell did you invite Evelyn in the first place?” one of them asks.
“We were joking, you idiot,” the other adds.
“Er, good question,” I say, stammering. “Uh, h-hold on.”
I dial Cindy’s number after finding it in my Rolodex. She answers after screening the call.
“Hello, Patrick,” she says.
“Cindy,” I say. “I need a favor.”
“Hamlin’s not coming to dinner with you guys,” she says. “He tried calling back but your lines were all busy. Don’t you guys have call waiting?”
“Of course we have call waiting,” I say. “What do you think we are, barbarians?”
“Hamlin’s not coming,” she says again, flatly.
“What’s he doing instead?” I ask. “Oiling his Top-Siders?”
“He’s going out with me, Mr. Bateman.”
“But what about your, uh, bush benefit?” I ask.
“Hamlin got it mixed up,” she says.
“Pumpkin,” I start.
“Yes?” she asks.
“Pumpkin, you’re dating an asshole,” I say sweetly.
“Thanks, Patrick. That’s nice.”
“Pumpkin,” I warn, “you’re dating the biggest dickweed in New York.”
“You’re telling me like I don’t know this.” She yawns.
“Pumpkin, you’re dating a tumbling, tumbling dickweed.”
“Do you know that Hamlin owns six television sets and seven VCRs?”
“Does he ever use that rowing machine I got him?” I actually wonder.
“Unused,” she says. “Totally unused.”
“Pumpkin, he’s a dickweed.”
“Will you stop calling me pumpkin,” she asks, annoyed.
“Listen, Cindy, if you had a choice to read WWD or …” I stop, unsure of what I was going to say. “Listen, is there anything going on tonight?” I ask. “Something not too … boisterous?”
“What do you want, Patrick?” she sighs.
“I just want peace, love, friendship, understanding,” I say dispassionately.
“What-do-you-want?” she repeats.
“Why don’t the two of you come with us?”
“We have other plans.”
“Hamlin made the goddamn reservations,” I cry, outraged.
“Well, you guys use them.”
“Why don’t you come?” I ask lasciviously. “Dump dickweed off at Juanita’s or something.”
“I think I’m passing on dinner,” she says. “Apologize to ‘the guys’ for me.”
“But we’re going to Kaktus, uh, I mean Zeus Bar,” I say, then, confused, add, “No, Kaktus.”
“Are you guys really going there?” she asks.
“Why?”
“Conventional wisdom has it that it is no longer the ‘in’ place to dine,” she says.
“But Hamlin made the fucking reservation!” I cry out.
“Did he make reservations there?” she asks, bemused.
“Centuries ago!” I shout.
“Listen,” she says, “I’m getting dressed.”
“I’m not at all happy about this,” I say.
“Don’t worry,” she says, and then hangs up.
I get back on the other line.
“Bateman, I know this sounds like an impossibility,” McDermott says. “But the void is actually widening.”
“I am not into Mexican,” Van Patten states.
“But wait, we’re not having Mexican, are we?” I say. “Am I confused? Aren’t we going to Zeus Bar?”
“No, moron,” McDermott spits. “We couldn’t get into Zeus Bar. Kaktus. Kaktus at nine.”
“But I don’t want Mexican,” Van Patten says.
“But you, Van Patten, made the reservation,” McDermott hollers.
“I don’t either,” I say suddenly. “Why Mexican?”
“It’s not Mexican Mexican,” McDermott says, exasperated. “It’s something called nouvelle Mexicana, tapas or some other south of the border thing. Something like that. Hold on. My call waiting.”
He clicks off, leaving Van Patten and myself on the line.
“Bateman,” Van Patten sighs, “my euphoria is quickly subsiding.”
“What are you talking about?” I’m actually trying to remember where I told Jeanette and Evelyn to meet us.
“Let’s change the reservation,” he suggests.
I think about it, then suspiciously ask, “Where to?”
“1969,” he says, tempting me. “Hmmm? 1969?”
“I would like to go there,” I admit.
“What should we do?” he asks.
I think about it. “Make a reservation. Quick.”
“Okay. For three? Five? How many?”
“Five or six, I guess.”
“Okay. Hold.”
Just as he clicks off, McDermott gets back on.
“Where’s Van Patten?” he asks.
“He … had to take a piss,” I say.
“Why don’t you want to go to Kaktus?”
“Because I’m gripped by an existential panic,” I lie.
“You think that’s a good enough reason,” McDermott says. “I do not.”
“Hello?” Van Patten says, clicking back on. “Bateman?”
“Well?” I ask. “McDermott’s here too.”
“Nope. No way, José.”
“Shit.”
“What’s going on?” McDermott asks.
“Well, guys, do we want margaritas?” Van Patten asks. “Or no margaritas?”
“I could go for a margarita,” McDermott says.
“Bateman?” Van Patten asks.
“I would like
several bottles of beer, preferably un-Mexican,” I say.
“Oh shit,” McDermott says. “Call waiting. Hold on.” He clicks off.
If I am not mistaken it is now eight-thirty.
An hour later. We’re still debating. We have canceled the reservation at Kaktus and maybe someone has remade it. Confused, I actually cancel a nonexistent table at Zeus Bar. Jeanette has left her apartment and cannot be reached at home and I have no idea which restaurant she’s going to, nor do I remember which one I told Evelyn to meet us at. Van Patten, who has already had two large shots of Absolut, asks about Detective Kimball and what we talked about and all I really remember is something like how people fall between cracks.
“Did you talk to him?” I ask.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“What did he say happened to Owen?”
“Vanished. Just vanished. Poof,” he says. I can hear him opening a refrigerator. “No incident. Nothing. The authorities have nada.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m in heavy turmoil over it.”
“Well, Owen was … I don’t know,” he says. I can hear a beer being opened.
“What else did you tell him, Van Patten?” I ask.
“Oh the usual,” he sighs. “That he wore yellow and maroon ties. That he had lunch at ’21.’ That in reality he was not an arbitrageur—which was what Thimble thought he was—but a merger-maker. Only the usual.” I can almost hear him shrug.
“What else?” I ask.
“Let’s see. That he didn’t wear suspenders. A belt man. That he stopped doing cocaine, simpatico beer. You know, Bateman.”
“He was a moron,” I say. “And now he’s in London.”
“Christ,” he mutters, “general competence is on the fucking decline.”
McDermott clicks back on. “Okay. Now where to?”
“What time is it?” Van Patten asks.
“Nine-thirty,” both of us answer.
“Wait, what happened to 1969?” I ask Van Patten.
“What’s this about 1969?” McDermott doesn’t have a clue.
“I don’t remember,” I say.
“Closed. No reservations,” Van Patten reminds me.
“Can we get back to 1500?” I ask.
“1500 is now closed,” McDermott shouts. “The kitchen is closed. The restaurant is closed. It’s over. We have to go to Kaktus.”
Silence.
“Hello? Hello? Are you guys there?” he hollers, losing it.
“Bouncy as a beach ball,” Van Patten says.
I laugh.
“If you guys think this is funny,” McDermott warns.