American psycho: a novel

"Oh." Van Patten smiles politely. "Of course."

"And he was exceptionally dangerous," I say.

"And now okay, go on. Bruce Boyer, what did he do?" McDermott demands, releasing a sigh, rolling his eyes up. "Let's see – skin them alive? Starve them to death? Run them over? Feed them to dogs? What?"

"You guys," I say, shaking my head, then teasingly admit, "He did something far worse."

"Like what – take them to dinner at McManus's new restaurant?" McDermott asks.

"That would do it," Van Patter agrees. "Did you go? It was grubby, wasn't it?"

"Did you have the meat loaf?" McDermott asks.

"The meat loaf?" Van Patten's in shock. "What about the interior. What about the fucking tablecloths?"

"But did you have the meat loaf?" McDermott presses.

"Of course I had the meat loaf, and the squab, and the marlin," Van Patten says.

"Oh god, I forgot about the marlin," McDermott groans. "The marlin chili."

"After reading Miller's review in the Times, who in their right mind wouldn't order the meat loaf, or the marlin for that matter?"

"But Miller got it wrong," McDermott says. "It was just grubby. The quesadilla with papaya? Usually a good dish, but there, Jesus." He whistles, shaking his head.

"And cheap," Van Patten adds.

"So cheap." McDermott is in total agreement. "And the watermelon-brittle tart–"

"Gentlemen." I cough. "Ahem. I hate to interrupt, but…"

"Okay, okay, go on," McDermott says. "Tell us more about Charles Moyer."

"Bruce Boyer," I correct him. "He was the author of Elegance. A Guide to Quality in Menswear." Then as an aside, "And no, Craig, he wasn't a serial killer in his spare time."

"What did Brucie baby have to say?" McDermott asks, chewing on ice.

"You're a clod. It's an excellent book. His theory remains we shouldn't feel restricted from wearing a sweater vest with a suit," I say. "Did you hear me call you a clod?"

"Yeah."

"But doesn't he point out that a vest shouldn't overpower the suit?" Van Patten offers tentatively.

"Yes…" I'm mildly irritated that Van Patten has done his homework but asks for advice nonetheless. I calmly continue. "With discreet, pinstripes you should wear a subdued blue or charcoal gray vest. A plaid suit would call for a bolder vest."

"And remember," McDermott adds, "with a regular vest the last button should be left undone."

I glance sharply at McDermott. He smiles, sips his drink and then smacks his lips, satisfied.

"Why?" Van Patten wants to know.

"It's traditional," I say, still glaring at McDermott. "But it's also more comfortable."

"Will wearing suspenders help the vest sit better?" I heapr Van Patten ask.

"Why?" I ask, turning to face him.

"Well, since you avoid the…" He stops, stuck, looking for the right word.

"Encumbrance of–?" I begin.

"The belt buckle?" McDermott finishes.

"Sure," Van Patten says.

"You have to remember–" Again I'm interrupted by McDermott.

"Remember that while the vest should be in keeping with the color and the style of the suit, completely avoid matching the vest's pattern with your socks or tie," McDermott says, smiling at me, at Van Patten.

"I thought you hadn't read this… this book," I stammer angrily. "You just told me you couldn't tell the difference between Bruce Boyer and… and John Wayne Gacy."

"It came back to me." He shrugs.

"Listen." I turn back to Van Patten, finding McDermott's one-upmanship totally cheap. "Wearing argyle socks with as argyle vest will look too studied."

"You think so?" he asks.

"You'll look like you consciously worked for this look," I say, then, suddenly upset, turn back to McDermott. "Featherhead? How in the hell did you get Featherhead from Leatherface?"

"Ah, cheer up, Bateman," he says, slapping me on the back, then massaging my neck. "What's the matter? No shiatsu this morning?"

"Keep touching me like this," I say, eyes shut tight, entire body wired and ticking, coiled up ready, wanting to spring, "and you'll draw back a stump."

"Whoa, hold on there, little buddy," McDermott says, backing off in mock fear. The two of them giggle like idiots and give each other high-five, completely unaware that I'd cut his hands off, and much more, with pleasure.

The three of us, David Van Patten, Craig McDermott and myself, are sitting in the dining room of the Yale Club at lunch. Van Patten is wearing a glen-plaid wool-crepe suit from Krizia Uomo, a Brooks Brothers shirt, a tie from Adirondack and shoes by Cole-Haan. McDermott is wearing a lamb's wool and cashmere blazer, worsted wool flannel trousers by Ralph Lauren, a shirt and tie also by Ralph Lauren and shoes from Brooks Brothers. I'm wearing a tick-weave wool suit with a windowpane overplaid, a cotton shirt by Luciano Barbera, a tie by Luciano Barbera, shoes from Cole-Haan and nonprescription glasses by Bausch & Lomb. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Nazis and, inexplicably, I got a real charge out of watching it. Though I wasn't exactly charmed by their deeds, I didn't find them unsympathetic either, nor I might add did most of the members of the audience. One of the Nazis, in a rare display of humor, even juggled grapefruits and, delighted, I sat up in bed and clapped.

Luis Carruthers sits five tables away from this one, dressed as if he'd had some kind of frog attack this morning – he's wearing an unidentifiable suit from some French tailor; and if I'm not mistaken the bowler hat on the floor beneath his chair also belongs to him – it has Luis written all over it. He smiles but I pretend not to have noticed. I worked out at Xclusive for two hours this morning and since the three of us have taken the rest of the afternoon off, we're all getting massages. We haven't ordered yet, in fact we haven't even seen menus. We've just been drinking. A bottle of champagne is what Craig originally wanted, but David shook his head vehemently and said "Out, out, out" when this was suggested and so we ordered drinks instead. I keep watching Luis and whenever he looks over at our table I tip my head back and laugh even if what Van Patten or McDermott's saying isn't particularly funny, which is practically always. I've perfected my fake response to a degree where it's so natural-sounding that no one notices. Luis stands up, wipes his mouth with a napkin and glances over here again before exiting the dining area and, I'm supposing, goes to the men's room.

"But there's a limit," Van Patten is saying. "The point is, I mean, I don't want to spend the evening with the Cookie Monster."

"But you're still dating Meredith so, uh, what's the difference?" I ask. Naturally he doesn't hear.

"But ditsy is cute," McDermott says. "Ditsy is very cute."

"Bateman?" Van Patten asks. "Any style opinions on ditsiness?"

"What?" I ask, getting up.

"Ditsy? No?" McDermott this time. "Ditsy's desirable, comprende?"

"Listen," I say, pushing my chair in. "I just want everyone to know that I'm pro-family and anti-drug. Excuse me."

As I walk away Van Patten grabs a passing waiter and says, his voice fading, "Is this tap water? I don't drink tap water. Bring me an Evian or something, okay?"

Would Courtney like me less if Luis was dead? This is the question I have to face, with no clear answer burning back across my mind, as I make my way slowly through the dining room, waving to someone who looks like Vincent Morrison, someone else who I'm fairly sure is someone who looks like Tom Newman. Would Courtney spend more time with me – the time she now spends with Luis – if he was out of the picture, no longer an alternative, if he was perhaps… dead? If Luis were killed would Courtney be upset? Could I genuinely be of comfort without laughing in her face, my own spite doubling back on me, giving everything away? Is the fact that she dates me behind his back what excites her, my body or the size of my dick? Why, for that matter, do I want to please Courtney? If she likes me only for my muscles, the heft of my cock, then she's a shallow bitch. But a physically superior, near-perfect-looking shallow bitch, and that can override anything, except maybe bad breath or yellow teeth, either of which is a real dealbreaker. Would I ruin things by strangling Luis? If I married Evelyn would she make me buy her Lacroix gowns until we finalized our divorce? Have the South African colonial forces and the Soviet-backed black guerrillas found peace yet in Namibia? Or would the world be a safer, kinder place if Luis was hacked to bits? My world might, so why not? There really is no… other hand. It's really even too late to be asking these questions since now I'm in the men's room, staring at myself in the mirror – tan and haircut perfect – checking out my teeth which are completely straight and white and gleaming. Winking at my reflection I breathe in, sliding on a pair of leather Armam gloves, and then make my way toward the stall Luis occupies. The men's room is deserted. All the stalls are empty except for the one at the end, the door not locked, left slightly ajar, the sound of Luis whistling something from Les Misérables getting almost oppressively louder as I approach.

He's standing in the stall, his back to me, wearing a cashmere blazer, pleated wool trousers, a cotton-silk white shirt, pissing into the toilet. I can tell he senses movement in the stall because he stiffens noticeably and the sound of his urine hitting water stops abruptly in midstream. In slow motion, my own heavy breathing blocking out all other sounds, my vision blurring slightly around the edges, my hands move up over the collar of his cashmere blazer and cotton-flannel shirt, circling his neck until my thumbs meet at the nape and my index fingers touch each other just above Luis's Adam's apple. I start to squeeze, tightening my grip, but it's loose enough to let Luis turn around – still in slow motion – so he can stand facing me, one hand over his wool and silk Polo sweater, the other hand reaching up. His eyelids flutter for an instant, then widen, which is exactly what I want. I want to see Luis's face contort and turn purple and I want him to know who it is who is killing him. I want to be the last face, the last thing, that Luis sees before he dies and I want to cry out, "I'm fucking Courtney. Do you hear me? I'm fucking Courtney. Ha-ha-ha," and have these be the last words, the last sounds he hears until his own gurglings, accompanied by the crunching of his trachea, drown everything else out. Luis stares at me and I tense the muscles in my arms, preparing myself for a struggle that, disappointingly, never comes.

Instead he looks down at my wrists and for a moment wavers, as if he's undecided about something, and then he lowers 'his head and… kisses my left wrist, and when he looks back up at me, shyly, it's with an expression that's… loving and only part awkward. His right hand reaches up and tenderly touches the side of my face. I stand there, frozen, my arms still stretched out in front of me, fingers still circled around Luis's throat.

"God, Patrick,.. he whispers. "Why here?"

His hand is playing with my hair now. I look over at the side of the stall, where someone has scratched into the paint Edwin gives marvelous head, and I'm still paralyzed in this position and gazing at the words, confused, studying the frame surrounding the words as if that contained an answer, a truth. Edwin? Edwin who? I shake my head to clear it and look back at Luis, who has this horrible, love-struck grin plastered on his face, and I try to squeeze harder, my face twisted with exertion, but I can't do it, my hands won't tighten, and my arms, still stretched out, look ludicrous and useless in their fixed position.

"I've seen you looking at me," he says, panting. "I've noticed your" – he gulps – "hot body."

He tries to kiss me on the lips but I back away, into the stall door, accidentally closing it. I drop my hands from Luis's neck and he takes them and immediately places them back. I drop them once again and stand there contemplating my next move, but I'm immobile.

"Don't be… shy," he says.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, count to ten, open them and make a helpless attempt to lift my arms back up to strangle Luis, but they feel weighed down and lifting them becomes an impossible task.

"You don't know how long I've wanted it…" He's sighing, rubbing my shoulders, trembling. "Ever since that Christmas party at Arizona 206. You know the one, you were wearing that red striped paisley Armani tie."

For the first time I notice his pants are still unzipped and calmly and without difficulty I turn out of the stall and move over to a sink to wash my hands, but my gloves are still on and I don't want to take them off. The bathroom at the Yale Club suddenly seems to me to be the coldest room in the universe and I shudder involuntarily. Luis trails behind, touching my jacket, leaning next to me at the sink.

"I want you," he says in a low, faggoty whisper and when I slowly turn my head to glare at him, while hunched over the sink, seething, my eye contact radiating revulsion, he adds, "too."

I storm out of the men's room, bumping into Brewster Whipple, I think. I smile at the maître d' and after shaking his hand I make a run for the closing elevator but I'm too late and I cry out, pounding a fist against the doors, cursing. Composing myself, I notice the maître d' conferring with a waiter, the two of them looking my way questioningly, and so I straighten up, smile shyly and wave at them. Luis strides over calmly, still grinning, flushed, and I just stand there and let him walk up to me. He says nothing.

"What… is… it?" I finally hiss.

"Where are you going?" he whispers, bewildered.

"I… I've gotta…" Stumped, I look around the crowded dining room, then back at Luis's quivering, yearning face. "I've gotta return some videotapes," I say, jabbing at the elevator button, then, my patience shot, I start to walk away and head back toward my table.

"Patrick," he calls out.

I whirl around. "What?"

He mouths "I'll call you" with this expression on his face that lets me know, that assures me, my "secret" is safe with him. "Oh my god," I practically gag, and shaking visibly I sit back at our table, completely defeated, my gloves still on, and gulp down the rest of a watery J&B on the rocks. As soon as I've seated myself Van Patten asks, "Hey Bateman, what's the right way to wear a tie bar or clasp?"

"While a tie holder is by no means required businesswear, it adds to a clean, neat overall appearance. But the accessory shouldn't dominate the tie. Choose a simple gold bar or a small clip and place it at the lower end of the tie at a downward forty-five-degree angle."

Killing Dog

Courtney calls, too wasted on Elavil to meet me for a coherent dinner at Cranes, the new Kitty Oates Sanders restaurant in Gramercy Park where Jean, my secretary, made reservations for us last week, and I'm nonplussed. Even though it got excellent reviews (one in New York magazine; the other in The Nation) I don't complain or persuade Courtney to change her mind since I have two files I should go over and The Patty Winters Show I taped this morning hasn't been watched yet. It's sixty minutes about women who've had mastectomies, which at seven-thirty, over breakfast, before the office, I couldn't bear to sit through, but after today – hanging out at the office, where the air-conditioning broke down, a tedious lunch with Cunningham at Odeon, my fucking Chinese cleaners unable to get bloodstains out of another Soprani jacket, four videotapes overdue that ended up costing me a fortune, a twenty-minute wait at the Stairmasters – I've adapted; these events have toughened me and I'm prepared to deal with this particular topic.

Two thousand abdominal crunches and thirty minutes of rope jumping in the living room, the Wurlitzer jukebox blasting "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" over and over, even though I worked out in the gym today for close to two hours. After this I get dressed to pick up groceries at D'Agostino's: blue jeans by Armani, a white Polo shirt, an Armani sport coat, no tie, hair slicked back with Thompson mousse; since it's drizzling, a pair of black waterproof lace-ups by Manolo Blahnik; three knives and two guns carried in a black Epi leather attaché case ($3,200) by Louis Vuitton; because it's cold and I don't want to fuck up my manicure, a pair of Armani deerskin gloves. Finally, a belted trench coat in black leather by Cianfranco Ferré that cost four thousand dollars. Though it's only a short walk to D'Agostino's, I put on a CD Walkman anyway, with the long version of Bon Jovi's "Wanted Dead or Alive" already in it. I grab an Etro wood-handled paisley umbrella from Bergdorf Goodman, three hundred dollars on sale, off a newly installed umbrella rack in the closet near the entranceway and I'm out the door.

After the office I worked out at Xclusive and once home made obscene phone calls to young Dalton girls, the numbers I chose coming from the register I stole a copy of from the administration office when I broke in last Thursday night. "I'm a corporate raider," I whispered lasciviously into the cordless phone. "I orchestrate hostile takeovers. What do you think of that?" and I would pause before making sucking noises, freakish piglike grunts, and then ask, "Huh, bitch?" Most of the time I could tell they were frightened and this pleased me greatly, enabled me to maintain a strong, pulsing erection for the duration of the phone calls, until one of the girls, Hilary Wallace, asked, unfazed, "Dad, is that you?" and whatever enthusiasm I'd built up plummeted. Vaguely disappointed, I made a few more calls, but only halfheartedly, opening today's mail while doing so, and I finally hung up in midsentence when I came across a personalized reminder from Clifford, the guy who helps me at Armani, that there was a private sale at the boutique on Madison… two weeks ago! and though I figured out that one of the doormen probably withheld the card to piss me off, it still doesn't erase the fact that I missed the fucking sale, and dwelling over this loss while wandering down Central Park West somewhere around Seventy-sixth, Seventy-fifth, it strikes me profoundly that the world is more often than not a bad and cruel place.

Someone who looks almost exactly like Jason Taylor – black hair slicked back, navy double-breasted cashmere coat with a beaver collar, black leather boots, Morgan Stanley – passes beneath a streetlamp and nods as I turn down the volume on the Walkman to hear him say "Hello, Kevin" and I catch a whiff of Grey Flannel and, still walking, I look back at the person who resembles Taylor, who could be Taylor, wondering if he's still dating Shelby Phillips, when I almost stumble over a beggar lying on the street, sprawled in the doorway of an abandoned restaurant – a place Tony McManus opened two summers ago called Amnesia – and she's black and out-of-her-mind crazy, repeating the words "Money please help mister money please help mister" like some kind of Buddhist chant. I try to lecture her on the merits of getting a job somewhere – perhaps at Cineplex Odeon, I suggested not impolitely – silently debating whether or not to open the briefcase, pull out the knife or the gun. But it strikes me that she's too easy a target to be truly satisfying, so I tell her to go to hell and turn up the Walkman just as Bon Jovi cries "It's all the same, only the names have changed…" and move on, stopping at an automated teller to take three hundred dollars out for no particular reason, all the bills crisp, freshly printed twenties, and I delicately place them in my gazelleskin wallet so as not to wrinkle them. At Columbus Circle, a juggler wearing a trench cloak and top hat, who is usually at this location afternoons and who calls himself Stretch Man, performs in front of a small, uninterested crowd; though I smell prey, and he seems fully worthy of my wrath, I move on in search of a less dorky target. Though if he'd been a mime, odds are he'd already be dead.

Faded posters of Donald Trump on the cover of Time magazine cover the windows of another abandoned restaurant, what used to be Palaze, and this fills me with a newfound confidence. I've arrived at D'Agostino's, standing directly in front of it, gazing into it, and I have an almost overwhelming urge to walk in and browse through each aisle, filling my basket with bottles of balsamic vinegar and sea salt, roam through the vegetable and produce stands inspecting the color tones of red peppers and yellow peppers and green peppers and purple peppers, deciding what flavor, what shape of gingerbread cookie to buy, but I'm still longing for something deeper, something undefined to do beforehand, and I start to stalk the dark, cold streets off Central Park West and I catch sight of my face reflected in the tinted windows of a limousine that's parked in front of Café des Artistes and my mouth is moving involuntarily, my tongue wetter than usual, and my eyes are blinking uncontrollably of their own accord. In the streetlamp's glare, my shadow is vividly cast on the wet pavement and I can see my gloved hands moving, alternately clutching themselves into fists, fingers stretching, wriggling, and I have to stop in the middle of Sixty-seventh Street to calm myself down, whisper soothing thoughts, anticipating D'Agostino's, a reservation at Dorsia, the new Mike and the Mechanics CD, and it takes an awesome amount of strength to fight down the urge to start slapping myself in the face.

Coming slowly up the street is an old queer wearing a cashmere turtleneck, a paisley wool ascot and a felt hat, walking a brown and white sharpei, its bunched-up face sniffing low to the ground. The two of them get closer, passing beneath one streetlamp, then another, and I've composed myself sufficiently to slowly take off the Walkman and inconspicuously unlock the briefcase. I'm standing in the middle of the thin strip of sidewalk next to a white BMW 320i and the queer with the sharpei is now within feet of me and I get a good look at him: late fifties, pudgy, with obscenely healthy-looking pink skin, no wrinkles, all of this topped off with a ridiculous mustache that accentuates his feminine features. He gives me the once-over with a quizzical smile, while the sharpei sniffs a tree, then a garbage bag sitting next to the BMW.

"Nice dog." I smile, leaning down.

The sharper eyes me warily, then growls.

"Richard." The man glares at the dog, then looks back up at me, apologetic, and I can sense he's flattered, not only that I've noticed his dog but that I've actually stopped to talk to him about it, and I swear the old bastard is positively flushed, creaming in his tacky loose corduroys from, I'm guessing, Ralph Lauren.

"It's okay," I tell him and pet the dog gently, laying the briefcase on the ground. "It's a sharpei, right?"

"No. Shar-pei," he says, lisping, a way I've never heard it pronounced before.

"Shar-pei?" I try to say it the same way he does, still stroking the velvet bumpiness of the dog's neck and back.

"No." He laughs flirtatiously. "Shar-pei. Accent on the last syllable." Akthent on thee latht thyllable.

"Well, whatever," I say, standing up and grinning boyishly. "It's a beautiful animal."

"Oh thank you," he says, then, exathperated, "It costs a fortune."

"Really? Why?" I ask, leaning down again and stroking the dog. "Hiya Richard. Hiya little fella."

"You wouldn't believe it," he says. "You see, the bags around its eyes have to be lifted surgically every two years, so we have to go all the way down to Key West – which has the only vet I really trust in this world – and a little snip, a little tuck, and Richard can see splendidly once again, can't you, baby?" He nods approvingly as I continue to run my hand seductively across the dog's back.

"Well," I say. "He looks great."

There's a pause in which I watch the dog. The owner keeps eyeing me and then he just can't help it, he has to break the silence.

"Listen," he says. "I really hate to ask this."

"Go ahead," I urge.

"Oh gosh, this is so silly," he admits, chuckling.

I start laughing. "Why?"

"Are you a model?" he asks, not laughing anymore. "I could swear I've seen you in a magazine or somewhere."

"No, I'm not," I say, deciding not to lie. "But I'm flattered."

"Well, you look just like a movie star." He waves a limp wrist, then, "I don't know," and finally he lisps the following – I swear to God – to himself: "Oh stop it, silly, you're embarrassing yourself."

I lean down, giving the appearance of picking up the briefcase, but because of the shadows I'm leaning into he doesn't see me pull out the knife, the sharpest one, with the serrated edge, and I'm asking him what he paid for Richard, naturally but also very deliberately, without even looking up to check to see if other people are walking down the street. In one swift movement I pick the dog up quickly by the neck and hold it with my left arm, pushing it back against the streetlamp while it nips at me, trying to bite my gloves, its jaws snapping, but since I've got such a tight grip on its throat it can't bark and I can actually hear my hand crush its trachea. I push the serrated blade into its stomach and quickly slice open its hairless belly in a squirt of brown blood, its legs kicking and clawing at me, then blue and red intestines bulge out and I drop the dog onto the sidewalk, the queer just standing there, still gripping the leash, and this has all happened so fast he's in shock and he just stares in horror saying "oh my god oh my god" as the sharpei drags itself around in a circle, its tail wagging, squealing, and it starts licking and sniffing the pile of its own intestines, spilled out in a mound on the sidewalk, some still connected to its stomach, and as it goes into its death throes still attached to its leash I whirl around on its owner and I push him back, hard, with a bloodied glove and start randomly stabbing him in the face and head, finally slashing his throat open in two brief chopping motions; an arc of red-brown blood splatters the white BMW 320i parked at the curb, setting off its car alarm, four fountainlike bursts coming from below his chin. The spraylike sound of the blood. He falls to the sidewalk, shaking like mad, blood still pumping, as I wipe the knife clean on the front of his jacket and toss it back in the briefcase and begin to walk away, but to make sure the old queer is really dead and not faking it (they sometimes do) I shoot him with a silencer twice in the face and then I leave, almost slipping in the puddle of blood that has formed by the side of his head, and I'm down the street and out of darkness and like in a movie I appear in front of the D'Agostino's, sales clerks beckoning for me to enter, and I'm using an expired coupon for a box of oat-bran cereal and the girl at the checkout counter – black, dumb, slow – doesn't get it, doesn't notice the expiration date has passed even though it's the only thing I buy, and I get a small but incendiary thrill when I walk out of the store, opening the box, stuffing handfuls of the cereal into my mouth, trying to whistle "Hip to Be Square" at the same time, and then I've opened my umbrella and I'm running down Broadway, then up Broadway, then down again, screaming like a banshee, my coat open, flying out behind me like some kind of cape.

Girls

Tonight an infuriating dinner at Raw Space with a vaguely ditzed-out Courtney who keeps asking me questions about spa menus and George Bush and Tofutti that belong only in someone's nightmare. I utterly ignore her, to no avail, and while she's in midsentence – Page Six, Jackie O – I resort to waving our waiter over and ordering the cold corn chowder lemon bisque with peanuts and dill, an arugula Caesar salad and swordfish meat loaf with kiwi mustard, even though I already ordered this and he tells me so. I look up at him, not even trying to feign surprise, and smile grimly. "Yes, I did, didn't I?" The Floridian cuisine looks impressive but the portions are small and costly, especially in a place with a dish of crayons on each table. (Courtney draws a Laura Ashley print on her paper place mat and I draw the insides of Monica Lustgarden's stomach and chest on mine and when Courtney, charmed by what I'm drawing, inquires as to what it is, I tell her, "Uh, a… watermelon"). The bill, which I pay for with my platinum American Express card, comes to over three hundred dollars. Courtney looks okay in a Donna Karan wool jacket, silk blouse and cashmere wool skirt. I'm wearing a tuxedo for no apparent reason. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about a new sport called Dwarf Tossing.

In the limousine, dropping her off at Nell's, where we're supposed to have drinks with Meredith Taylor, Louise Samuelson and Pierce Towers, I tell Courtney that I need to score some drugs and I promise that I'll be back before midnight. "Oh, and tell Nell I say hi," I add casually.

"Just buy some downstairs if you have to, for god's sake," she whines.

"But I promised someone I'd stop by their place. Paranoia Understand?" I whine back.

"Who's paranoid?" she asks, eyes squinting. "I don't get it."

"Honey, the drugs downstairs are usually a notch below NutraSweet in terms of potency," I tell her. "You know."

"Don't implicate me, Patrick," she warns.

"Just go inside and order me a Foster's, okay?"

"Where are you really going?" she asks after a beat, now suspicious.

"I'm going to… Noj's," I say. "I'm buying coke from Noj."

"But Noj is the chef at Deck Chairs," she says, as I'm pushing her out of the limousine. "Noj isn't a drug dealer. He's a chef!"

"Don't have a hissy fit, Courtney," I sigh, my hands on her back.

"But don't lie to me about Noj," she whines, struggling to stay in the car. "Noj is the chef at Deck Chairs. Did you hear me?"

I stare at her, dumbfounded, caught in the harsh lights hung above the ropes outside Nell's.

"I mean Fiddler," I finally admit, meekly. "I'm going to Fiddler's to score."

"You're impossible," she mutters, walking away from the limo. "There is something seriously wrong with you."

"I'll be back," I call out after her, slamming the limo's door shut, then I cackle gleefully to myself while relighting a cigar, "Don't you bet on it."

I tell the chauffeur to head over to the meat-packing district just west of Nell's, near the bistro Florent, to look for prostitutes and after heavily scanning the area twice – actually, I've spent months prowling this section of town for the appropriate babe – I find her on the corner of Washington and Thirteenth. She's blond and slim and young, trashy but not an escort bimbo, and most important, she's white, which is a rarity in these parts. She's wearing tight cutoff shorts, a white T-shirt and a cheap leather jacket, and except for a bruise over her left knee her skin is pale all over, including the face, though her thickly lipsticked mouth is done up in pink. Behind her, in four-foot-tall red block letters painted on the side of an abandoned brick warehouse, is the word M E A T and the way the letters are spaced awakens something in me and above the building like a backdrop is a moonless sky, which earlier, in the afternoon, was hung with clouds but tonight isn't.

The limousine cruises up alongside the girl. Through its tinted windows, closer up, she's paler, the blond hair now seems bleached and her facial features indicate someone even younger than I first imagined, and because she's the only white girl I've seen tonight in this section of town, she seems – whether she is or not – especially clean; you could easily mistake her for one of the NYU girls walking home from Mars, a girl who has been drinking Seabreezes all night while moving across a dance floor to the new Madonna songs, a girl who perhaps afterwards had a fight with her boyfriend, someone named Angus or Nick or… Pokey, a girl on her way to Florent to gossip with friends, to order another Seabreeze perhaps or maybe a cappuccino or a glass of Evian water – and unlike most of the whores around here, she barely registers the limousine as it pulls up next to her and stops, idling. Instead she lingers casually, pretending to be unaware of what the limousine actually signifies.

When the window opens, she smiles but looks away. The following exchange takes place in less than a minute.

"I haven't seen you around here," I say.

"You just haven't been looking," she says, really cool.

"Would you like to see my apartment?" I ask, flipping the light on inside the back of the limo so she can see my face, the tuxedo I'm wearing. She looks at the limousine, then at me, then back at the limo. I reach into my gazelleskin wallet.

"I'm not supposed to," she says, looking off into a pocket of darkness between two buildings across the street, but when her eyes fall back on me she notices the hundred-dollar bill I'm holding out to her and without asking what I'm doing, without asking what it is I really want of her, without even asking if I'm a cop, she takes the bill and then I'm.allowed to rephrase my question. "Do you want to come up to my apartment or not?" I ask this grinning.

"I'm not supposed to," she says again, but after another glance at the black, long car and at the bill she's now putting into her hip pocket and at the bum, shuffling toward the limousine, a cup jangling with coins held in a scabby outstretched arm, she manages to answer, "But I can make an exception."

"Do you take American Express?" I ask, switching the light off.

She's still gazing out into that wall of darkness, as if looking for a sign from someone invisible. She shifts her stare to meet mine and when I repeat "Do you take American Express?" she looks at me like I'm crazy, but I smile pointlessly anyway while holding the door open and tell her, "I'm joking. Come on, get in." She nods to someone across the street and I guide this girl into the back of the darkened limousine, slamming the door, then locking it.

Back in my apartment, while Christie takes a bath (I don't know her real name, I haven't asked, but I told her to respond only when I call her Christie) I dial the number for Cabana Bi Escort Service and, using my gold American Express card, order a woman, a blond, who services couples. I give the address twice and afterwards, again, stress blond. The guy on the other end of the line, some old dago, assures me that someone blond will be at my door within the hour.

After flossing and changing into a pair of silk Polo boxer shorts and a cotton Bill Blass sleeveless T-shirt, I walk into the bathroom, where Christie lies on her back in the tub, sipping white wine from a thin-stemmed Steuben wineglass. I sit on the tub's marble edge and pour Monique Van Frere herb-scented bath oil into it while inspecting the body lying in the milky water. For a long time my mind races, becomes flooded with impurities – her head is within my reach, is mine to crush; at this very moment my urge to strike out, to insult and punish her, rises then subsides, and afterwards I'm able to point out, "That's a very fine chardonnay you're drinking."

After a long pause, my hand squeezing a small, childlike breast, I say, "I want you to clean your vagina."

She stares up at me with this seventeen-year-old's gaze, then looks down at the length of her body soaking in the tub. With the mildest of shrugs she places the glass on the tub's edge and moves a hand down to the sparse hair, also blond, below her flat porcelain-smooth stomach, and then she spreads her legs slightly.

"No," I say quietly. "From behind. Get on your knees."

She shrugs again.

"I want to watch," I explain. "You have a very nice body," I say, urging her on.

She rolls over, kneeling on all fours, her ass raised up above the water, and I move to the other edge of the tub to get a better view of her cunt, which she fingers with a soapy hand. I move my hand above her moving wrist to her asshole, which I spread and with a dab of the bath oil finger lightly. It contracts, she sighs. I remove the finger, then slide it into her cunt, which hangs below it, both our fingers moving in, then out, then back into her. She's wet inside and using this wetness I move my index finger back up to her asshole and slide it in easily, up to the knuckle. She gasps twice and pushes herself back onto it, while still fingering her cunt. This goes on for a while until the doorman rings, announcing that Sabrina has arrived. I tell Christie to get out of the tub and dry off, to choose a robe – but not the Bijan – from the closet and meet me and our guest in the living room for drinks. I move back to the kitchen, where I pour a glass of wine for Sabrina.

Sabrina, however, is not a blond. And standing in the doorway after my initial shock subsides, I finally let her in. Her hair is brownish blond, not real blond, and though this infuriates me I don't say anything because she's also very pretty; not as young as Christie but not too used up either. In short, she looks like she'll be worth whatever it is I'm paying her by the hour. I calm down enough to become totally unangry when she takes off her coat and reveals a hardbody dressed in tight black peg pants and a flower-print halter top, with black pointy-toed high-heeled shoes. Relieved, I lead her into the living room and position her on the white down-filled sofa and, without asking if she wants anything to drink, bring her a glass of white wine and a coaster to place it on from the Mauna Kea Hotel in Hawaii. The Broadway cast recording of Les Misérables is playing on CD from the stereo. When Christie comes in from the bathroom to join us, wearing a Ralph Lauren terry-cloth robe, her blond hair slicked back, looking white now because of the bath, I place her on the couch next to Sabrina – they nod hello – and then I take a seat in the Nordian chrome and teakwood chair across from the couch. I decide it's probably best if we get to know each other before we adjourn to the bedroom and so I break a long, not unpleasant silence by clearing my throat and asking a few questions.

"So," I start, crossing my legs. "Don't you want to know what I do?"

The two of them stare at me for a long time. Fixed smiles locked on their faces, they glance at each other before Christie, unsure, shrugs and quietly answers, "No."

Sabrina smiles, takes this as a cue and agrees. "No, not really."

I stare at the two of them for a minute before recrossing my legs and sighing, very irritated: "Well, I work on Wall Street. At Pierce & Pierce."

A long pause.

"Have you heard of it?" I ask.

Another long pause. Finally Sabrina breaks the silence. "Is it connected with Mays… or Macy's?"

I pause before asking, "Mays?"

She thinks about it for a minute then says, "Yeah. A shoe outlet? Isn't P & P a shoe store?"

I stare at her, hard.

Christie stands up, surprising me, and moves over to admire the stereo. "You have a really nice place here… Paul," and then, looking through the compact discs, hundreds upon hundreds of them, stacked and lined up in a large white-oak shelf, all of them alphabetically listed, "How much did you pay for it?"

I'm standing up to pour myself another glass of the Acacia. "Actually, none of your business, Christie, but I can assure you it certainly wasn't cheap."

From the kitchen I notice Sabrina has taken a pack of cigarettes out of her handbag and I walk back into the living room, shaking my head before she can light one.

"No, no smoking," I tell her. "Not in here."

She smiles, pauses slightly and with a little nod slips the cigarette back into its box. I'm carrying a tray of chocolates with me and I offer one to Christie.

"Varda truffle?"

She stares blankly at the plate then politely shakes her head. I move over to Sabrina, who smiles and takes one, and then, concerned, I notice her wineglass, which is still full.

"I don't want you to get drunk," I tell her. "But that's a very fine chardonnay you're not drinking."

I place the tray of trues on the glass-top Palazzetti coffee table and sit back in the armchair, motioning for Christie to get back on the couch, which she does. We sit here silently, listening to the Les Misérables CD. Sabrina chews on the truffle thoughtfully and takes another.

I have to break the silence again myself. "So have either of you been abroad?" It hits me almost immediately what the sentence sounds like, how it could be misinterpreted. "I mean to Europe?"

Both of them are looking at each other as if some secret signal is passing between them, before Sabrina shakes her head and then Christie follows with the same head movement.

The next question I ask, after another long silence, is, "Did either of you go to college, and if so, where?"

The response to this question consists of a barely contained glare from each of them, and so I decide to take this as an opportunity to lead them into the bedroom, where I make Sabrina dance a little before taking off her clothes in front of Christie and me while every halogen bulb in the bedroom burns. I have her put on a Christian Dior lace and charmeuse teddy and then I take off all my clothes – except for a pair of Nike all-sport sneakers – and Christie eventually takes off the Ralph Lauren robe and is buck naked except for an Angela Cummings silk and latex scarf, which I knot carefully around her neck, and suede gloves by Gloria Jose from Bergdorf Goodman that I bought on sale.

Now the three of us are on the futon. Christie is on all fours facing the headboard, her ass raised high in the air, and I'm straddling her back as if I was riding a dog or something, but backward, my knees resting on the mattress, my dick half hard, and I'm facing Sabrina, who is staring into Christie's spread-open ass with a determined expression. Her smile seems tortured and she's wetting her own lips by fingering herself and tracing her glistening index finger across them, like she's applying lip gloss. With both my hands I keep Christie's ass and cunt spread open and I urge Sabrina to move in closer and sniff them. Sabrina is now face level at Christie's ass and cunt, both of which I'm fingering lightly. I motion for Sabrina to move her face in even closer until she can smell my fingers which I push into her mouth and which she sucks on hungrily. With my other hand I keep massaging Christie's tight, wet pussy, which hangs heavy, soaked below her spread, dilated asshole.

"Smell it," I tell Sabrina and she moves in closer until she's two inches, an inch, away from Christie's asshole. My dick is standing straight up now and I keep jerking myself off to keep it that way.

"Lick her cunt first," I tell Sabrina and with her own fingers she spreads it open and starts lapping at it like a dog while massaging the clit and then she moves up to Christie's asshole which she laps at in the same way. Christie's moans are urgent and uncontrolled and she starts pushing her ass harder into Sabrina's face, onto Sabrina's tongue, which Sabrina pushes slowly in and out of Christie's asshole. While she does this I watch, transfixed, and start rubbing Christie's clit quickly until she's humping onto Sabrina's face and shouts "I'm coming" and while pulling on her own nipples has a long, sustained orgasm. And though she could be faking it I like the way it looks so I don't slap her or anything.

Tired of balancing myself, I fail off Christie and lie on my back, positioning Sabrina's face over my stiff, huge cock which I guide into her mouth with my hand, jerking it off while she sucks on the head. I pull Christie toward me and while taking her gloves off start kissing her hard on the mouth, licking inside it, pushing my tongue against hers, past hers, as far down her throat as it will go. She fingers her cunt, which is so wet that her upper thighs look like someone's slathered something slick and oily all over them. I push Christie down past my waist to help Sabrina suck my cock off and after the two of them take turns licking the head and the shaft, Christie moves to my balls which are aching and swollen, as large as two small plums, and she laps at them before placing her mouth over the entire sac, alternately massaging and lightly sucking the balls, separating them with her tongue. Christie moves her mouth back to the cock Sabrina's still sucking on and they start kissing each other, hard, on the mouth, right above the head of my dick, drooling saliva onto it and jacking it off. Christie keeps masturbating herself this entire time, working three fingers in her vagina, wetting her clit with her juices, moaning. This turns me on enough to grab her by the waist and swivel her around and position her cunt over my face, which she gladly sits on. Clean and pink and wet and spread, her clit swollen, engorged with blood, her cunt hangs over my head and I push my face into it, tonguing it, craving its flavor, while fingering her asshole. Sabrina is still working on my cock, jacking off the base of it, the rest of it filling her mouth, and now she moves on top of me, her knees resting on either side of my chest, and I tear off her teddy so that her ass and cunt are facing Christie, whose head I force down and order to "lick them, suck on that clit" and she does.

It's an awkward position for all of us, so this only goes on for maybe two or three minutes, but during this short period Sabrina comes in Christie's face, while Christie, grinding her cunt hard against my mouth, comes all over mine and I have to steady her thighs and grip them firmly so she won't break my nose with her humping. I still haven't come and Sabrina's doing nothing special to my cock so I pull it out of her mouth and have her sit on it. My cock slides in almost too easily – her cunt is too wet, drenched with her own cunt juice and Christie's saliva, and there's no friction – so I take the scarf from around Christie's neck and pull my cock out of Sabrina's cunt and, spreading her open, wipe her cunt and my cock off and then try to resume fucking her while I continue to eat out Christie, who I bring to yet another climax within a matter of minutes. The two girls are facing each other – Sabrina's fucking my cock, Christie's sitting on my face – and Sabrina leans in to suck and finger Christie's small, firm, full tits. Then Christie starts French-kissing Sabrina hard on the mouth as I continue to eat her out, my mouth and chin and jaw covered with her juices, which momentarily dry, then are replaced by others.

I push Sabrina off my cock and lay her on her back, her head at the foot of the futon. Then I lay Christie over her, placing the two in a sixty-nine position, with Christie's ass raised up in the air, and with a surprisingly small amount of Vaseline, after slipping on a condom, finger her tight ass until it relaxes and loosens enough so I can ease my dick into it while Sabrina eats Christie's cunt out, fingering it, sucking on her swollen clit, sometimes holding on to my balls and squeezing them lightly, teasing my asshole with a moistened finger, and then Christie is leaning into Sabrina's cunt and she's roughly spread her legs open as wide as possible and starts digging her tongue into Sabrina's cunt, but not for long because she's interrupted by yet another orgasm and she lifts her head up and looks back at me, her face slick with cunt juice, and she cries out "Fuck me I'm coming oh god eat me I'm coming" and this spurs me on to start fucking her ass very hard while Sabrina keeps eating the cunt that hangs over her face, which is covered with Christie's pussy juice. I pull my cock out of Christie's ass and force Sabrina to suck on it before I push it back into Christie's spread cunt and after a couple of minutes of fucking it I start coming and at the same time Sabrina lifts her mouth off my balls and just before I explode into Christie's cunt, she spreads my ass cheeks open and forces her tongue up into my asshole which spasms around it and because of this my orgasm prolongs itself and then Sabrina removes her tongue and starts moaning that she's coming too because after Christie finishes coming she resumes eating Sabrina's cunt and I watch, hunched over Christie, panting, as Sabrina lifts her hips repeatedly into Christie's face and then I have to lie back, spent but still hard, my cock, glistening, still aching from the force of my ejaculation, and I close my eyes, my knees weak and shaking.

I awaken only when one of them touches my wrist accidentally. My eyes open and I warn them not to touch the Rolex, which I've kept on during this entire time. They lie quietly on either side of me, sometimes touching my chest, once in a while running their hands over the muscles in my abdomen. A half hour later I'm hard again. I stand up and walk over to the armoire, where, next to the nail gun, rests a sharpened coat hanger, a rusty butter knife, matches from the Gotham Bar and Grill and a half-smoked cigar; and turning around, naked, my erection jutting out in front of me, I hold these items out and explain in a hoarse whisper, "We're not through yet…" An hour later I will impatiently lead them to the door, both of them dressed and sobbing, bleeding but well paid. Tomorrow Sabrina will have a limp. Christie will probably have a terrible black eye and deep scratches across her buttocks caused by the coat hanger. Bloodstained Kleenex will lie crumpled by the side of the bed along with an empty carton of Italian seasoning salt I picked up at Dean & Deluca.

Shopping

The colleagues I have to buy presents for include Victor Powell, Paul Owen, David Van Patten, Craig McDermott, Luis Carruthers, Preston Nichols, Connolly O'Brien, Reed Robison, Scott Montgomery, Ted Madison, Jeff Duvall, Boris Cunningham, Jamie Conway, Hugh Turnball, Frederick Dibble, Todd Hamlin, Muldwyn Butner, Ricky Hendricks and George Carpenter, and though I could have sent Jean to make these purchases today, instead I asked her to sign, stamp and mail three hundred designer Christmas cards with a Mark Kostabi print on them and then I wanted her to find out as much as she could about the Fisher account that Paul Owen is handling. Right now I'm moving down Madison Avenue, after spending close to an hour standing in a daze near the bottom of the staircase at the Ralph Lauren store on Seventy-second, staring at cashmere sweater vests, confused, hungry, and when I finally took hold of my bearings, after failing to get the address of the blond hardbody who worked behind the counter and who was coming on to me, I left the store yelling "Come all ye faithfull" Now I scowl at a bum huddled in the doorway of a store called EarKarma and he's clutching a sign that reads HUNGRY AND HOMELESS… PLEASE HELP ME, GOD BLESS and then I find myself moving down Fifth toward Saks, trying to remember if I switched the tapes in my VCR, and suddenly I'm worried that I might be taping thirtysomething over Pamela's Tight Fuckhole. A Xanax fails to ward off the panic. Saks intensifies it.

…pens and photo albums, pairs of bookends and lightweight luggage, electric shoe polishers and heated towel stands and silver-plated insulated carafes and portable palm-sized color TVs with earphones, birdhouses and candleholders, place mats, picnic hampers and ice buckets, lace-trimmed oversize linen napkins and umbrellas and sterling silver monogrammed golf tees and charcoal-filter smoke trappers and desk lamps and perfume bottles, jewelry boxes and sweaters and baskets to hold magazines in and storage boxes, office tote bags, desk accessories, scarves, file holders, address books, agendas for handbags…

My priorities before Christmas include the following: (1) to get an eight o'clock reservation on a Friday night at Dorsia with Courtney, (2z) to get myself invited to the Trump Christmas party aboard their yacht, (3) to find out as much as humanly possible about Paul Owen's mysterious Fisher account, (4) to saw a hardbody's head off and Federal Express it to Robin Barker – the dumb bastard – over at Salomon Brothers and (5) to apologize to Evelyn without making it look like an apology. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about women who married homosexuals and I almost called Courtney up to warn her – as a joke – but then decided against it, deriving a certain amount of satisfaction from imagining Luis Carruthers proposing to her, Courtney shyly accepting, their nightmarish honeymoon. Scowling at another beggar shivering in the misty drizzle at Fifty-seventh and Fifth, I walk up and squeeze his cheek affectionately, then laugh out loud. "His eyes how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!" The Salvation Army choir harmonizes badly on "Joy to the World." I wave to someone who looks exactly like Duncan McDonald, then duck into Bergdorf's.

…paisley ties and crystal water pitchers, tumbler sets and office clocks that measure temperature and humidity and barometric pressure, electric calling card address books and margarita glasses, valet stands and sets of dessert plates, correspondence cards and mirrors and shower clocks and aprons and sweaters and gym bags and bottles of champagne and porcelain cachepots and monogrammed bath sheets and foreign-currency-exchange minicalculators and silver-plated address books and paperweights with fish and boxes of fine stationery and bottle openers and compact discs and customized tennis balls and pedometers and coffee mugs…

I check my Rolex while I'm buying scruffing lotion at the Clinique counter, still in Bergdorf's, to make sure I have enough time to shop some more before I have to meet Tim Severt for drinks at the Princeton Club at seven. I worked out this morning for two hours before the office and though I could have used this time for a massage (since my muscles are sore from the exhausting exercise regimen I'm now on) or a facial, even though I had one yesterday, there are just too many cocktail parties in the upcoming weeks that I have to attend and my presence at them will put a crimp in my shopping schedule so it's best if I get the shopping out of the way now. I run into Bradley Simpson from P & P outside F.A.O. Schwarz and he's wearing a glen-plaid worsted wool suit with notched lapels by Perry Ellis, a cotton broadcloth shirt by Gitman Brothers, a silk tie by Savoy, a chronograph with a crocodileskin band by Breil, a cotton raincoat by Paul Smith and a fur felt hat by Paul Stuart. After he says, "Hey Davis," I inexplicably start listing the names of all eight reindeer, alphabetically, and when I've finished, he smiles and says, "Listen, there's a Christmas party at Nekenieh on the twentieth, see you there?" I smile and assure him I'll be at Nekenieh on the twentieth and as I walk off, nodding to no one, I call back to him, "Hey asshole, I wanna watch you die, motherfuck-aaahhh," and then I start screaming like a banshee, moving across Fifty-eighth, banging my Bottega Veneta briefcase against a wall. Another choir, on Lexington, sings "Hark the Herald Angels" and I tap-dance, moaning, in front of them before I move like a zombie toward Bloomingdale's, where I rush over to the first tie rack I see and murmur to the young faggot working behind the counter, "Too, too fabulous," while fondling a silk ascot. He flirts and asks if I'm a model. "I'll see you in hell," I tell him, and move on.

…vases and felt fedoras with feather headbands and alligator toiletry cases with gilt-silver bottles and brushes and shoehorns that cost two hundred dollars and candlesticks and pillow covers and gloves and slippers and powder puffs and handknitted cotton snowflake sweaters and leather skates and Porsche-design ski goggles and antique apothecary bottles and diamond earrings and silk ties and boots and perfume bottles and diamond earrings and boots and vodka glasses and card cases and cameras and mahogany servers and scarves and aftershaves and photo albums and salt and pepper shakers and ceramic-toaster cookie jars and two-hundred-dollar shoehorns and backpacks and aluminum lunch pails and pillow covers…

Some kind of existential chasm opens before me while I'm browsing in Bloomingdale's and causes me to first locate a phone and check my messages, then, near tears, after taking three Halcion (since my body has mutated and adapted to the drug it no longer causes sleep – it just seems to ward off total madness), I head toward the Clinique counter where with my platinum American Express card I buy six tubes of shaving cream while flirting nervously with the girls who work there and I decide this emptiness has, at least in part, some connection with the way I treated Evelyn at Barcadia the other night, though there is always the possibility it could just as easily have somexhing to do with the tracking device on my VCR, and while I make a mental note to put in an appearance at Evelyn's Christmas party – I'm even tempted to ask one of the Clinique girls to escort me – I also remind myself to look through my VCR handbook and deal with the tracking device problem. I see a ten-year-old girl standing by her mother, who is buying a scarf, some jewelry, and I'm thinking: Not bad. I'm wearing a cashmere topcoat, a double-breasted plaid wool and alpaca sport coat, pleated wool trousers, patterned silk tie, all by Valentino Couture, and leather lace-ups by Allen-Edmonds.

Christmas Party

I'm having drinks with Charles Murphy at Rusty's to fortify myself before making an appearance at Evelyn's Christmas party. I'm wearing a four-button double-breasted wool and silk suit, a cotton shirt with a button-down collar by Valentino Couture, a patterned silk tie by Armani and cap-toed leather slipons by Allen-Edmonds. Murphy is wearing a six-button double-breasted wool gabardine suit by Courrèges, a striped cotton shirt with a tab collar and a foulard-patterned silk-crepe tie, both by Hugo Boss. He's on a tirade about the Japanese – "They've bought the Empire State Building and Nell's. Nell's, can you believe it, Bateman?" he exclaims over his second Absolut on the rocks – and it moves something in me, it sets something off, and after leaving Rusty's, while wandering around the Upper West Side, I find myself crouched in the doorway of what used to be Carly Simon's, a very hot J. Akail restaurant that closed last fall, and leaping out at a passing Japanese delivery boy, I knock him off his bicycle and drag him into the doorway, his legs tangled somehow in the Schwinn he was riding which works to my advantage since when I slit his throat – easily, effortlessly – the spasmodic kicking that usually accompanies this routine is blocked by the bike, which he still manages to lift five, six times while he's choking on his own hot blood. I open the cartons of Japanese food and dump their contents over him, but to my surprise instead of sushi and teriyaki and hand rolls and soba noodles, chicken with cashew nuts falls all over his gasping bloodied face and beef chow mein and shrimp fried rice and moo shu pork splatter onto his heaving chest, and this irritating setback – accidentally killing the wrong type of Asian – moves me to check where this order was going – Sally Rubinstein – and with my Mont Blanc pen to write I'm gonna get you too… bitch on the back of it, then place the order over the dead kid's face and shrug apologetically, mumbling "Uh, sorry" and recall that The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Teenage Girls Who Trade Sex for Crack I spent two hours at the gym today and can now complete two hundred abdominal crunches in less than three minutes. Near Evelyn's brownstone I hand a freezing bum one of the fortune cookies I took from the delivery boy and he stuffs it, fortune and all, into his mouth, nodding thanks. "Fucking slob," I mutter loud enough for him to hear. As I turn the corner and head for Evelyn's, I notice the police lines are still up around the brownstone where her neighbor Victoria Bell was decapitated. Four limousines are parked in front, one still running.

I'm late. The living room and dining room are already crowded with people I don't really want to talk to. Tall, full blue spruces covered with white twinkling lights stand on either side of the fireplace. Old Christmas songs from the sixties sung by the Ronettes are on the CD player. A bartender in a tuxedo pours champagne and eggnog, mixes Manhattans and martinis, opens bottles of Calera Jensen pinot noir and a Chappellet chardonnay. Twenty-year-old ports line a makeshift bar between vases of poinsettias. A long folding table has been covered with a red tablecloth and is jammed with pans and plates and bowls of roasted hazelnuts and lobster and oyster bisques and celery root soup with apples and Beluga caviar on toast points and creamed onions and roast goose with chestnut stung and caviar in puff pastry and vegetable tarts with tapenade, roast duck and roast rack of veal with shallots and gnocchi gratin and vegetable strudel and Waldorf salad and scallops and bruschetta with mascarpone and white truffles and green chili soufflé and roast partridge with sage, potatoes and onion and cranberry sauce, mincemeat pies and chocolate truffles and lemon soufflé tarts and pecan tarte Tatin. Candles have been lit everywhere, all of them in sterling silver Tiffany candleholders. And though I cannot be positive that I'm not hallucinating, there seem to be midgets dressed in green and red elf suits and felt hats walking around with trays of appetizers. I pretend not to have noticed and head straight for the bar where I gulp down a glass of not-bad champagne then move over to Donald Petersen, and as with most of the men here, someone has tied paper antlers to his head. On the other side of the room Maria and Darwin Hutton's five-year-old daughter, Cassandra, is wearing a seven-hundred-dollar velvet dress and petticoat by Nancy Halser. After finishing a second glass of champagne I move to martinis – Absolut doubles – and after I've calmed down sufficiently I take a closer look around the room, but the midgets are still there.

"Too much red," I mutter to myself, trancing out. "It's makin' me nervous."

"Hey McCloy," Petersen says. "What do you say?"

I snap out of it and automatically ask, "Is this the British cast recording of Les Misérables or not?"

"Hey, have a holly jolly Christmas." He points a finger at me, drunk.

"So what is this music?" I ask, thoroughly annoyed. "And by the way, sir, deck the halls with boughs of holly."

"Bill Septor," he says, shrugging. "I think Septor or Skeptor."

"Why doesn't she put on some Talking Heads for Christ sakes," I complain bitterly.

Courtney is standing on the other side of the room, holding a champagne glass and ignoring me completely.

"Or Les Miz," he suggests.

"American or British cast recording?" My eyes narrowing, I'm testing him.

"Er, British," he says as a dwarf hands us each a plate of Waldorf salad.

"Definitely," I murmur, staring at the dwarf as he waddles away.

Suddenly Evelyn rushes up to us wearing a sable jacket and velvet pants by Ralph Lauren and in one hand she's holding a piece of mistletoe, which she places above my head, and in the other a candy cane.

"Mistletoe alert!" she shrieks, kissing me dryly on the cheek. "Merry Xmas, Patrick. Merry Xmas, Jimmy."

"Merry… Xmas," I say, unable to push her away since I've got a martini in one hand and a Waldorf salad in the other.

"You're late, honey," she says.

"I'm not late," I say, barely protesting.

"Oh yes you are," she says in singsong.

"I've been here the entire time," I say, dismissing her. "You just didn't see me."

"Oh, stop scowling. You're such a Grinch." She turns to Petersen. "Did you know Patrick's the Grinch?"

"Bah humbug," I sigh, staring over at Courtney.

"Hell, we all know McCloy's the Grinch," Petersen bellows drunkenly. "How ya doin', Mr. Grinch?"

"And what does Mr. Grinch want for Christmas?" Evelyn asks in a baby's voice. "Has Mr. Grinchie been a good boy this year?"

I sigh. "The Grinch wants a Burberry raincoat, a Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater, a new Rolex, a car stereo–"

Evelyn stops sucking on the candy cane to interrupt. "But you don't have a car, honey."

"I want one anyway." I sigh again. "The Grinch wants a car stereo anyway."

"How's the Waldorf salad?" Evelyn asks worriedly. "Do you think it tastes all right?"

"Delicious," I murmur, craning my neck, spotting someone, suddenly impressed. "Hey, you didn't tell me Laurence Tisch was invited to this party."

She turns around. "What are you talking about?"

"Why," I ask, "is Laurence Tisch passing around a tray of canapes?"

"Oh god, Patrick, that's not Laurence Tisch," she says. "That's one of the Christmas elves."

"One of the what? You mean the midgets."

'They're elves," she stresses. "Santa's helpers. God, what a sourpuss. Look at them. They're adorable. That one over there is Rudolph, the one passing out candy canes is Blitzen. The other one is Donner–"

"Wait a minute, Evelyn, wait," I say, closing my eyes, holding up the hand with the Waldorf salad in it. I'm sweating, déjà vu, but why? Have I met these elves somewhere? Forget about it. "I… those are the names of reindeer. Not elves. Blitzen was a reindeer."

"The only Jewish one," Petersen reminds us.

"Oh. . ." Evelyn seems bewildered by this information and she looks over at Petersen to confirm this. "Is this true?"

He shrugs, thinks about it and looks confused. "Hey, baby – reindeer, elves, Grinches, brokers… Hell, what's the difference long as the Cristal flows, hey?" He chuckles, nudging me in the ribs. "Ain't that right, Mr. Grinch?"

"Don't you think it's Christmasy?" she asks hopefully.

"Oh yes, Evelyn," I tell her. "It's very Christmasy and I'm truthful, not lying."

"But Mr. Sourpuss was late," she pouts, shaking that damn piece of mistletoe at me accusingly. "And not a word about the Waldorf salad."

"You know, Evelyn, there were a lot of other Xmas parties in this metropolis that I could have attended tonight yet I chose yours. Why? you might ask. Why? I asked myself. I didn't come up with a feasible answer, yet I'm here, so be, you know, grateful, babe," I say.

"Oh, so this is my Christmas present?" she asks, sarcastic. "How sweet, Patrick, how thoughtful."

"No, this is." I give her a noodle I just noticed was stuck on my shirt cuff. "Here."

"Oh Patrick, I'm going to cry," she says, dangling the noodle up to candlelight. "It's gorgeous. Can I put it on now?"

"No. Feed it to one of the elves. That one over there looks pretty hungry. Excuse me but I need another drink."

I hand Evelyn the plate of Waldorf salad and tweak one of Petersen's antlers and head toward the bar humming "Silent Night," vaguely depressed by what most of the women are wearing – pullover cashmere sweaters, blazers, long wool skirts, corduroy dresses, turtlenecks. Cold weather. No hardbodies.

Paul Owen is standing near the bar holding a champagne flute, studying his antique silver pocket watch (from Harnmahcher Schlemmer, no doubt), and I'm about to walk over and mention something about that damned Fisher account when Humphrey Rhinebeck bumps into me trying to avoid stepping on one of the elves and he's still wearing a cashmere chesterfield overcoat by Crombie from Lord & Taylor, a peak-lapeled double-breasted wool tuxedo, a cotton shirt by Perry Ellis, a bow tie from Hugo Boss and paper antlers in a way that suggests he's completely unaware, and as if by rote the twerp says, "Hey Bateman, last week I brought a new herringbone tweed jacket to my tailor for alterations."

"Well, uh, congratulations seem in order," I say, shaking his hand. "That's… nifty."

"Thanks." He blushes, looking down. "Anyway, he noticed that the retailer had removed the original label and replaced it with one of his own. Now what I want to know is, is this legal?"

"It's confusing, I know," I say, still moving through the crowd. "Once a line of clothing has been purchased from its manufacturer, it's perfectly legal for the retailer to replace the original label with his own. However, it's not legal to replace it with another retailer's label."

"But wait, why is that?" he asks, trying to sip from his martini glass while attempting to follow me.

"Because details regarding fiber content and country of origin or the manufacturer's registration number must remain intact. Label tampering is very hard to detect and rarely reported," I shout over my shoulder. Courtney is kissing Paul Owen on the cheek, their hands already firmly clasped. I stiffen up and stop walking. Rhinebeck bumps into me. But she moves on, waving to someone across the room.

"So what's the best solution?" Rhinebeck calls out behind me.

"Shop for familiar labels from retailers you know and take those fucking antlers off your head, Rhinebeck. You look like a retard. Excuse me." I walk off but not before Humphrey reaches up and feels the headpiece. "Oh my god."

"Owen!" I exclaim, merrily holding out a hand, the other hand grabbing a martini off a passing elf tray.

"Marcus! Merry Christmas," Owen says, shaking my hand. "How've you been? Workaholic, I suppose."

"Haven't seen you in a while," I say, then wink. "Workaholic, huh?"

"Well, we just got back from the Knickerbocker Club," he says and then greets someone who bumps into him – "Hey Kinsley" – then back to me. "We're going to Nell's. Limo's out front."

"We should have lunch," I say, trying to figure out a way to bring up the Fisher account without being tacky about it.

"Yes, that would be great," he says. "Maybe you could bring .."

"Cecelia?" I guess.

"Yes. Cecelia," he says.

"Oh, Cecelia would… adore it," I say.

"Well, let's do it." He smiles.

"Yes. We could go to… Le Bernardin," I say, then after pausing, "for some… seafood perhaps? Hmmm?"

"Le Bernardin is in Zagat's top ten this year." He nods. "You know that?"

"We could have some…" I pause again, staring at him, then more deliberately, "fish there. No?"

"Sea urchins," Owen says, scanning the room. "Meredith loves the sea urchins there."

"Oh does she?" I ask, nodding.

"Meredith," he calls out, motioning for someone behind me. "Come here."

"She's here?" I ask.

"She's talking to Cecilia over there," he says. "Meredith," he calls out, waving. I turn around. Meredith and Evelyn make their way over to us.

I whirl around back to Owen.

Meredith walks over with Evelyn. Meredith is wearing a beaded wool gabardine dress and bolero by Geoffrey Beene from Barney's, diamond and gold earrings by James Savitt ($13,000), gloves by Geoffrey Beene for Portolano products, and she says, "Yes boys? What are you two talking about? Making up Christmas lists?"

"The sea urchins at Le Bernardin, darling," Owen says.

"My favorite topic." Meredith drapes an arm over my shoulder, while she confides to me as an aside, '"They're fabulous."

"Delectable." I cough nervously.

"What does everyone think of the Waldorf salad?" Evelyn asks. "Did you like it?"

"Cecelia, darling, I haven't tried it yet," Owen says, recognizing someone across the room. "But I'd like to know why Laurence Tisch is serving the eggnog."

"That's not Laurence Tisch," Evelyn whines, genuinely upset. "That's a Christmas elf. Patrick, what did you tell him?"

"Nothing," I say. "Cecelia!"

"Besides, Patrick, you're the Grinch."

At the mentions of my name I immediately start blabbering, hoping that Owen didn't notice. "Well, Cecelia, I told him I thought it was a, you know, a mixture of the two, like a…" I stop, briefly look at them before lamely spitting out, "a Christmas Tisch." Then, nervously, I lift a sprig of parsley off a slice of pheasant pâté that a passing elf is carrying, and hold it over Evelyn's head before she can say anything. "Mistletoe alert!" I shout, and people around us are suddenly ducking, and then I kiss her on the lips while looking at Owen and Meredith, both of them staring at me strangely, and out of the corner of my eye I catch Courtney, who is talking to Rhinebeck, gazing at me hatefully, outraged.

"Oh Patrick–" Evelyn starts.

"Cecelia! Come here at once." I pull her arm, then tell Owen and Meredith, "Excuse us. We have to talk to that elf and get this all straightened out."

"I'm so sorry," she says to the two of them, shrugging helplessly as I drag her away. "Patrick, what is going on?"

I maneuver her into the kitchen.

"Patrick?" she asks. "What are we doing in the kitchen?"

"Listen," I tell her; grabbing her shoulders, facing her. "Let's get out of here."

"Oh Patrick," she sighs. "I can't just leave. Aren't you having a good time?"

"Why can't you leave?" I ask. "Is it so unreasonable? You've been here long enough."

"Patrick, this is my Christmas party," she says. "Besides, the elves are going to sing 'O Tannenbaum' any minute now."

"Come on, Evelyn. Let's just get out of here." I'm on the verge of hysteria, panicked that Paul Owen or, worse, Marcus Halberstam is going to walk into the kitchen. "I want to take you away from all this."

"From all what?" she asks, then her eyes narrow. "You didn't like the Waldorf salad, did you?"

"I want to take you away from this," I say, motioning around the kitchen, spastic. "From sushi and elves and… stuff."

An elf walks into the kitchen, setting down a tray of dirty plates, and past him, over him, I can see Paul Owen leaning into Meredith, who's shouting something into his ear over the din of Christmas music, and he scans the room looking for someone, nodding, then Courtney walks into view and I grab Evelyn, bringing her even closer to me.

"Sushi? Elves? Patrick you're confusing me," Evelyn says. "And I don't appreciate it."

"Let's go." I'm squeezing her roughly, pulling her toward the back door. "Let's be daring for once. For just once in your life, Evelyn, be daring."

She stops, refusing to be pulled along, and then she starts smiling, considering my offer but only slightly won over.

"Come on…" I start whining. "Let this be my Christmas present."

"Oh ho, I was already at Brooks Brothers and–" she starts.

"Stop it. Come on, I want this," I say and then in a last, desperate attempt I smile flirtatiously, kissing her lightly on the lips, and add, "Mrs. Batsman?"

"Oh Patrick," she sighs, melting. "But what about cleanup?"

"The midgets'll do it," I assure her.

"But someone has to oversee it, honey."

"So choose an elf. Make that one over there the elf overseer," I say. "But let's go, now." I start pulling her toward the back door of the brownstone, her shoes squeaking as they slide across the Muscoli marble tile.

And then we're out the door, rushing down the alley adjacent to the brownstone, and I stop and peer around the corner to see if anyone we know is leaving or entering the party. We make a run for a limousine I think is Owen's, but I don't want to make Evelyn suspicious so I simply walk up to the closest one, open the door and push her in.

"Patrick," she squeals, pleased. "This is so naughty. And a limo–" I close the door on her and walk around the car and knock on the driver's window. The driver unrolls it.

"Hi," I say, holding out a hand. "Pat Bateman."

The driver just stares, an unlit cigar clenched in his mouth, first at my outstretched hand; then at my face, then at the top of my head.

"Pat Bateman," I repeat. "What, ah, what is it?"

He keeps looking at me. Tentatively I touch my hair to see if it's messed up or out of place and to my shock and surprise I feel two pairs of paper antlers. There are four antlers on my fucking head. I mutter, "Oh Jesus, whoa!" and tear them off, staring at them crumpled in my hands, horrified. I throw them on the ground, then turn back to the driver.

"So. Pat Bateman," I say, smoothing my hair back into place.

"Uh, yeah? Sid." He shrugs.

"Listen, Sid. Mr. Owen says we can take this car, so…" I stop, my breath steaming in the frozen air.

"Who's Mr. Owen?" Sid asks.

"Paul Owen. You know," I say. "Your customer."

"No. This is Mr. Barker's limo," he says. "Nice antlers though."

"Shit," I say, running around the limo to get Evelyn out of there before something bad happens, but it's too late. The second I open the door, Evelyn sticks her head out and squeals, "Patrick, darling, I love it. Champagne" – she holds up a bottle of Cristal in one hand and a gold box in the other – "and truffles too."

I grab her arm and yank her out, mumbling by way of an explanation, under my breath, "Wrong limo, take the truffles," and we head over to the next limousine. I open the door and guide Evelyn in, then move around to the front and knock on the driver's window. He unrolls it. He looks exactly like the other driver.

"Hi. Pat Batsman, " I say, holding out my hand.

"Yeah? Hi. Donald Trump. My wife Ivana's in the back," he says sarcastically, taking it.

"Hey, watch it," I warn. "Listen, Mr. Owen says we can take his car. I'm… oh damn. I mean I'm Marcus."

"You just said your name was Pat."

"No. I was wrong," I say sternly, staring directly at him. "I was wrong about my name being Pat. My name is Marcus. Marcus Halberstam."

"Now you're sure of this, right?" he asks.

"Listen, Mr. Owen said I can take his car for the night, so…" I stop. "You know, let's just get on with it."

"I think I should talk to Mr. Owen first," the driver says, amused, toying with me.

"No, wait!" I say, then calming down, "Listen, I'm… it's fine, really." I start chuckling to myself. "Mr. Owen is in a very, very bad mood."

"I'm not supposed to do this," the driver says without looking up at me. "It's totally illegal. No way. Give it up."

"Oh come on, man," I say.

"It's totally against company regulations," he says.

"Fuck company regulations," I bark out at him.

"Fuck company regulations?" he asks, nodding, smiling.

"Mr. Owen says it's okay," I say. "Maybe you're not listening."

"Nope. No can do." He shakes his head

I pause, stand up straight, run a hand over my face, breathe in and then lean back down. "Listen to me…" I breathe in again. "They've got midgets in there." I point with a thumb back at the brownstone. "Midgets who are about to sing 'O Tannenbaum'…" I look at him imploringly, begging for sympathy, at the same time looking appropriately frightened. "Do you know how scary that is? Elves" – I gulp – "harmonizing?" I pause, then quickly ask, "Think about it."

"Listen, mister–"

"Marcus," I remind him.

"Marcus. Whatever. I'm not gonna break the rules. I can't do anything about it. It's company rules. I'm not gonna break 'em."

We both lapse into silence. I sigh, look around, considering dragging Evelyn to the third limo, or maybe back to Barker's limo – he's a real asshole – but no, goddamnit, I want Owen's. Meanwhile the driver sighs to himself, "If the midgets want to sing, let them sing."

"Shit," I curse, taking out my gazelleskin wallet. "Here's a hundred." I hand him two fifties.

"Two hundred," he says.

'"This city sucks," I mutter, handing the money over.

"Where do you want to go?" he asks, taking the bills with a sigh, as he starts the limousine.

"Club Chernoble," I say, rushing to the back and opening the door.

"Yes sir," he shouts.

I hop in, shutting the door just as the driver peels away from Evelyn's brownstone toward Riverside Drive. Evelyn's sitting next to me while I'm catching my breath, wiping cold sweat off my brow with an Armani handkerchief. When I look over at her, she's on the verge of tears, her lips trembling, silent for once.

"You're startling me. What happened?" I am alarmed. "What… what did I do? The Waldorf salad was good. What else?"

"Oh Patrick," she sighs. "It's… lovely. I don't know what to say."

"Well…" I pause carefully. "I don't… either."

'This," she says, presenting me with a diamond necklace from Tiffany's, Meredith's present from Owen. "Well, help me put it on, darling. You're not the Grinch, honey."

"Uh, Evelyn," I say, then curse under my breath as she turns her back toward me so I can clasp it around her neck. The limousine lurches forward and she falls against me, laughing. then kisses my cheek. "It's lovely, oh I love it… Oops, must have true breath. Sorry, honey. Find me some champagne and pour me a glass."

"But…" I stare helplessly at the glittering necklace. "That's not it."

"What?" Evelyn asks, looking around the limo. "Are there glasses in here? What's not it, honey?"

'"That's not it." I'm speaking in monotone.

"Oh, honey." She smiles. "You have something else for me?"

"No, I mean–"

"Come on, you devil," she says, playfully grabbing at my coat pocket. "Come on, what is it?"

"What is what?" I ask calmly, annoyed.

"You've got something else. Let me guess. A ring to match?" she guesses. "A matching bracelet? A brooch? So that's itl" She claps her hands. "It's a matching brooch."

While I'm trying to push her away from me, holding one of her arms back, the other snakes behind me and grabs something out of my pocket – another fortune cookie I lifted from the dead Chinese boy. She stares at it, puzzled for a moment, and says, "Patrick, you're so… romantic," and then, studying the fortune cookie and with less enthusiasm, "so… original."

I'm also staring at the fortune cookie. It's got a lot of blood on it and I shrug and say, as jovially as I can, "Oh, you know me."

"But what's on it?" She holds it up close to her face, peering at it. "What's this… red stuff?"

"That's…" I peer also, pretending to be intrigued by the stains, then I grimace. "That's sweet 'n' sour sauce."

She cracks it open excitedly, then studies the fortune, confused.

"What does it say?" I sigh, fooling around with the radio then scanning the limo for Owen's briefcase, wondering where the champagne could possibly be, the open box from Tiffany's, empty, empty on the floor, suddenly, overwhelmingly, depressing me.

"It says…" She pauses then squints at it closely, rereading it. "It says, The fresh grilled joie gras at Le Cirque is excellent but the lobster salad is only so-so."

"That's nice," I murmur, looking for champagne glasses, tapes, anything.

"It really says this, Patrick." She hands me the fortune, a slight smile creeping up on her face that I can make out even in the darkness of the limo. "What could it possibly mean?" she asks slyly.

I take it from her, read it, then look at Evelyn, then back at the fortune, then out the tinted window, at snow flurries swirling around lampposts, around people waiting for buses, beggars staggering directionless down city streets, and I say out loud to myself, "My luck could be worse. It really could."

"Oh honey," she says, throwing her arms around me, hugging my head. "Lunch at Le Cirque? You're the best. You're not the Grinch. I take it back. Thursday? Is Thursday good for you? Oh no. I can't do it Thursday. Herbal wrap. But how's Friday? And do we really want to go to La Cirque? How about–"

I push her off me and knock on the divider, rapping my knuckles against it loudly until the driver lowers it. "Sid, I mean Earle, whoever, this isn't the way to Chernoble."

"Yes it is, Mr. Bateman–"

"Hey!"

"I mean Mr. Halberstam. Avenue C, right?" He coughs politely.

"I suppose," I say, staring out the window. "I don't recognize anything.

"Avenue C?" Evelyn looks up from marveling at the necklace Paul Owen bought Meredith. "What's Avenue C? C as in… Cartier, I take it?"

"It's hip," I assure her. "It's totally hip."

"Have you been there?" she asks.

"Millions of times," I mutter.

"Chernoble? No, not Chernoble, " she whines. "Honey, it's Christmas."

"What in the hell does that mean?" I ask.

"Limo driver, oh limo driver…" Evelyn leans forward, balancing herself on my knees. "Limo driver, we're going to the Rainbow Room. Driver, to the Rainbow Room, please."

I push her back and lean forward. "Ignore her. Chernoble. ASAP." I press the button and the divider goes back up.

"Oh Patrick. It's Christmas," she whines.

"You keep saying that as if it means something," I say, staring right at her.

"But it's Christmas," she whines again.

"I can't stand the Rainbow Room," I say, adamant.

"Oh why not, Patrick?" she whines. "They have the best Waldorf salad in town at the Rainbow Room. Did you like mine? Did you like my Waldorf salad, honey?"

"Oh my god," I whisper, covering my face with both heads.

"Honestly. Did you?" she asks. "The only thing I really worried about was that and the chestnut stuffing…" She pauses. "Well, because the chestnut stuffing was… well, gross, you know–"

"I don't want to go to the Rainbow Room," I interrupt, my hands still covering my face, "because I can't score drugs there."

"Oh…" She looks me over, disapprovingly. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Drugs, Patrick? What kind of, ahem, drugs are we talking about?"

"Drugs, Evelyn. Cocaine. Drugs. I want to do some cocaine tonight. Do you understand?" I sit up and glare at her.

"Patrick," she says, shaking her head, as if she's lost faith in me.

"I can see you're confused," I point out.

"I just don't want any part of it," she says.

"You don't have to do any of it," I tell her. "Maybe you're not even invited to do any of it."

"I just don't understand why you have to ruin this time of year for me," she says.

"Think of it as… frost. As Christmas frost. As expensive Christmas frost," I say,

"Well…," she says, lighting up. "It's kind of exciting to slum, isn't it?"

"Thirty bucks at the door apiece is not exactly slumming, Evelyn." Then I ask, suspiciously, "Why wasn't Donald Trump invited to your party?"

"Not Donald Trump again," Evelyn moans. "Oh god. Is that why you were acting like such a buffoon? This obsession has got to end!" she practically shouts. "That's why you were acting like such an ass!"

"It was the Waldorf salad, Evelyn," I say, teeth clenched. "It was the Waldorf salad that was making me act like an ass!"

"Oh my god. You mean it, too!" She throws her head back in despair. "I knew it, I knew it."

"But you didn't even make it!" I scream. "It was catered!"

"Oh god," she wails. "I can't believe it."

The limousine pulls up in front of Club Chernoble, where a crowd ten deep waits standing outside the ropes in the snow. Evelyn and I get out, and using Evelyn, much to her chagrin, as a blocker, I push my way through the crowd and luckily spot someone who looks exactly like Jonathan Leatherdale, about to be let in, and really shoving Evelyn, who's still holding on to her Christmas present, I call out to him, "Jonathan, hey Leatherdale," and suddenly, predictably, the whole crowd starts shouting, "Jonathan, hey Jonathan." He spots me as he turns around and calls out, "Hey Baxter!" and winks, giving me the thumbs-up sign, but it's not to me, it's to someone else. Evelyn and I pretend we're with his party anyway. The doorman closes the ropes on us, asks, "You two come in that limo?" He looks over at the curb and motions with his head.

"Yes." Evelyn and I both nod eagerly.

"You're in," he says, lifting the ropes.

We walk in and I lay out sixty dollars; not a single drink ticket. The club is predictably dark except for the flashing strobe lights, and even with them, all I can really see is dry ice pumping out of a fog machine and one hardbody dancing to INXS's "New Sensation," which blasts out of speakers at a pitch that vibrates the body. I tell Evelyn to go to the bar and get us two glasses of champagne. "Oh of course," she shouts back, heading tentatively toward one thin white strip of neon, the only light illuminating what might be a place where alcohol is served. In the meantime I score a gram from someone who looks like Mike Donaldson, and after debating for ten minutes while checking out this hardbody whether I should ditch Evelyn or not, she comes up with two flutes half full of champagne, indignant, sad-faced. "It's Korbel," she shouts. "Let's leave." I shake my head negative and shout back, "Let's go to the rest rooms." She follows.

The one bathroom at Chernoble is unisex. Two other couples are already there, one of them in the only stall. The other couple is, like us, impatiently waiting for the stall to empty. The girl is wearing a silk jersey halter top, a silk chiffon skirt and silk sling-backs, all by Ralph Lauren. Her boyfriend is wearing a suit tailored by, I think, William Fioravanti or Vincent Nicolosi or Scali – some wop. Both are holding champagne glasses: his, full; hers, empty. It's quiet except for the sniffling and muted laughter coming from the stall, and the bathroom's door is thick enough to block out the music except for the deep thumping drumbeat. The guy taps his foot expectantly. The girl keeps sighing and tossing her hair over her shoulder in these strangely enticing jerky head movements; then she looks over at Evelyn and me and whispers something to her boyfriend. Finally, after she whispers something to him again, he nods and they leave.

"Thank god," I whisper, fingering the gram in my pocket; then, to Evelyn, "Why are you so quiet?"

"The Waldorf salad," she murmurs, not looking at me. "Damnit."

There's a click, the door to the stall opens and a young couple – the guy wearing a double-breasted wool cavalry twill suit, cotton shirt and silk tie, all by Givenchy, the girl wearing a silk taffeta dress with ostrich hem by Geoffrey Beene, vermeil earrings by Stephen Dweck Moderne and Chanel grosgrain dance shoes – walks out, discreetly wiping each other's noses, staring at themselves in the mirror before leaving the rest room, and just as Evelyn and I are about to walk into the stall they've vacated, the first couple rushes back in and attempts to overtake it.

"Excuse me," I say, my arm outstretched, blocking the entrance. "You left. It's, uh, our turn, you know?"

"Uh, no, I don't think so," the guy says mildly.

"Patrick," Evelyn whispers behind me. "Let them… you know."

"Wait. No. It's our turn," I say.

"Yeah, but we were waiting first."

"Listen, I don't want to start a fight–"

"But you are," the girlfriend says, bored yet still managing a sneer.

"Oh my," Evelyn murmurs behind me, looking over my shoulder.

"Listen, we should just do it here," the girl, who I wouldn't mind fucking, spits out.

"What a bitch," I murmur, shaking my head.

"Listen," the guy says, relenting. "While we're arguing about this, one of us could be in there."

"Yeah," I say. "Us."

"Oh Christ," the girl says, hands on hips, then to Evelyn and me, "I can't believe who they're letting in now."

"You are a bitch," I murmur, disbelieving. "Your attitude sucks, you know that?"

Evelyn gasps and squeezes my shoulder. "Patrick."

The guy has already started snorting his coke, spooning the powder out of a brown vial, inhaling then laughing after each hit, leaning against the door.

"Your girlfriend's a total bitch," I tell the guy.

"Patrick," Evelyn says. "Stop it."

"She's a bitch," I say, pointing at her.

"Patrick, apologize," Evelyn says.

The guy goes into hysterics, his head thrown back, sniffing in loudly, then he doubles up and tries to catch his breath.

"Oh my god," Evelyn says, appalled. "Why are you laughing? Defend her."

"Why?" the guy asks, then shrugs, both nostrils ringed with white powder. "He's right."

"I'm leaving, Daniel," the girl says, near tears. "I can't handle this. I can't handle you. I can't handle them. I warned you at Bice."

"Go ahead," the guy says. "Go. Just do it. Take a hike. I don't care."

"Patrick, what have you started?" Evelyn asks, backing away from me. "This is unacceptable," and then, looking up at the fluorescent bulbs, "And so is this lighting. I'm leaving." But she stands there, waiting.

"I'm leaving, Daniel," the girl says. "Did you hear me?"

"Go ahead. Forget it," Daniel says, staring at his nose in the mirror, waving her away. "I said take a hike."

"I'm using the stall," I tell the room. "Is this okay? Does anybody mind?"

"Aren't you going to defend your girlfriend?" Evelyn asks Daniel.

"Jesus, what do you want me to do?" He looks at her in the mirror, wiping his nose, sniffing again. "I bought her dinner. I introduced her to Richard Marx. Jesus Christ, what else does she want?"

"Beat the shit out of him?" the girl suggests, pointing at me.

"Oh honey," I say, shaking my head, "the things I could do to you with a coat hanger."

"Goodbye, Daniel," she says, pausing dramatically. "I'm out of here."

"Good," Daniel says, holding up the vial. "More for moi."

"And don't try calling me," she screams, opening the door. "My answering machine is on tonight and I'm screening all calls!"

"Patrick," Evelyn says, still composed, prim. "I'll be outside."

I wait a moment, staring at her from inside the stall, then at the girl standing in the doorway. "Yeah, so?"

"Patrick," Evelyn says, "don't say something you'll regret."

"Just go," I say. "Just leave. Take the limo."

"Patrick–"

"Leave," I roar. "The Grinch says leave!"

I slam the door of the stall and start shoveling the coke from the envelope into my nose with my platinum AmEx. In between my gasps I hear Evelyn leave, sobbing to the girl, "He made me walk out of my own Christmas party, can you believe it? My Christmas party?" And I hear the girl sneer "Get a life" and I start laughing raucously, banging my head against the side of the stall, and then I hear the guy do a couple more hits, then he splits, and after finishing most of the gram I peek out from over the stall to see if Evelyn's still hanging around, pouting, chewing her lower lip sorrowfully – oh boo hoo hoo, baby – but she hasn't come back, and then I get an image of Evelyn and Daniel's girlfriend on a bed somewhere with the girl spreading Evelyn's legs, Evelyn on all fours, licking her asshole, fingering her cunt, and this makes me dizzy and I head out of the rest room into the club, horny and desperate, lusting for contact.

But it's later now and the crowd has changed – it's now filled with more punk rockers, blacks, fewer Wall Street guys, more bored rich girls from Avenue A lounging around, and the music has changed; instead of Belinda Carlisle singing "I Feel Free" it's some black guy rapping, if I'm hearing this correctly, something called "Her Shit on His Dick" and I sidle up to a couple of hardbody rich girls, both of them wearing skanky Betsey Johnson-type dresses, and I'm wired beyond belief and I start off with a line like "Cool music – haven't I seen you at Salomon Brothers?" and one of them, one of these girls, sneers and says, "Go back to Wall Street," and the one with the nose ring says, "Fucking yuppie."

And they say this even though my suit looks black in the darkness of the club and my tie – paisley, Armani, silk – is loosened.

"Hey." I say, grinding my teeth. "You may think I'm a really disgusting yuppie but I'm not, really," I tell them, swallowing rapidly, wired out of my head.

Two black guys are sitting with them at the table. Both sport faded jeans, T-shirts, and leather jackets. One has reflector sunglasses on, the other has a shaved head. Both are glaring at me. I stick out my hand at a crooked angle, trying to mimic a rapper. "Hey," I say. "I'm fresh. The freshest, y'know… like, uh, def… the deffest." I take a sip of champagne. "You know… def."

To prove this I spot a black guy with dreadlocks and I walk up to him and exclaim "Rasta Man!" and hold out my hand, anticipating a high-five. But the nigger just stands there.

"I mean" – I cough – "Mon," and then, with less enthusiasm, "We be, uh, jamming.."

He brushes past me, shaking his head. I look back at the girls. They shake their heads – a warning to me not to come back over. I turn my gaze to a hardbody who's dancing by herself next to a column, then I finish my champagne and walk up to her, asking for a phone number. She smiles. Exit.

Nell's

Midnight. I'm sitting in a booth at Nell's with Craig McDermott and Alex Taylor – who has just passed out – and three models from Elite: Libby, Daisy and Caron. It's nearing summer, mid-May, but the club is air-conditioned and cool, the music from the light jazz band drifts through the half-empty room, ceiling fans are whirring, a crowd twenty deep waits outside in the rain, a surging mass. Libby is blond and wearing black grosgrain high-heeled evening shoes with exaggeratedly pointed toes and red satin bows by Yves Saint Laurent. Daisy is blonder and wearing black satin tapered-toe pumps set off by splattered-silver sheer black stockings by Betsey Johnson. Caron is platinum blond and wearing stack-heeled leather boots with a pointed patent-leather toe and wool tweed turned-over calf by Karl Lagerfeld for Chanel. All three of them have on skimpy black wool-knit dresses by Giorgio di Sant'Angelo and are drinking champagne with cranberry juice and peach schnapps and smoking German cigarettes – but I don't complain, even though I think it would be in Nell's best interest if a nonsmoking section was initiated. Two of them are wearing Giorgio Armani sunglasses. Libby has jet lag. Of the three, Daisy is the only one I even remotely want to fuck. Earlier in the day after a meeting with my lawyer about some bogus rape charges, I had an anxiety attack in Dean & Deluca which I worked off at Xclusive. Then I met the models for drinks at the Trump Plaza. This was followed by a French movie that I completely did not understand, but it was fairly chic anyway, then dinner at a sushi restaurant called Vivids near Lincoln Center and a party at one of the models' ex-boyfriend's loft in Chelsea, where bad, fruity sangria was served. Last night I had dreams that were lit like pornography and in them I fucked girls made of cardboard. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Aerobic Exercise.

I'm wearing a two-button wool suit with pleated trousers by Luciano Soprani, a cotton shirt by Brooks Brothers and a silk tie by Armani. McDermott's got on this wool suit by Lubiam with a linen pocket square by Ashear Bros., a Ralph Lauren cotton shirt and a silk tie by Christian Dior and he's about to toss a coin to see which one of us is going downstairs to fetch the Bolivian Marching Powder since neither one of us wants to sit here in the booth with the girls because though we probably want to fuck them, we don't want to, in fact can't, we've found out, talk to them, not even condescendingly – they simply have nothing to say and, I mean, I know we shouldn't be surprised by this but still it's somewhat disorienting. Taylor is sitting up but his eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open, and though McDermott and I originally thought he was protesting the girls' lack of verbal skills by pretending to be asleep, it dawns on us that perhaps he's authentically shitfaced (he's been near incoherent since the three sakes, he downed at Vivids), but none of the girls pay any attention, except maybe Libby since she's sitting next to him, but it's doubtful, very doubtful.

"Heads, heads, heads," I mutter under my breath.

McDermott flips the quarter.

"Tails, tails, tails," he chants, then he slaps his hand over the coin after it lands on his napkin.

"Heads, heads, heads," I hiss, praying.

He lifts his palm. "It's tails," he says, looking at me.

I stare at the quarter for a long time before asking, "Do it again."

"So long," he says, looking over at the girls before getting up, then he glances at me, rolls his eyes, gives his head a curt shake. "Listen," he reminds me. "I want another martini. Absolut. Double. No olive."

"Hurry," I call after him, then under my breath, watching as he waves gaily from the top of the stairs, "Fucking moron."

I turn back to the booth. Behind us, a table of Eurotrash hardbodies that suspiciously resemble Brazilian transvestites shriek in unison. Let's see… Saturday night I'm going to a Mets game with Jeff Harding and Leonard Davis. I'm renting Rambo movies on Sunday. The new Lifecycle will be delivered on Monday… I stare at the three models for an agonizing amount of time, minutes, before saying anything, noticing that someone has ordered a plate of papaya slices and someone else a plate of asparagus, though both remain untouched. Daisy carefully looks me over, then aims her mouth in my direction and blows smoke toward my head, exhaling, and it floats over my hair, missing my eyes, which are protected anyway by the Oliver Peoples nonprescription redwood-framed glasses I've been wearing most of the night. Another one, Libby, the bimbo with jet lag, is trying to figure out how to unfold her napkin. My frustration level is surprisingly low, because things could be worse. After all, these could be English girls. We could be drinking .. . tea.

"So!" I say, clapping my hands together, trying to seem alert. "It was hot out today. No?"

"Where did Greg go?" Libby asks, noticing McDermott's absence.

"Well, Gorbachev is downstairs," I tell her. "McDermott, Greg, is going to sign a peace treaty with him, between the United States and Russia." I pause, trying to gauge her reaction, before adding, "McDermott's the one behind glasnost, you know."

"Well… yeah," she says, her voice impossibly toneless, nodding. "But he told me he was in mergers and… aquasessions."

I'm looking over at Taylor, who's still sleeping. I snap one of his suspenders but there's no reaction, no movement, then I turn back to Libby. "You're not confused, are you?"

"No," she says, shrugging. "Not really."

"Gorbachev's not downstairs," Caron says suddenly.

"Are you lying?" Daisy asks, smiling.

I'm thinking: Oh boy. Yes. Caron's right. Gorbachev's not downstairs. He's at Tunnel. Excuse me. Waitress?" I grab at a passing hardbody who's wearing a Bill Blass navy lace gown with a silk organza ruffle. "I'll have a J&B on the rocks and a butcher knife or something sharp from the kitchen. Girls?"

None of them say anything. The waitress is staring at Taylor. I look over at him, then back at the hardbody waitress, then back at Taylor. "Bring him the, um, grapefruit sorbet and, oh, let's say, a Scotch, okay?"

The waitress just stares at him.

"Ahem, honey?" I wave my hand in front of her face. "J&B? On the rocks?" I tell her, enunciating over the jazz band, who are in the middle of a fine rendition of "Take Five."

She finally nods.

"And bring them" – I gesture toward the girls – "whatever it was they're drinking. Ginger ale? Wine cooler?"

"No," Libby says. "It's champagne." She points, then says to Caron, "Right?"

"I guess." Caron shrugs.

"With peach schnapps," Daisy reminds her.

"Champagne," I repeat, to the waitress. "With, uh-huh, peach schnapps. Catch that?"

Waitress nods, writes something down, leaves, and I'm checking out her ass as she walks away, then I look back at the three of them, studying each one very carefully for any signs, a flicker of betrayal that would cross their faces, the one gesture that would give away this robot act, but it's fairly dark in Nell's and my hope – that this is the case – is just wishful thinking and so I clap my hands together again and breathe in. "So! It was really hot out today. Right?"

"I need a new fur," Libby sighs, staring into her champagne

"Full length or ankle length?" Daisy asks in the same tonelow voice.

"A stole?" Caron suggests.

"Either a full length or…" Libby stops and thinks hard for a minute. "I saw this short, cuddly wrap…"

"But mink, right?" Daisy asks. "Definitely mink?"

"Oh yeah. Mink," Libby says.

"Hey Taylor," I whisper, nudging him. "Wake up. They're talking. You've gotta see this."

"But which kind?" Caron's on a roll.

"Don't you find some minks are too… fluffy?" Daisy asks.

"Some minks are too fluffy." Libby this time.

"Silver fox is very popular," Daisy murmurs.

"Beige tones are also increasingly popular," Libby says.

"Which ones are those?" someone asks.

"Lynx. Chinchilla. Ermine. Beaver–"

"Hello?" Taylor wakes up, blinking. "I'm here."

"Go back to sleep, Taylor," I sigh.

"Where's Mr. McDermott?" he asks, stretching.

"Wandering around downstairs. Looking for coke." I shrug. "Silver fox is very popular," one of them says.

"Raccoon. Fitch. Squirrel. Muskrat. Mongolian lamb."

"Am I dreaming," Taylor asks me, "or… am I really hearing an actual conversation?"

"Well, I suppose what passes for one." I wince. "Shhh. Listen. It's inspiring."

At the sushi restaurant tonight McDermott, in a state of total frustration, asked the girls if they knew the names of any of the nine planets. Libby and Caron guessed the moon. Daisy wasn't sure but she actually guessed… Comet. Daisy thought that Comet was a planet. Dumbfounded, McDermott, Taylor and I all assured her that it was.

"Well, it's easy to find a good fur now," Daisy says slowly. "Since more ready-to-wear designers have now entered the fur field, the range increases because each designer selects different pelts to give his collection an individual character."

"It's all so scary," Caron says, shivering.

"Don't be intimidated," Daisy says. "Fur is only an accessory. Don't be intimidated by it."

"But a luxurious accessory," Libby points out.

I ask the table, "Has anyone ever played around with a TEC nine-millimeter Uzi? It's a gun. No? They're particularly useful because this model has a threaded barrel for attaching silencers and barrel extensions." I say this nodding.

"Furs shouldn't be intimidating." Taylor looks over at me and blankly says, "I'm gradually uncovering some startling information here."

"But a luxurious accessory," Libby points out again.

The waitress reappears, setting the drinks down along with a bowl of grapefruit sorbet. Taylor looks at it and says, blinking, "I didn't order this."

"Yes you did," I tell him. "In your sleep you ordered this. You ordered this in your sleep."

"No I didn't," he says, unsure.

"I'll eat it," I say. "Jjust listen." I'm tapping my fingers against the table loudly.

"Karl Lagerfeld hands down," Libby's saying.

"Why?" Caron.

"He created the Fendi collection, of course," Daisy says, lighting a cigarette.

"I like the Mongolian lamb mixed with mole or" – Caron stops to giggle – "this black leather jacket lined with Persian lamb."

"What do you think of Geoffrey Beene?" Daisy asks her.

Caron ponders this. "The white satin collars… iffy."

"But he does marvelous things with Tibetan lambs," Libby says.

"Carolina Herrera?" Caron asks.

"No, no, too fluffy," Daisy says, shaking her head

"Too schoolgirl," Libby agrees.

"James Galanos has the most wonderful Russian lynx bellies, though," Daisy says.

"And don't forget Arnold Scaasi. The white ermine," Libby says. "To die for."

"Really?" I smile and lift my lips into a depraved grin. "To die for?"

"To die for," Libby says again, affirmative about something for the first time all night.

"I think you'd look adorable in, oh, a Geoffrey Beene, Taylor," I whine in a high, faggy voice, flopping a limp wrist on his shoulder, but he's sleeping again so it doesn't matter. I remove the hand with a sigh.

"That's Miles…" Caron peers over at some aging gorilla in the next booth with a graying crew cut and an eleven-year-old bimbo balanced on his lap.

Libby turns around to make sure. "But I thought he was filming that Vietnam movie in Philadelphia."

"No. The Philippines," Caron says. "It wasn't in Philadelphia."

"Oh yeah," Libby says, then, "Are you sure?"