Yale Club
"What are the rules for a sweater vest?" Van Patten asks the table.
"What do you mean?" McDermott furrows his brow, takes a sip of Absolut.
"Yes," I say, "Clarify."
"Well, is it strictly informal–"
"Or can it be worn with a suit?" I interrupt, finishing his sentence.
"Exactly." He smiles.
"Well, according to Bruce Boyer–" I begin.
"Wait." Van Patten stops me. "Is he with Morgan Stanley?"
"No." I smile. "He's not with Morgan Stanley."
"Wasn't he a serial killer?" McDermott asks suspiciously, then moans. "Don't tell me he was another serial killer, Bateman. Not another serial killer."
"No, McDufus, he wasn't a serial killer," I say, turning back to Van Patten, but before continuing turn back to McDermott. 'That really pisses me off."
"But you always bring them up," McDermott complains. "And always in this casual, educational sort of way. I mean, I don't want to know anything about Son of Sam or the fucking Hillside Strangler or Ted Bundy or Featherhead, for god sake."
"Featherhead?" Van Patten asks. "Who's Featherhead? He sounds exceptionally dangerous."
"He means Leatherface," I say, teeth tightly clenched.
"Leatherface. He was part of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre."
"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.