I switch on the wide-screen thirty-one-inch Panasonic to Late Night with David Letterman, then move over to the answering machine to change Owen's message. While erasing the current one (Owen giving all the numbers he can be reached at – including the Seaport, for god's sake – while Vivaldi's Four Seasons plays tastefully in the background) I wonder aloud where I should send Paul, and after a few minutes of intense debating decide: London. "I'll send the bastard to England," I cackle while turning the volume down on the TV and then I leave the new message. My voice sounds similar to Owen's and to someone hearing it over the phone probably identical. Tonight Letterman has on Stupid Pet Tricks. A German shepherd with a Mets cap on peels and eats an orange. This is replayed twice, in slow motion.
Into a hand-constructed bridle leather suitcase with a khaki-colored canvas cover, extra-heavy cap corners, gold straps and locks, by Ralph Lauren, I pack a wool six-button double-breasted peak-lapel chalk-striped suit and one wool flannel navy suit, both from Brooks Brothers, along with a Mitsubishi rechargeable electric shaver, a silver-plated shoehorn from Barney's, a Tag-Heuer sports watch, a black leather Prada currency holder, a Sharp Handy-Copier, a Sharp Dialmaster, his passport in its own black leather passport case and a Panasonic portable hair dryer. I also steal for myself a Toshiba portable compact disc player with one of the discs from the original cast recording of Les Misérables still in it. The bathroom is done completely in white except for the Dalmatian-spot wallpaper covering one wall. I throw any toiletry articles I might've missed into a plastic Hefty bag.
Back at my apartment his body is already in rigor mortis, and after wrapping it up in four cheap terry-cloth towels I also bought at the Conran's Memorial Day sale, I place Owen headfirst and fully dressed into a Canalino goose-down sleeping bag, which I zip up then drag easily into the elevator, then through the lobby, past the night doorman, down the block, where briefly I run into Arthur Crystal and Kitty Martin, who've just had dinner at Café Luxembourg. Luckily Kitty Martin is supposed to be dating Craig McDermott, who is in Houston for the night, so they don't linger, even though Crystal – the rude bastard – asks me what the general rules of wearing a white dinner jacket are. After answering him curtly I hail a taxi, effortlessly manage to swing the sleeping bag into the backseat, hop in and give the driver the address in Hell's Kitchen. Once there I carry the body up four flights of stairs until we're at the unit I own in the abandoned building and I place Owen's body into an oversize porcelain tub, strip off his Abboud suit and, after wetting the corpse down, pour two bags of lime over it.
Later, around two, in bed, I'm unable to sleep. Evelyn catches me on call waiting while I'm listening to messages on 976-TWAT and watching a tape on the VCR of this morning's Patty Winters Show which is about Deformed People.
"Patrick?" Evelyn asks.
I pause, then in a dull monotone calmly announce, "You have reached Patrick Bateman's number. He is unable to come to the phone right now. So please leave a message after the tone…" I pause, then add, "Have a nice day." I pause again, praying to god that she bought it, before emitting a pitiful "Beep."
"Oh stop it, Patrick," she says irritably. "I know it's you. What in god's name do you think you're doing?"
I hold the phone out in front of me then drop it on the floor and bang it against the nightstand. I keep pressing some of the numbers down, hoping that when I lift the receiver up to my ear I'll be greeted by a dial tone. "Hello? Hello?" I say. "Is anyone there? Yes?"
"Oh for god's sake stop it. Just stop it," Evelyn wails.
"Hi, Evelyn," I say cheerily, my face twisted into a grimace.
"Where have you been tonight?" she asks. "I thought we were supposed to have dinner. I thought we had reservations at Raw Space."
"No, Evelyn," I sigh, suddenly very tired. "We didn't. Why would you think that?"
"I thought I had it written down," she whines. "I thought my secretary had written it down for me."
"Well, one of you was wrong," I say, rewinding the tape by remote control from my bed. "Raw Space? Jesus. You… are… insane."
"Honey," she pouts. "Where were you tonight? I hope you didn't go to Raw Space without me."
"Oh my god," I moan. "I had to rent some videotapes. I mean I had to return some videos."
"What else did you do?" she asks, still whining.
"Well, I ran into Arthur Crystal and Kitty Martin," I say. 'They just had dinner at Café Luxembourg."
"Oh really?" Chillingly, her interest perks up. "What was Kitty wearing?"
"An off-the-shoulder ball gown with velvet bodice and a floral-patterned lace skirt by Laura Marolakos, I think."
"And Arthur?"
"Same thing."
"Oh Mr. Bateman." She giggles. "I adore your sense of humor."
"Listen, it's late. I'm tired." I fake a yawn.
"Did I wake you?" she asks worriedly. "I hope I didn't wake you."
"Yes," I say. "You did. But I took your call so it's my fault, not yours."
"Dinner, honey? Tomorrow?" she asks, coyly expecting an affirmative response.
"I can't. Work."
"You practically own that damn company," she moans. "What work? What work do you do? I don't understand."
"Evelyn," I sigh. "Please."
"Oh Patrick, lets go away this summer," she says wistfully. "Let's go to Edgartown or the Hamptons."
"I'll do that," I say. "Maybe I'll do that."
Paul Smith
I'm standing in Paul Smith talking to Nancy and Charles Hamilton and their two-year-old daughter, Glenn. Charles is wearing a four-button double-breasted linen suit by Redaelli, a cotton broadcloth shirt by Ascot Chang, a patterned silk tie by Eugenio Venanzi and loafers by Brooks Brothers. Nancy is wearing a silk blouse with mother-of-pearl sequins and a silk chiffon skirt by Valentino and silver earrings by Reena Pachochi. I'm wearing a six-button double-breasted chalk-striped wool suit and a patterned silk tie, both by Louis, Boston, and a cotton oxford cloth shirt by Luciano Barbera. Glenn is wearing silk Armani overalls and a tiny Mets cap. As the salesgirl rings up Charles's purchases, I'm playing with the baby while Nancy holds her, offering Glenn my platinum American Express card, and she grabs at it excitedly, and I'm shaking my head, talking in a high-pitched baby voice, squeezing her chin, waving the card in front of her face, cooing, "Yes I'm a total psychopathic murderer, oh yes I am, I like to kill people, oh yes I do, honey, little sweetie pie, yes I do…" After the office today I played squash with Ricky Hendricks, then had drinks with Stephen Jenkins at Fluties and I'm supposed to meet Bonnie Abbott for dinner at Pooncakes, the new Bishop Sullivan restaurant in Gramercy Park, at eight o'clock. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Concentration Camp Survivors. I take out a Sony Watchman Pocket TV (the FD-270) that has a 2.7-inch black-and-white miniscreen and weighs only thirteen ounces, and hold it out to Glenn. Nancy asks, "How's the shad roe at Rafaeli's?" Right now, outside this store, it's not dark yet but it is getting there.
"It's terrific," I murmur, staring happily at Glenn.
Charles signs the slip and while placing his gold American Express card back into his wallet he turns to me and recognizes someone over my shoulder.