"No, I'm sorry," he says, genuinely apologetic. "I should've made an appointment." Gesturing toward the cordless phone I'm placing back in its recharging cradle, he asks, "Was that, uh, anything important?"
"Oh that?" I ask, moving toward my desk, sinking into my chair. 'Just mulling over business problems. Examining opportunities… Exchanging rumors… Spreading gossip." We both laugh. The ice breaks.
"Hi," he says, sitting up, holding out his hand. "I'm Donald Kimball."
"Hi. Pat Bateman." I take it, squeezing it firmly. "Nice to meet you."
"I'm sorry," he says, "to barge in on you like this, but I was supposed to talk to Luis Carruthers and he wasn't in and… well, you're here, so…" He smiles, shrugs. "I know how busy you guys can get." He averts his eyes from the three copies of Sports Illustrated that lie open atop my desk, covering it, along with the Walkman. I notice them too, then close all three issues and slip them into the desk's top drawer along with the still-running Walkman.
"So," I start, trying to come off as friendly and conversational as possible. "What's the topic of discussion?"
"Well," he starts. "I've been hired by Meredith Powell to investigate the disappearance of Paul Owen."
I nod thoughtfully before asking, "You're not with the FBI or anything, are you?"
"No, no," he says. "Nothing like that. I'm just a private investigator."
"Ah, I see… Yes." I nod again, still not relieved. "Paul's disappearance… Yes."
"So it's nothing that official," he confides. "I just have some basic questions. About Paul Owen. About yourself–"
"Coffee?" I ask suddenly.
As if unsure, he says, "No, I'm okay."
"Perrier? San Pellegrino?" I offer.
"No, I'm okay," he says again, opening a small black notebook he's taken out of his pocket along with a gold Cross pen.
I buzz Jean.
"Yes, Patrick?"
"Jean can you bring Mr…" I stop, look up.
He looks up too. "Kimball."
"…Mr. Kimball a bottle of San Pelle–"
"Oh no, I'm okay," he protests.
"It's no problem," I tell him.
I get the feeling he's trying not to stare at me strangely. He turns back to his notebook and writes something down, then crosses something out. Jean walks in almost immediately and she places the bottle of San Pellegrino and a Steuben etched-glass tumbler on my desk in front of Kimball. She gives me a fretful, worried glance, which I scowl at. Kimball looks up, smiles and nods at Jean, who I notice is not wearing a bra today. Innocently, I watch her leave, then return my gaze to Kimball, clasping my hands together, sitting up. "Well, what's the topic of discussion?" I say again.
"The disappearance of Paul Owen," he says, reminding me.
"Oh right. Well, I haven't heard anything about the disappearance or anything…" I pause, then try to laugh. "Not on Page Six at least."
Kimball smiles politely. "I think his family wants this kept quiet."
"Understandable." I nod at the untouched glass and bottle, and then look up at him. "Lime?"
"No, really," he says. "I'm okay."
"You sure?" I ask. "I can always get you a lime."
He pauses briefly, then says, "Just some preliminary questions that I need for my own files, okay?"
"Shoot," I say.
"How old are you?" he asks.
'Twenty-seven," I say. "I'll be twenty-eight in October."
"Where did you go to school?" He scribbles something in his book.
"Harvard," I tell him. "Then Harvard Business School."
"Your address?" he asks, looking only at his book.
"Fifty-five West Eighty-first Street," I say. "The American Gardens Building."
"Nice." He looks up, impressed. "Very nice."
"Thanks." I smile, flattered.
"Doesn't Tom Cruise live there?" he asks.
"Yup." I squeeze the bridge of my nose. Suddenly I have to close my eyes tightly.
I hear him speak. "Pardon me, but are you okay?"
Opening my eyes, both of them tearing, I say, "Why do you ask?"
"You seem… nervous."
I reach into a drawer in my desk and bring out a bottle of aspirin.
"Nuprin?" I offer.
Kimball looks at the bottle strangely and then back at me before shaking his head. "Uh… no thanks." He's taken out a pack of Marlboros and absently lays it next to the San Pellegrino bottle while studying something in the book.
"Bad habit," I point out.
He looks up and, noticing my disapproval, smiles sheepishly. "I know. I'm sorry."
I stare at the box.
"Do you… would you rather I not smoke?" he asks, tentative.
I continue to stare at the cigarette packet, debating. "No… I guess it's okay."
"You sure?" he asks.
"No problem." I buzz Jean.
"Yes, Patrick?"
"Bring us an ashtray for Mr. Kimball, please," I say.
In a matter of seconds, she does.
"What can you tell me about Paul Owen?" he finally asks, after Jean leaves, having placed a Fortunoff crystal ashtray on the desk next to the untouched San Pellegrino.
"Well." I cough, swallowing two Nuprin, dry. "I didn't know him that well."
"How well did you know him?" he asks.
"I'm… at a loss," I tell him, somewhat truthfully. "He was part of that whole… Yale thing, you know."
"Yale thing?" he asks, confused.
I pause, having no idea what I'm talking about. "Yeah . . Yale thing."
"What do you mean… Yale thing?" Now he's intrigued.
I pause again – what do I mean? "Well, I think, for one, that he was probably a closet homosexual." I have no idea; doubt it, considering his taste in babes. "Who did a lot of cocaine…" I pause, then add, a bit shakily, "That Yale thing." I'm sure I say this bizarrely, but there's no other way to put it.
It's very quiet in the office right now. The room suddenly seems cramped and sweltering and even though the air-conditioning is on full blast, the air seems fake, recycled.
"So…" Kimball looks at his book helplessly. "There's nothing you can tell me about Paul Owen?"
"Well." I sigh. "He led what I suppose was an orderly life, I guess." Really stumped, I offer, "He… ate a balanced diet."
I'm sensing frustration on Kimball's part and he asks, "What kind of man was he? Besides" – he falters, tries to smile – "the information you've just given."
How could I describe Paul Owen to this guy? Boasting, arrogant, cheerful dickhead who constantly weaseled his way out of checks at Nell's? That I'm heir to the unfortunate information that his penis had a name and that name was Michael? No. Calmer, Bateman. I think that I'm smiling.
"I hope I'm not being cross-examined here," I manage to say.
"Do you feel that way?" he asks. The question sounds sinister but isn't.
"No," I say carefully. "Not really."
Maddeningly he writes something else down, then asks, without looking up, chewing on the tip of the pen, "Where did Paul hang out?"
"Hang… out?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says. "You know… hang out."
"Let me think," I say, tapping my fingers across my desk. "The Newport. Harry's. Fluties. Indochine. Nell's. Cornell Club. The New York Yacht Club. The regular places."
Kimball looks confused. "He had a yacht?"
Stuck, I casually say, "No. He just hung out there."
"And where did he go to school?" he asks.
I pause. "Don't you know this?"
"I just wanted to know if you know; ' he says without looking up.
"Er, Yale," I say slowly. "Right?"
"Right."
"And then to business school at Columbia," I add, "I think."
"Before all that?" he asks.