In the ride back toward Nell's Christie had admitted that she was still upset about the last time we shared together, and that she had major reservations about tonight, but the money I've offered is simply too good to pass up and I promised her that nothing like last time will be repeated. Though she was still scared, a few shots of vodka in the back of the limo along with the money I'd given her so far, over sixteen hundred dollars, relaxed her like a tranquilizer. Her moodiness turned me on and she acted like a total sex kitten when I first handed her the cash amount – six bills attached to a Hughlans silver money clip – but after I urged her into the limo she told me that she might need surgery after what happened last time, or a lawyer, so I wrote out a check to cash in the amount of one thousand dollars, but since I knew it would never be cashed I didn't have a panic attack about it or anything. Looking over at Elizabeth right now, in my apartment, I'm noticing how well endowed she is in the chest area and I'm hoping that after the Ecstasy hits her system I can convince the two girls to have sex in front of me.
Elizabeth is asking Christie if she's ever met some asshole named Spicey or been to Au Bar. Christie is shaking her head I hand Elizabeth the Ecstasy-laden sauvignon blanc while she stares at Christie like she was from Neptune, and after recovering from Christie's admission she yawns. "Anyway, Au Bar sucks now. It's terrible. I went to a birthday party there for Malcolm Forbes. Oh my god, please." She downs the wine, facing. I take a seat in one of the chrome and oak Sottsass chairs and reach over to the ice bucket that sits on the glass-top coffee table, adjusting the bottle of wine in order to chill it better. Immediately Elizabeth makes a move for it, pouring herself another glass. I dissolve two more tabs of the Ecstasy in the bottle before bringing it into the living room. A sullen Christie sips her untainted wine cautiously and tries not to stare at the floor; she still seems scared, and finding the silence unbearable or incriminating she asks Elizabeth where she met me.
"Oh god," Elizabeth starts, moaning as if she falsely remembered something embarrassing. "I met Patrick at, oh god, the Kentucky Derby in '86 – no, '87, and…" She turns to me. "You were hanging out with that bimbo Alison something… Stoole?"
"Poole, honey," I reply calmly. "Alison Poole."
"Yeah, that was her name," she says, then with unmasked sarcasm, "Hot number."
"What do you mean by that?" I ask, offended. "She was a hot number."
Elizabeth turns to Christie and unfortunately says, "if you had an American Express card she'd give you a blow job," and I'm hoping to god that Christie doesn't look over at Elizabeth, confused, and say "But we don't take credit cards." To make sure this doesn't happen, I bellow "Oh, bullshit," but goodnaturedly.
"Listen," Elizabeth tells Christie, holding her hand out like a fag offering gossipy information. "This girl worked at a tanning salon, and" – and in the same sentence, without changing tone – "what do you do?"
After a long silence, Christie turning redder and even more scared, I say, "She's… my cousin."
Slowly, Elizabeth takes this in and says, "Uh-huh?"
After another long silence, I say, "She's… from France."
Elizabeth looks at me skeptically – like I'm completely crazy but chooses not to pursue this line of questioning and asks instead, "Where's your phone? I've got to call Harley."
I move over to the kitchen and bring the cordless phone to her, pulling up its antenna. She dials a number and, while waiting for someone to answer, stares at Christie. "Where do you summer?" she asks. "Southampton?"
Christie looks at me and then back at Elizabeth and quietly says, "No."
"Oh god," Elizabeth wails, "it's his machine."
"Elizabeth." I point at my Rolex. "It's three in the morning."
"He's a goddamn drug dealer," she says, exasperated "These are his peak hours."
"Don't tell him you're here," I warn.
"Why would I?" she asks. Distracted, she reaches for her wine and downs another full glass and makes a face. "This tastes weird." She checks the label, then shrugs. "Harley? It's me. I need your services. Translate that any way you'd like. I'm at–" She looks over at me.
"You're at Marcus Halberstam's," I whisper.
"Who?" Leaning in, she grins mischievously.
"Mar-cus Hal-ber-stam," I whisper again.
"I want the number, idiot." She waves me away and continues, "Anyway, I'm at Mark Hammerstein's and I'll try you later and if I don't see you at Canal Bar tomorrow night I'm going to sic my hairdresser on you. Bon voyage. How do I hang this thing up?" she asks, even though she expertly pushes the antenna down and presses the Off button, tossing the phone onto the Schrager chair that I've moved next to the jukebox.
"See." I smile. "You did it."
Twenty minutes later Elizabeth is squirming on the couch and I'm trying to coerce her into having sex with Christie in front of me. What started out as a casual suggestion is now at the forefront of my brain and I'm insistent. Christie stares impassively at a stain I hadn't noticed on the white-oak floor, her wine mostly untouched.
"But I'm not a lesbian," Elizabeth protests again, giggling. "I'm not into girls."
"Is this a firm no?" I ask, staring at her glass, then at the near-empty bottle of wine.
"Why'd you think I'd be into that?" she asks. Because of the Ecstasy, the question is flirtatious and she seems genuinely interested. Her foot is rubbing against my thigh. I've moved over to the couch, sitting between the two girls, and I'm massaging one of her calves.
"Well, you went to Sarah Lawrence for one thing," I tell her. "You never know."
"Those are Sarah Lawrence guys, Patrick," she points out, giggling rubbing harder, causing friction, heat, everything.
"Well, I'm sorry: " I admit. "I don't usually deal with a lot of guys who wear panty hose on the Street."
"Patrick, you went to Patrick, I mean, Harvard, oh god, I'm so drunk. Anyway, listen. I mean, wait–" She pauses, taken a deep breath, mumbles an unintelligible remark about feeling bizarre, then, after closing her eyes, opens them and asks, "Do you have any coke?"
I'm staring at her glass, noticing that the dissolved Ecstasy has slightly changed the color of the wine. She follows my gaze and takes a gulp of it as if it were some kind of elixir that could soothe her increasing agitation. She leans her head back, woozily, on one of the pillows on the couch. "Or Halcion. I'd take a Halcion."
"Listen, I would just like to see… the two of you… get it on," I say innocently. "What's wrong with that? It's totally disease-free."
"Patrick." She laughs. "You're a lunatic."
"Come on," I urge. "Don't you find Christie attractive?"
"Let's not get lewd," she says, but the drug is kicking in and I can sense that she's excited but doesn't want to be. "I'm in no mood to have lewd conversation."
"Come on," I say. "I think it would be a turn-on."
"Does he do this all the time?" Elizabeth asks Christie.