American Psycho

"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.