"And. . ." McDermott scans the article and points an accusatory finger at the bottom paragraph, which he's highlighted in red ink. "Where does Donald Trump think the best pizza in Manhattan is served?"

"Let me me read this," I sigh, waving him away. "You might be wrong. What a lousy photo." read this," I sigh, waving him away. "You might be wrong. What a lousy photo."

"Bateman. Look. Look. I circled it," he says. I circled it," he says.

I pretend to read the fucking article but I'm getting very angry and I have to hand the article back to McDermott and ask, thoroughly annoyed, "So what? what? What does it mean? What are What does it mean? What are you you, McDermott, trying to tell me me?"

"What do you think of the pizza at Pastels now now, Bateman?" he asks smugly.

"Well," I say, choosing my words carefully. "I think I have to go back and re retaste the pizza... ." I'm saying this through gritted teeth. "I'm just suggesting that the last time I was there the pizza was..."

"Brittle?" McDermott offers.

"Yeah." I shrug. "Brittle."

"Uhhuh." McDermott smiles, triumphant.

"Listen, if the pizza at Pastels is okay with Donny," I start, hating to admit this to McDermott, then sighing, almost unintelligibly, "it's okay with me."

McDermott cackles gleefully, a victor.

I count three silkcrepe ties, one Versace silksatin woven tie, two silk foulard ties, one silk Kenzo, two silk jacquard ties. The fragrances of Xeryus and Tuscany and Armani and Obsession and Polo and Grey Flannel and even Antaeus mingle, wafting into each other, rising from the suits and into the air, forming their own mixture: a cold, sickening perfume.

"But I'm not apologizing," I warn McDermott.

"You already have, Bateman," he says.

Paul Owen walks in wearing a cashmere onebutton sports jacket, tropical wool flannel slacks, a buttondown tabcollared shirt by Ronaldus Shamask, but it's really the tie blue and black and red and yellow bold stripes from Andrew Fezza by Zanzarra that impresses me. Carruthers gets excited too, and he leans into my chair and asks, if I'm listening correctly, "Do you think he has a power jock jockstrap to go along with that thing?" When I don't answer he retreats, opens one of the Sports Illustriated Sports Illustriateds that sit in the middle of the table and, humming to himself, starts to read an article on Olympic divers.

"Hello, Halberstam," Owen says, walking by.

"Hello, Owen," I say, admiring the way he's styled and slicked back his hair, with a part so even and sharp it... devastates me and I make a mental note to ask him where he purchases his haircare products, which kind of mousse he uses, my final guess after mulling over the possibilities being Ten X.

Greg McBride walks in and stops by my chair. "Did you watch the Winters Show Winters Show this morning? Riot. Total riot," and we give each other highfive before he takes a seat between Dibble and Lloyd. God knows where they came from. this morning? Riot. Total riot," and we give each other highfive before he takes a seat between Dibble and Lloyd. God knows where they came from.

Kevin Forrest, who walks in with Charles Murphy, is saying, "My call waiting is busted. Felicia screwed it up somehow." I'm not even paying attention to what they're wearing. But I find myself staring at Murphy's vintage owl cuff links with blue crystal eyes.

Video Store then D'Agostino's

I'm wandering around VideoVisions, the video rental store near my apartment on the Upper West Side, sipping from a can of Diet Pepsi, the new Christopher Cross tape blaring from the earphones of my Sony Walkman. After the office I played racquetball with Montgomery, then had a shiatsu massage and met Jesse Lloyd, Jamie Conway and Kevin Forrest for drinks at Rusty's on Seventythird Street. Tonight I'm wearing a new wool topcoat by Ungaro Uomo Paris and carrying a Bottega Veneta briefcase and an umbrella by Georges Gaspar.

The video store is more crowded than usual. There are too many couples in line for me to rent SheMale Reformatory SheMale Reformatory or or Ginger's Cunt Ginger's Cunt without some sense of awkwardness or discomfort, plus I've already bumped into Robert Ailes from First Boston in the Horror aisle, or at least I think it was Robert Ailes. He mumbled "Hello, McDonald" as he passed me by, holding without some sense of awkwardness or discomfort, plus I've already bumped into Robert Ailes from First Boston in the Horror aisle, or at least I think it was Robert Ailes. He mumbled "Hello, McDonald" as he passed me by, holding Friday the 13th: Part 7 Friday the 13th: Part 7 and a documentary on abortions in what I noticed were nicely manicured hands marred only by what looked to me like an imitationgold Rolex. and a documentary on abortions in what I noticed were nicely manicured hands marred only by what looked to me like an imitationgold Rolex.

Since pornography seems out of the question I browse through Light Comedy and, feeling ripped off, settle for a Woody Allen movie but I'm still not satisfied. I want something else. I pass through the Rock Musical section nothing then find myself in Horror Comedy ditto and suddenly I'm seized by a minor anxiety attack. There are too many fucking movies to choose from There are too many fucking movies to choose from. I duck behind a promotional cardboard display for the new Dan Aykroyd comedy and take two fivemilligram Valiums, washing them down with the Diet Pepsi. Then, almost by rote, as if I've been programmed, I reach for Body Double Body Double a movie I have rented thirtyseven times and walk up to the counter where I wait for twenty minutes to be checked out by a dumpy girl (five pounds overweight, dry frizzy hair). She's actually wearing a baggy, nondescript sweater definitely not designer probably to hide the fact that she has no tits, and even though she has nice eyes: so fucking what? Finally it's my turn. I hand her the empty boxes. a movie I have rented thirtyseven times and walk up to the counter where I wait for twenty minutes to be checked out by a dumpy girl (five pounds overweight, dry frizzy hair). She's actually wearing a baggy, nondescript sweater definitely not designer probably to hide the fact that she has no tits, and even though she has nice eyes: so fucking what? Finally it's my turn. I hand her the empty boxes.

"Is this it?" she asks, taking my membership card from me. I'm wearing Mario Valentino Persianblack gloves. My VideoVisions membership costs only two hundred and fifty dollars annually.

"Do you have any Jami Gertz movies?" I ask her, trying to make direct eye contact.

"What?" she asks, distracted.

"Any movies that Jami Gertz is in?"

"Who?" She enters something into the computer and then says without looking at me, "How many nights?"

"Three," I say. "Don't you know who Jami Gertz is?"

"I don't think so." She actually sighs.

"Jami Gertz Gertz," I say. "She's an actress actress."

"I don't think I know who you mean," she says in a tone that suggests I'm harassing her, but hey, she works in a video rental store and since it's such a demanding highpowered profession her bitchy behavior is completely reasonable, right right? The things I could do to this girl's body with a hammer, the words I could carve into her with an ice pick. She hands the guy behind her my boxes and I pretend to ignore his horrified reaction as he recognizes me after he looks at the Body Double Body Double box but he dutifully walks into some kind of vault in the back of the store to get the movies. box but he dutifully walks into some kind of vault in the back of the store to get the movies.

"Yeah. Sure you do," I say goodnaturedly. "She's in those Diet Coke commercials. You know the ones."

"I really don't think so," she says in a monotone that almost cuts me off. She types the names of the movies and then my membership number into the computer.

"I like the part in Body Double Body Double where the woman... gets drilled by the... power driller in the movie... the best," I say, almost gasping. It seems very hot in the video store right now all of a sudden and after murmuring "oh my god" under my breath I place a gloved hand on the counter to settle it from shaking. "And the blood starts pouring out of the ceiling." I take a deep breath and while I'm saying this my head starts nodding of its own accord and I keep swallowing, thinking where the woman... gets drilled by the... power driller in the movie... the best," I say, almost gasping. It seems very hot in the video store right now all of a sudden and after murmuring "oh my god" under my breath I place a gloved hand on the counter to settle it from shaking. "And the blood starts pouring out of the ceiling." I take a deep breath and while I'm saying this my head starts nodding of its own accord and I keep swallowing, thinking I have to see her shoes, I have to see her shoes, and so as inconspicuously as possible I try to peer over the counter to check out what kind of shoes she's wearing, but maddeningly they're only sneakers and so as inconspicuously as possible I try to peer over the counter to check out what kind of shoes she's wearing, but maddeningly they're only sneakers not not KSwiss, KSwiss, not not Tretorn, Tretorn, not not Adidas, Adidas, not not Reebok, just cheap ones. Reebok, just cheap ones.

"Sign here." She hands me the tapes without even looking at me, refusing to recognize who I am; and breathing in hard and exhaling, she motions for the next in line, a couple with a baby.

On the way back to my apartment I stop at D'Agostino's, where for dinner I buy two large bottles of Perrier, a sixpack of Coke Classic, a head of arugula, five mediumsized kiwis, a bottle of tarragon balsamic vinegar, a tin of creme fraiche, a carton of microwave tapas, a box of tofu and a whitechocolate candy bar I pick up at the checkout counter.

Once outside, ignoring the bum lounging below the Les Miserables Les Miserables poster and holding a sign that reads: I'VE LOST MY JOB I AM HUNGRY I HAVE NO MONEY PLEASE HELP, whose eyes tear after I pull the tease-the-bum-with-a-dollar trick and tell him, "Jesus, will you get a fucking shave, poster and holding a sign that reads: I'VE LOST MY JOB I AM HUNGRY I HAVE NO MONEY PLEASE HELP, whose eyes tear after I pull the tease-the-bum-with-a-dollar trick and tell him, "Jesus, will you get a fucking shave, please please," my eyes almost like they were guided by radar, focus in on a red Lamborghini Countach parked at the curb, gleaming beneath the streetlamps, and I have to stop moving, the Valium shockingly, unexpectedly kicking in, everything else becomes obliterated: the crying bum, the black kids on crack rapping along to the blaring beatbox, the clouds of pigeons flying overhead looking for space to roost, the ambulance sirens, the honking taxis, the decentlooking babe in the Betsey Johnson dress, all of that fades and in what seems like timelapse photography but in slow motion, like a movie the sun goes down, the city gets darker and all I can see is the red Lamborghini and all I can hear is my own even, steady panting. I'm still standing, drooling, in front of the store, staring, minutes later (I don't know how many).

Facial

I leave the office at fourthirty, head up to Xclusive where I work out with free weights for an hour, then taxi across the park to Gio's in the Pierre Hotel for a facial, a manicure and, if time permits, a pedicure. I'm lying on the elevated table in one of the private rooms waiting for Helga, the skin technician, to facialize me. My Brooks Brothers shirt and Garrick Anderson suit hang in the closet, my A. Testoni loafers sit on the floor, thirtydollar socks from Barney's balled up in them, sixtydollar boxer shorts from Comme des Garcons are the only article of clothing I'm still wearing. The smock I'm supposed to have on is crumpled next to the shower stall since I want Helga to check my body out, notice my chest, see how fucking buff buff my abdominals have gotten since the last time I was here, even though she's much older than I am maybe thirty or thirtyfive and there's no way I'd ever fuck her. I'm sipping a Diet Pepsi that Mario, the valet, brought me, with crushed ice in a glass on the side that I asked for but don't want. my abdominals have gotten since the last time I was here, even though she's much older than I am maybe thirty or thirtyfive and there's no way I'd ever fuck her. I'm sipping a Diet Pepsi that Mario, the valet, brought me, with crushed ice in a glass on the side that I asked for but don't want.

I pick up today's Post Post that hangs from a Smithly Watson glass magazine rack and scan the gossip columns, then my eye catches a story about recent sightings of these creatures that seem to be part bird, part rodent essentially pigeons with the heads and tails of rats found deep in the center of Harlem and now making their way steadily toward midtown. A grainy photograph of one of these things accompanies the article, but experts, the that hangs from a Smithly Watson glass magazine rack and scan the gossip columns, then my eye catches a story about recent sightings of these creatures that seem to be part bird, part rodent essentially pigeons with the heads and tails of rats found deep in the center of Harlem and now making their way steadily toward midtown. A grainy photograph of one of these things accompanies the article, but experts, the Post Post assures us, are fairly certain this new breed is a hoax. As usual this fails to soothe my fear, and it fills me with a nameless dread that someone out there has wasted the energy and time to think this up: to fake a photograph (and do a half-assed job at that, the thing looks like a fucking Big Mac) and send the photograph in to the assures us, are fairly certain this new breed is a hoax. As usual this fails to soothe my fear, and it fills me with a nameless dread that someone out there has wasted the energy and time to think this up: to fake a photograph (and do a half-assed job at that, the thing looks like a fucking Big Mac) and send the photograph in to the Post Post, then for the Post Post to decide to run the story (meetings, debates, lastminute temptations to cancel the whole thing?), to print the photograph, to have someone write about the photo and interview the experts, finally to run this story on page three in today's edition and have it discussed over hundreds of thousands of lunches in the city this afternoon. I close the paper and lie back, exhausted. to decide to run the story (meetings, debates, lastminute temptations to cancel the whole thing?), to print the photograph, to have someone write about the photo and interview the experts, finally to run this story on page three in today's edition and have it discussed over hundreds of thousands of lunches in the city this afternoon. I close the paper and lie back, exhausted.

The door to the private room opens and a girl I haven't seen before walks in and through halfclosed eyes I can see that she's young, Italian, okaylooking. She smiles, sitting in a chair at my feet, and begins the pedicure. She switches off the ceiling light and except for strategically placed halogen bulbs shining down on my feet, hands and face, the room darkens, making it impossible to tell what kind of body she has, only that she's wearing gray suede and black leather buttoned ankle boots by Maud Frizon. The Patty Winters Show The Patty Winters Show this morning was about UFOs That Kill. Helga arrives. this morning was about UFOs That Kill. Helga arrives.

"Ah, Mr. Bateman," Helga says. "How are you?"

"Very good, Helga," I say, flexing the muscles in my stomach and chest. My eyes are closed so it looks casual, as, if the muscles are acting on their own accord and I can't help it. But Helga drapes the smock gently across my heaving chest and buttons it up, pretending to ignore the undulations beneath the tan, clean skin.

"You're back so soon," she says.

"I was only here two days ago," I say, confused.

"I know, but..." She stalls, washing her hands in the sink. "Never mind."

"Helga?" I ask.

"Yes, Mr. Bateman?"

"Walking in here I spotted a pair of men's goldtasseled loafers from Bergdorf Goodman, waiting to be shined, outside the door of the next room. Who do they belong to?" I ask.

"That's Mr. Erlanger," she says.

"Mr. Erlanger from Lehman's?"

"No. Mr. Erlanger from Salomon Brothers," she says.

"Did I ever tell you that I want to wear a big yellow smiley-face mask and then put on the CD version of Bobby McFerrin's 'Don't Worry, Be Happy' and then take a girl and a dog a collie, a chow, a sharpei, it doesn't really matter and then hook up this transfusion pump, this IV set, and switch their blood, you know, pump the dog's blood into the hardbody and vice versa, did I ever tell you this?" While I'm speaking I can hear the girl working on my feet humming one of the songs from Les Miserables Les Miserables to herself, and then Helga runs a moistened cotton ball across my nose, leaning close to the face, inspecting the pores. I laugh maniacally, then take a deep breath and touch my chest expecting a heart to be thumping quickly, impatiently, but there's nothing there, not even a beat. to herself, and then Helga runs a moistened cotton ball across my nose, leaning close to the face, inspecting the pores. I laugh maniacally, then take a deep breath and touch my chest expecting a heart to be thumping quickly, impatiently, but there's nothing there, not even a beat.

"Shhh, Mr. Bateman," Helga says, running a warm loofah sponge over my face, which stings then cools the skin. "Relax."

"Okay." I say. "I'm relaxing."

"Oh Mr. Bateman," Helga croons, "you have such a nice complexion. How old are you? May I ask?"

"I'm twentysix."

"Ah, that's why. It's so clean. So smooth." She sighs. "Just relax."

I drift, my eyes rolling back into my head, the Muzak version of "Don't Worry, Baby" drowning out all bad thoughts, and I start thinking only positive things the reservations I have tonight with Marcus Halberstam's girlfriend, Cecelia Wagner, the mashed turnips at Union Square Cafe, skiing down Buttermilk Mountain in Aspen last Christmas, the new Huey Lewis and the News compact disc, dress shirts by Ike Behar, by Joseph Abboud, by Ralph Lauren, beautiful oiled hardbodies eating each other's pussies and assholes under harsh video lights, truckloads of arugula and cilantro, my tan line, the way the muscles in my back look when the lights in my bathroom fall on them at the right angle, Helga's hands caressing the smooth skin on my face, lathering and spreading cream and lotions and tonics into it admiringly, whispering, "Oh Mr. Bateman, your face is so clean and smooth, so clean," the fact that I don't live in a trailer park or work in a bowling alley or attend hockey games or eat barbecued ribs, the look of the AT&T building at midnight, only at midnight. Jeannie comes in and starts the manicure, first clipping and filing the nails, then brushing them with a sandpaper disk to smooth out the remaining edges.

"Next time I'd prefer them a bit longer, Jeannie," I warn her.

Silently she soaks them in warm lanolin cream, then dries both hands off and uses a cuticle moisturizer, then removes all the cuticles while cleaning under the nails with a cottonon-wood stick. A heat vibrator massages the hand and forearm. The nails are buffed first with chamois and then with bung lotion.

Date with Evelyn

Evelyn comes in on the call waiting of my third line and I wasn't going to take it, but since I'm holding on the second line to find out if Bullock, the maitre d' at the new Davis Francois restaurant on Central Park South, has any cancellations for tonight so Courtney (holding on the first line) and I might have dinner, I pick it up in the hope that it's my dry cleaners. But no, it's Evelyn and though it really isn't fair to Courtney, I take her call. I tell Evelyn I'm on the other line with my private trainer. I then tell Courtney I have to take Paul Owen's call and that I'll see her at Turtles at eight and then I cut myself off from Bullock, the maitre d'. Evelyn's staying at the Carlyle since the woman who lives in the brownstone next to hers was found murdered last night, decapitated, and this is why Evelyn's all shook up. She couldn't deal with the office today so she spent the afternoon calming herself with facials at Elizabeth Arden. She demands that we have dinner tonight, and then says, before I can make up a plausible lie, an acceptable. excuse, "Where were you last night, Patrick Patrick?"

I pause. "Why? Where were you you?" I ask, while guzzling from a liter of Evian, still slightly sweaty from this afternoon's workout.

"Arguing with the concierge at the Carlyle," she says, sounding rather rather pissed off. "Now tell me, Patrick, where pissed off. "Now tell me, Patrick, where were were you?" you?"

"Why were you arguing with him?" Lask.

"Patrick," she says a declarative statement.

"I'm here," I say after a minute.

"Patrick. It doesn't matter. The phone in my room didn't have two lines and there was no no call waiting," she says. " call waiting," she says. "Where were you?" were you?"

"I was... fooling around renting videotapes," I say, pleased, giving myself highfive, the cordless phone cradled in my neck.

"I wanted to come over," she says in a whiny, littlegirl tone. "I was scared. I still am. Can't you hear it in my voice?"

"Actually, you sound like anything but."

"No, Patrick, seriously. I'm quite terrified," she says. "I'm shaking. Just like a leaf I'm shaking. Ask Mia, my facialist. She She said I was tense." said I was tense."

"Well," I say, "you couldn't have come over anyway."

"Honey, why not?" she whines, and then addresses someone who just entered her suite. "Oh wheel it over there near the window... no, that that window... and can you tell me where that damn masseuse is?" window... and can you tell me where that damn masseuse is?"

"Because your neighbor's head was in my freezer." I yawn, stretching. "Listen. Dinner? Where? Can you hear me?"

At eightthirty, the two of us are sitting across from each other in Barcadia. Evelyn's wearing an Anne Klein rayon jacket, a woolcrepe skirt, a silk blouse from Bonwit's, antique gold and agate earrings from James Robinson that cost, roughly, four thousand dollars; and I'm wearing a doublebreasted suit, a silk shirt with woven stripes, a patterned silk tie and leather slipons, all by Gianni Versace. I neither canceled the reservation at Turtles nor told Courtney not to meet me there, so she'll probably show up around eightfifteen, completely confused, and if she hasn't taken any Elavil today she'll probably be furious and it's this fact not the bottle of Cristal that Evelyn insists on ordering and then adds cassis to that I laugh out loud about.

I spent most of the afternoon buying myself early Christmas presents a large pair of scissors at a drugstore near City Hall, a letter opener from Hammacher Schlemmer, a cheese knife from Bloomingdale's to go along with the cheese board that Jean, my secretary who's in love with me, left on my desk before she went to lunch while I was in a meeting. The Patty Winters Show The Patty Winters Show this morning was about the possibility of nuclear war, and according to the panel of experts the odds are pretty good it will happen sometime within the next month. Evelyn's face seems chalky to me right now, her mouth lined with a purple lipstick that gives off an almost startling effect, and I realize that she's belatedly taken Tim Price's advice to stop using her tanning lotion. Instead of mentioning this and have her bore me silly with inane denials, I ask about Tim's girlfriend, Meredith, whom Evelyn despises for reasons never made quite clear to me. And because of rumors about Courtney and myself, Courtney's also on Evelyn's shit list, for reasons that are a little clearer. I place a hand over the top of the champagne flute when the apprehensive waitress, at Evelyn's request, attempts to add some blueberry crisis into my Cristal. this morning was about the possibility of nuclear war, and according to the panel of experts the odds are pretty good it will happen sometime within the next month. Evelyn's face seems chalky to me right now, her mouth lined with a purple lipstick that gives off an almost startling effect, and I realize that she's belatedly taken Tim Price's advice to stop using her tanning lotion. Instead of mentioning this and have her bore me silly with inane denials, I ask about Tim's girlfriend, Meredith, whom Evelyn despises for reasons never made quite clear to me. And because of rumors about Courtney and myself, Courtney's also on Evelyn's shit list, for reasons that are a little clearer. I place a hand over the top of the champagne flute when the apprehensive waitress, at Evelyn's request, attempts to add some blueberry crisis into my Cristal.

"No thank you," I tell her. "Maybe later. In a separate glass."

"Party pooper." Evelyn giggles, then takes a sharp breath. "But you smell nice. What are you wearing Obsession? You party pooper, is it Obsession?"

"No," I say grimly. "Paul Sebastian."

"Of course." She smiles, downs her second glass. She seems in a much better mood, boisterous almost, more than you'd expect of someone whose neighbor's head was sliced off in a matter of seconds while she was still conscious by an electric minichain saw. Evelyn's eyes momentarily glitter in the candlelight, then revert to their normal pallid gray.

"How is is Meredith?" I ask, trying to mask my void of disinterest. Meredith?" I ask, trying to mask my void of disinterest.

"Oh god She's dating Richard Cunningham." Evelyn moans. "He's at First Boston. If you can believe believe it." it."

"You know," I mention, "Tim was going to break it off with her. Call it quits."

"Why, for god's sake?" Evelyn asks, surprised, intrigued. "They had that fabulous fabulous place in the Hamptons." place in the Hamptons."

"I remember him telling me that he was sick to death of watching her do nothing but her nails all weekend."