"Oh all right," she says, resigned. "Ninethirty?"

I click back onto the other line, interrupting Van Patter and McDermott's conversation about whether it's proper or not to wear a blue suit as one would a navy blazer.

"Hello?" I interrupt. "Shut up. Does everyone have my undivided attention?"

"Yes, yes, yes," Van Patter sighs, bored.

"I am calling Cindy up to get Evelyn out of coming to dinner with us us," I announce.

"Why in the hell did you invite Evelyn in the first first place?" one of them asks. place?" one of them asks.

"We were joking, you idiot idiot," the other adds.

"Er, good question," I say, stammering. "Uh, hhold on."

I dial Cindy's number after finding it in my Rolodex. She answers after screening the call.

"Hello, Patrick," she says.

"Cindy," I say. "I need a favor."

"Hamlin's not coming to dinner with you guys," she says. "He tried calling back but your lines were all busy. Don't you guys have call waiting?"

"Of course we have call waiting," I say. "What do you think we are, barbarians?"

"Hamlin's not coming," she says again, flatly.

"What's he doing instead?" I ask. "Oiling his TopSiders?"

"He's going out with me me, Mr. Bateman."

"But what about your, uh, bush benefit?" I ask.

"Hamlin got it mixed up," she says.

"Pumpkin," I start.

"Yes?" she asks.

"Pumpkin, you're dating an asshole," I say sweetly.

"Thanks, Patrick. That's nice."

"Pumpkin," I warn, "you're dating the biggest dickweed in New York."

"You're telling me like I don't know this." She yawns.

"Pumpkin, you're dating a tumbling, tumbling dickweed."

"Do you know that Hamlin owns six television sets and seven VCRs?"

"Does he ever use that rowing machine I got him?" I actually wonder.

"Unused," she says. "Totally unused."

"Pumpkin, he's a dickweed."

"Will you stop calling me pumpkin," she asks, annoyed.

"Listen, Cindy, if you had a choice to read WWD WWD or..." I stop, unsure of what I was going to say. "Listen, is there anything going on tonight?" I ask. "Something not too... boisterous?" or..." I stop, unsure of what I was going to say. "Listen, is there anything going on tonight?" I ask. "Something not too... boisterous?"

"What do you want, Patrick?" she sighs.

"I just want peace, love, friendship, understanding," I say dispassionately.

"Whatdoyouwant?" she repeats.

"Why don't the two of you come with us?"

"We have other plans."

"Hamlin made the goddamn reservations," I cry, outraged.

"Well, you guys you guys use them." use them."

"Why don't you come come?" I ask lasciviously. "Dump dickweed off at Juanita's or something."

"I think I'm passing on dinner," she says. "Apologize to 'the guys' for me."

"But we're going to Kaktus, uh, I mean Zeus Bar," I say, then, confused, add, "No, Kaktus."

"Are you guys really going there? there?" she asks.

"Why?"

"Conventional wisdom has it that it is no longer the 'in' place to dine," she says.

"But Hamlin made the fucking reservation!" I cry out.

"Did he make reservations there? there?" she asks, bemused.

"Centuries ago!" I shout.

"Listen," she says, "I'm getting dressed."

"I'm not at all happy about this," I say.

"Don't worry," she says, and then hangs up.

I get back on the other line.

"Bateman, I know this sounds like an impossibility," McDermott says. "But the void is actually widening."

"I am not into Mexican," Van Patten states.

"But wait, we're not having Mexican, are we?" I say. "Am I confused? Aren't we going to Zeus Bar?"

"No, moron," McDermott spits. "We couldn't get into Zeus Bar. Kaktus. Kaktus at nine."

"But I don't want want Mexican," Van Patten says. Mexican," Van Patten says.

"But you you, Van Patten, made the reservation," McDermott hollers.

"I don't either," I say suddenly. "Why Mexican?"

"It's not Mexican Mexican Mexican," McDermott says, exasperated "It's something called nouvelle Mexicana, tapas or some other south of the border thing. Something like that. Hold on. My call waiting." Mexican," McDermott says, exasperated "It's something called nouvelle Mexicana, tapas or some other south of the border thing. Something like that. Hold on. My call waiting."

He clicks off, leaving Van Patten and myself on the line.

"Bateman," Van Patten sighs, "my euphoria is quickly subsiding."

"What are you talking about?" I'm actually trying to remember where I told Jeanette and Evelyn to meet us.

"Let's change the reservation," he suggests.

I think about it, then suspiciously ask, "Where to?"

"1969, " he says, tempting me. "Hmmm? 1969?"

"I would would like to go there," I admit. like to go there," I admit.

"What should we do?" he asks.

I think about it. "Make a reservation. Quick."

"Okay. For three? Five? How many?"

"Five or six, I guess."

"Okay. Hold."

Just as he clicks off, McDermott gets back on.

"Where's Van Patten?" he asks.

"He... had to take a piss," I say.

"Why don't you want to go to Kaktus?"

"Because I'm gripped by an existential panic," I lie.

"You think that's a good enough reason," McDermott says. " think that's a good enough reason," McDermott says. "I do not." do not."

"Hello?" Van Patten says, clicking back on. "Bateman?"

"Well?" I ask. "McDermott's here too."

"Nope. No way, Jose."

"Shit."

"What's going on?" McDermott asks.

"Well, guys, do we want margaritas?" Van Patten asks. "Or no margaritas?"

"I could go for a margarita," McDermott says.

"Bateman?" Van Patten asks.

"I would like several bottles of beer, preferably un unMexican," I say.

"Oh shit," McDermott says. "Call waiting. Hold on." He clicks off.

If I am not mistaken it is now eightthirty.

An hour later. We're still debating. We have canceled the reservation at Kaktus and maybe someone has remade it. Confused, I actually cancel a nonexistent table at Zeus Bar. Jeanette has left her apartment and cannot be reached at home and I have no idea which restaurant she's going to, nor do I remember which one I told Evelyn to meet us at. Van Patten, who has already had two large shots of Absolut, asks about Detective Kimball and what we talked about and all I really remember is something like how people fail between cracks.

"Did you you talk to him?" I ask. talk to him?" I ask.

"Yeah, yeah."

"What did he say happened to Owen?"

"Vanished. Just vanished. Poof," he says. I can hear him opening a refrigerator. "No incident. Nothing. The authorities have nada."

"Yeah," I say. "I'm in heavy turmoil over it."

"Well, Owen was... I don't know," he says. I can hear a beer being opened.

"What else did you tell him, Van Patten?" I ask.

"Oh the usual," he sighs. "That he wore yellow and maroon ties. That he had lunch at '21.' That in reality he was not an arbitrageur which was what Thimble thought he was but a mergermaker. Only the usual." I can almost hear him shrug.

"What else?" I ask.

"Let's see. That he didn't wear suspenders. A belt man. That he stopped doing cocaine, simpatico beer. You You know, Bateman." know, Bateman."

"He was a moron," I say. "And now he's in London."