"That's bone," I point out. "And the lettering is something called Silian Rail."

"Silian Rail?" McDermott asks.

"Yeah. Not bad, huh?"

"It is is very cool, Bateman," Van Patten says guardedly, the jealous bastard, "but that's nothing... ." He pulls out his wallet and slaps a card next to an ashtray. "Look at this." very cool, Bateman," Van Patten says guardedly, the jealous bastard, "but that's nothing... ." He pulls out his wallet and slaps a card next to an ashtray. "Look at this."

We all lean over and inspect David's card and Price quietly says, "That's really really nice." A brief spasm of jealousy courses through me when I notice the elegance of the color and the classy type. I clench my fist as Van Patten says, smugly, "Eggshell with Romalian type..." He turns to me. "What do you think?" nice." A brief spasm of jealousy courses through me when I notice the elegance of the color and the classy type. I clench my fist as Van Patten says, smugly, "Eggshell with Romalian type..." He turns to me. "What do you think?"

"Nice," I croak, but manage to nod, as the busboy brings four fresh Bellinis.

"Jesus," Price says, holding the card up to the light, ignoring the new drinks. "This is really super. How'd a nitwit like you get so tasteful?"

I'm looking at Van Patten's card and then at mine and cannot believe that Price actually likes Van Patten's better.

Dizzy, I sip my drink then take a deep breath.

"But wait," Price says. "You ain't seen nothin' yet..." He pulls his out of an inside coat pocket and slowly, dramatically turns it over for our inspection and says, "Mine."

Even I have to admit it's magnificent.

Suddenly the restaurant seems far away, hushed, the noise distant, a meaningless hum, compared to this card, and we all hear Price's words: "Raised lettering, pale nimbus white..."

"Holy shit," Van Patten exclaims. "I've never seen..."

"Nice, very nice," I have to admit. "But wait. Let's see Montgomery's."

Price pulls it out and though he's acting nonchalant, I don't see how he can ignore its subtle offwhite coloring, its tasteful thickness. I am unexpectedly depressed that I started this.

"Pizza. Let's order a pizza," McDermott says. "Doesn't anyone want to split a pizza? Red snapper? Mmmmm. Bateman wants that that," he says, rubbing his hands eagerly together.

I pick up Montgomery's card and actually finger it, for the sensation the card gives off to the pads of my fingers.

"Nice, huh?" Price's tone suggests he realizes I'm jealous.

"Yeah," I say offhandedly, giving Price the card like I don't give a shit, but I'm finding it hard to swallow.

"Red snapper pizza," McDermott reminds me. "I'm fucking starving."

"No pizza," I murmur, relieved when Montgomery's card is placed away, out of sight, back in Timothy's pocket.

"Come on," McDermott says, whining. "Let's order the red upper pizza."

"Shut up, Craig," Van Patten says, eyeing a waitress taking a booth's order. "But call that hardbody over."

"But she's not ours," McDermott says, fidgeting with the menu he's yanked from a passing busboy.

"Call her over any anyway," Van Patten insists. "Ask her for water or a Corona or something."

"Why her her?" I'm asking no one in particular. My card lies on the table, ignored next to an orchid in a blue glass vase. Gently I pick it up and slip it, folded, back into my wallet.

"She looks exactly like this girl who works in the Georgette Klinger section of Bloomingdale's," Van Patten says. "Call her over."

"Does anyone want the pizza or not?" McDermott's getting testy.

"How would you you know?" I ask Van Patten. know?" I ask Van Patten.

"I buy Kate's perfume there there," he answers.

Price's gestures gather the table's attention. "Did I forget to tell everyone that Montgomery's a dwarf?"

"Who's Kate?" I say.

"Kate is the chick who Van Patter's having the affair with," Price explains, staring back at Montgomery's table. is the chick who Van Patter's having the affair with," Price explains, staring back at Montgomery's table.

"What happened to Miss Kitt Kittridge?" I ask.

"Yeah," Price smiles. "What about about Amanda?" Amanda?"

"Oh god, guys, lighten lighten up. Fidelity? up. Fidelity? Right Right."

"Aren't you afraid of diseases?" Price asks.

"From who who, Amanda or Kate?" I ask.

"I thought we agreed that we we can't get it." Van Patten's voice rises. "Soooo... shithead. Shut up." can't get it." Van Patten's voice rises. "Soooo... shithead. Shut up."

"Didn't I tell you"

Four more Bellinis arrive. There are now eight Bellinis on the table.

"Oh my god," Price moans, trying to grab at the busboy before he scampers off.

"Red snapper pizza... red snapper pizza..." McDermott has found a mantra for the evening.

"We'll soon become targets for horny Iranian chicks," Price drones.

"It's like zero zero zero percentage whatever, you know are you listening?" Van Patten asks.

"...snapper pizza... red snapper pizza..." Then McDermott slams his hand on the table, rocking it. "Goddamnit, isn't anybody listening to me?"

I'm still tranced out on Montgomery's card the classy coloring, the thickness, the lettering, the print and I suddenly raise a fist as if to strike out at Craig and scream, my voice booming, "No one wants the fucking red snapper pizza red snapper pizza! A pizza should be yeasty yeasty and slightly and slightly bready bready and have a and have a cheesy crust cheesy crust! The crusts here are too fucking thin because the shithead chef who cooks here overbakes everything! The pizza is dried out and brittle!" Redfaced, I slam my Bellini down on the table and when I look up our appetizers have arrived. A hardbody waitress stands looking down at me with this strange, glazed expression. I wipe a hand over my face, genially smiling up at her. She stands there looking at me as if I were some kind of monster she actually looks scared scared and I glance over at Price for what? guidance? and he mouths "Cigars" and pats his coat pocket. and I glance over at Price for what? guidance? and he mouths "Cigars" and pats his coat pocket.

McDermott quietly says, "I don't think they're brittle."

"Honey," I say, ignoring McDermott, taking an arm and pulling her toward me. She flinches but I smile and she lets me pull her closer. "Now we're all going to eat a nice big meal here" I start to explain.

"But this isn't what I ordered," Van Patten says, looking at his plate. "I wanted the mussel mussel sausage." sausage."

"Shut up." I shoot him a glance then calmly turn toward the hardbody, grinning like an idiot, but a handsome idiot. "Now listen, we are good customers here and we're probably going to order some fine brandy, cognac, who knows, and we want to relax and bask in this" I gesture with my arm "atmosphere. Now" with the other hand I pull out my gazelleskin wallet "we would like to enjoy some fine fine Cuban cigars afterwards and we don't want to be bothered by some Cuban cigars afterwards and we don't want to be bothered by some lout loutish"

"Loutish." McDermott nods to Van Patten and Price.

"Loutish and inconsiderate patrons or tourists who are inevitably going to complain about our innocuous little habit... So" I press what I hope is fifty into a smallboned hand "if you could make sure we aren't bothered while we do, we would grate gratefully appreciate it." I rub the hand, closing it into a fist over the bill. "And if anyone complains, well..." I pause, then warn menacingly, "Kick 'em out."

She nods mutely and backs away with this dazed, confused look on her face.

"And," Price adds, smiling, "if another round of Bellinis comes within a twentyfoot radius of this table we are going to set the maitre d' on fire. So, you know, warn him."

After a long silence during which we contemplate our appetizers, Van Patten speaks up. "Bateman?"

"Yes?" I fork a piece of monkfish, push it into some of the golden caviar, then place the fork back down.

"You are pure prep perfection," he purrs.

Price spots another waitress approaching with a tray of four champagne flutes filled with pale pinkish liquid and says, "Oh for Christ sakes, this is getting ridi ridiculous..." She sets them down, however, at the table next to us, for the four babes.

"She is hot hot, " Van Patten says, ignoring his scallop sausage.

"Hardbody." McDermott nods in agreement. "Definitely."

"I'm not impressed," Price sniffs. "Look at her knees."

While the hardbody stands there we check her out, and though her knees do support long, tan legs, I can't help noticing that one knee is, admittedly, bigger than the other one. The left knee is knobbier, almost imperceptibly thicker than the right knee and this unnoticeable flaw now seems overwhelming and we all lose interest. Van Patten is looking at his appetizer, stunned, and then he looks at McDermott and says, "That isn't what you ordered either. That's sushi, sushi, not sashimi." not sashimi."

"Jesus," McDermott sighs. "You don't come here for the food anyway."

Some guy who looks exactly like Christopher Lauder comes over to the table and says, patting me on the shoulder, "Hey Hamilton, nice tan," before walking into the men's room.

"Nice tan, Hamilton," Price mimics, tossing tapas onto my bread plate.

"Oh gosh," I say, "hope I'm not blushin'."

"Actually, where do do you go, Bateman?" Van Patten asks. "For a tan." you go, Bateman?" Van Patten asks. "For a tan."

"Yeah, Bateman. Where do do you go?" McDermott seems genuinely intrigued. you go?" McDermott seems genuinely intrigued.

"Read my lips," I say, "a tanning salon," then irritably, "like everyone everyone else." else."

"I have," Van Patten says, pausing for maximum impact, "a tanning bed at... home," and then he takes a large bite out of his scallop sausage.

"Oh bullshit," I say, cringing.

"It's true true," McDermott confirms, his mouth full. "I've seen it."

"That is fuck fucking outrageous," I say.

"Why the hell is it fuck fucking outrageous?" Price asks, pushing tapas around his plate with a fork.

"Do you know how expensive a fucking tanning salon membership is is?" Van Patten asks me. "A member membership for a year year?"

"You're crazy," I mutter.

"Look, guys," Van Patten says. "Bateman's indignant."

Suddenly a busboy appears at our table and without asking if we're finished removes our mostly uneaten appetizers. None of us complain except for McDermott, who asks, "Did he just take our appetizers away?" and then laughs uncomprehendingly. But when he sees no one else laughing he stops.

"He took them away because the portions are so small he probably thought we were finished," Price says tiredly.

"I just think that's crazy about the tanning bed," I tell Van Patten, though secretly I think it would be a hip luxury except I really have no room for one in my apartment. There are things one could do with it besides getting a tan.

"Who is Paul Owen with?" I hear McDermott asking Price.

"Some weasel from Kicker Peabody," Price says distractedly. "He knew McCoy." knew McCoy."

"Then why is he sitting with those dweebs from Drexel?" McDermott asks. "Isn't that Spencer Wynn?"

"Are you freebasing or what what?" Price asks. "'That's not Spencer Wynn."

I look over at Paul Owen, sitting in a booth with three other guys one of whom could be Jeff Duvall, suspenders, slicked-back hair, hornrimmed glasses, all of them drinking champagne and I lazily wonder about how Owen got the Fisher account. It makes me not hungry but our meals arrive almost immediately after our appetizers are taken away and we begin to eat. McDermott undoes his suspenders. Price calls him a slob. I feel paralyzed but manage to turn away from Owen and stare at my plate (the potpie a yellow hexagon, strips of smoked salmon circling it, squiggles of peagreen tomatillo sauce artfully surrounding the dish) and then I gaze at the waiting crowd. They seem hostile, drunk on complimentary Bellinis perhaps, tired of waiting hours for shitty tables near the open kitchen even though they had reservations. Van Patten interrupts the silence at our table by slamming his fork down and pushing his chair back.

"What's wrong?" I say, looking up from my plate, a fork poised over it, but my hand will not move; it's as if it appreciated the plate's setup too much, as if my hand had a mind of its own and refused to break up its design. I sigh and put the fork down, hopeless.

"Shit. I have to tape this movie on cable for Mandy Mandy." He wipes his mouth with a napkin, stands up. "I'll be back."

"Have her her do it, idiot," Price says. "What are you, demented?" do it, idiot," Price says. "What are you, demented?"

"She's in Boston, seeing her den dentist." Van Patten shrugs, pussywhipped.

"What in the hell are you going to do?" My voice wavers. I'm still thinking about Van Patten's card. "Call up HBO?"

"No;" he says. "I have a touchtone phone hooked up to program a Videonics VCR programmer I bought at Hammacher Schlemmer." He walks away pulling his suspenders up.

"How hip," I say tonelessly.

"Hey, what do you want for dessert?" McDermott calls out.

"Something chocolate and flourless," he shouts back.

"Has Van Patten stopped working out?" I ask. "He looks puffy."

"It looks that way, doesn't it," Price says.

"Doesn't he have a membership at the Vertical Club?" I ask.

"I don't know," Price murmurs, studying his plate, then sitting up he pushes it away and motions to the waitress for another Finlandia on the rocks.

Another hardbody waitress approaches us tentatively, bringing over a bottle of champagne, Perrier-Jouet, nonvintage, and tells us it's complimentary from Scott Montgomery.