"What?" I ask.

"It's a fucking milligram of... Sweet'n Low Sweet'n Low," he chokes.

I do some of it and come to the same conclusion. "It's definitely weak but I have a feeling if we do enough of it we'll be okay" But Price is furious, redfaced and sweating; he screams at me as if this was my fault, as if buying the gram from Madison was my my idea. idea.

"I want to get high off this, Bateman," Price says slowly, his voice rising. "Not sprinkle it on my fucking AllBran!"

"You can always put it in your cafe au lait," this prissy voice in the next stall cries out.

Price stares at me, eyes widening in disbelief, then flies into a rage and whirls around, pounding his fist against the side of the stall.

"Calm down," I tell him. "Let's do it anyway."

Price turns back to me and, after running a hand over his stiff, slickedback hair, seems to relent. "I guess you're right," and then he raises his voice, "that is, if the faggot in the next stall thinks it's okay."

We wait for a sign and then the voice in the next stall finally lisps, "It's okay with me..."

"Fuck yourself!" Price roars.

"Fuck yourself yourself," the voice mimics.

"No, fuck yourself fuck yourself," Price screams back, trying to scramble over the aluminum divider, but I pull him down with one hand and in the next stall the toilet flushes and the unidentified person, obviously unnerved, scampers out of the men's room. Price leans against the door of our stall and stares at me in this hopeless way. He rubs a trembling hand over his stillcrimson face and shuts his eyes tightly, lips white, slight residue of cocaine under one nostril and then quietly he says, without opening his eyes, "Okay. Let's do it."

"That's the spirit," I say. We take turns digging our respective cards into the envelope until what we can't get with the cards we press our fingers into and snort or lick off the tips then rub into our gums. I'm not anywhere near high but another J&B might give the body a false enough impression to kick in some kind of rush no matter how weak. the spirit," I say. We take turns digging our respective cards into the envelope until what we can't get with the cards we press our fingers into and snort or lick off the tips then rub into our gums. I'm not anywhere near high but another J&B might give the body a false enough impression to kick in some kind of rush no matter how weak.

Stepping out of the stall we wash our hands, inspecting our reflections in the mirror, and, once satisfied, head back to the Chandelier Room. I'm beginning to wish I'd checked my overcoat (Armani) but no matter what Price says I feel kind of high and minutes later as I wait at the bar trying to get this hardbody's attention it starts not to matter. I finally have to lay a twenty on the counter to get her attention, even though I have plenty of drink tickets left. It works. Taking advantage of the drink tickets, I order two double Stolis on the rocks. She pours the drinks in front of me.

I'm feeling good and I shout out to her, "Hey, don't you go to NYU?"

She shakes her head, unsmiling.

"Hunter?" I shout.

She shakes her head again. Not Hunter.

"Columbia?" I shout though that's a joke.

She continues to concentrate on the bottle of Stoli. I decide not to continue the conversation and just slap the drink tickets on the bar as she places the two glasses in front of me. But she shakes her head and shouts, "It's after eleven. Those aren't good anymore. It's a cash bar. That'll be twentyfive dollars," and without complaining, playing it totally cool, I pull out my gazelleskin wallet and hand her a fifty which she eyes, I swear, contemptuously and, sighing, turns to the cash register and finds my change and I say, staring at her, quite clearly but muffed by "Pump Up the Volume" and the crowd, "You are a fucking ugly bitch I want to stab to death and play around with your blood," but I'm smiling. I leave the cunt no tip and find Price who is standing again, morosely, by the railings, his hands gripping the steel bars. Paul Owen, who is handling the Fisher account, is wearing a sixbutton doublebreasted wool tuxedo and he stands next to Price screaming something like "Ran five hundred iterations of discounted cash flow minus on an ICM PC took company cab to Smith and Wollensky."

I hand the drink to Price, while nodding to Paul. Price says nothing, not even thanks. He just holds the drink and mournfully stares at the tracks and then he squints and bends his head down to the glass and when the strobe lights start flashing, he stands up straight and murmurs something to himself.

"Aren't you high?" I ask him.

"How are you?" Owen shouts.

"Very happy," I say.

The music is one long, unending song that overlaps with other, separate songs connected only by a dull thumping beat and it obliterates all conversation which, while I'm talking to a weasel like Owen, is perfectly okay with me. There seem to be more girls in the Chandelier Room now and I try to make eye contact with one of them model type with big tits. Price nudges me and I lean in to ask if we should perhaps get another am.

"Why aren't you wearing a tuxedo?" Owen asks, behind me.

"I'm leaving," Price shouts. "I'm getting out."

"Leaving what?" I shout back, confused.

"This," he shouts, referring to, I'm not sure but I think, his double Stoli.

"Don't," I tell him. "I'll drink it."

"Listen to me, Patrick," he screams. "I'm leaving leaving."

"Where to?" I really am confused. "You want me to find Ricardo?"

"I'm leaving," he screams. "I... am... leaving leaving!"

I start laughing, not knowing what he means. "Well, where where are you going to go?" are you going to go?"

"Away!" he shouts.

"Don't tell me," I shout back at him. "Merchant banking?"

"No, Bateman. I'm serious you dumb sonofabitch. Leav Leaving. Disappearing."

"Where to?" I'm still laughing, stilt confused, still shouting. "Morgan Stanley? Rehab?What?"

He looks away from me, doesn't answer, just keeps staring past the railings, trying to find the point where the tracks come to an end, find what lies behind the blackness. He's becoming a drag but Owen seems worse and I've already accidentally made eye contact with the weasel.

"Tell him don't worry, be happy," Owen shouts.

"Are you still handling the Fisher account?" What else can I say to him?

"What?" Owen asks. "Wait. Is that Conrad?"

He points at some guy wearing a shawlcollar, single-breasted wool tuxedo, a cotton shirt with a bow tie, all by Pierre Cardin, who stands near the bar, directly beneath the chandelier, holding a glass of champagne, inspecting his nails. Owen pulls out a cigar, then asks for a light. I'm bored so I go for the bar without excusing myself to ask the hardbody I want to cut up for some matches. The Chandelier Room is packed and everyone looks familiar, everyone looks the same. Cigar smoke hangs heavy, floating in midair, and the music, INXS again, is louder than ever, but building toward what? I touch my brow by mistake and my fingers come back wet. At the bar I pick up some matches. On my way back through the crowd I bump into McDermott and Van Patten, who start begging me for more drink tickets. I hand them the rest of the tickets knowing that they are no longer valid, but we're crushed together in the middle of the room and the drink tickets don't offer enough incentive for them to make the trek to the bar.

"Skanky chicks," Van Patten says. "Beware. No hardbodies."

"Basement sucks," McDermott shouts.

"Did you find drugs?" Van Patten shouts. "We saw Ricardo."

"No," I shout. "Negative. Madison couldn't find any."

"Service, damnit, service," the guy behind me shouts.

"It's useless," I shout. "I can't hear anything."

"What?" Van Patten shouts. "I can't hear anything."

Suddenly McDermott grabs my arm. "What the fuck is Price doing? Look."

As in a movie, I turn around with some difficulty, standing on my toes to see Price perched on the rails, trying to balance himself, and someone has handed him a champagne glass and drunk or wired he holds both arms out and closes his eyes, as if blessing the crowd. Behind him the strobe light continues to flash off and on and off and on and the smoke machine is going like crazy, gray mist billowing up, enveloping him. He's shouting something but I cant hear what the room is jammed to overcapacity, the sound level an earsplitting combination of Eddie Murphy's "Party All the Time" and the constant din of businessmen so I push my way forward, my eyes glued on Price, and manage to pass Madison and Hugh and Turnball and Cunningham and a few others. But the crowd is too densely packed and it's futile to even keep trying. Only a few of the faces are fixated on Tim, still balancing on the railing, eyes half closed, shouting something. Embarrassed, I'm suddenly glad I'm stuck in the crowd, unable to reach him, to save him from almost certain humiliation, and during a perfectly timed byte of silence I can hear Price shout, "Goodbye!" and then, the crowd finally paying attention, "Fuckheads!" Gracefully he twists his body around and hops over the railing and leaps onto the tracks and starts running, the champagne flute bobbing as he holds it out to his side. He stumbles once, twice, with the strobe light flashing, in what looks like slow motion, but he regains his composure before disappearing into blackness. A security guard sits idly by the railing as Price recedes into the tunnel. He just shakes his head, I think.

"Price! Come back!" I yell but the crowd is actually applauding his performance. "Price!" I yell once more, over the clapping. But he's gone and it's doubtful that if he did did hear me he would do anything about it. Madison is standing nearby and sticks his hand out as if to congratulate me for something. "That guy's a hear me he would do anything about it. Madison is standing nearby and sticks his hand out as if to congratulate me for something. "That guy's a riot riot."

McDermott appears behind me and pulls at my shoulder. "Does Price know about a VIP room that we don't?" He looks worried.

Outside Tunnel now, I'm high but really tired and my mouth tastes surprisingly like NutraSweet, even after drinking two more Stolis and half a J&B. Twelvethirty and we watch limousines try to make left turns onto the West Side Highway. The three of us, Van Patten, McDermott and myself, discuss the possibilities of finding this new club called Nekenieh. I'm not really high, just sort of drunk.

"Lunch?" I ask them, yawning. "Tomorrow?"

"Can't," McDermott says. "Haircut at the Pierre."

"What about breakfast?" I suggest.

"Nope," Van Patten says. "Gio's. Manicure."

"That reminds me," I say, inspecting a hand. "I need one too."

"How about dinner?" McDermott asks me.

"I've got a date," I say. "Shit."

"What about you?" McDermott asks Van Patten.

"No can do," Van Patten says. "I've got to go to Sunmakers. Then private workout."

Office

In the elevator Frederick Dibble tells me about an item on Page Six, or some other gossip column, about Ivana Trump and then about this new ItalianThai place on the Upper East Side that he went to last night with Family Hamilton and starts raving about this great fusilli shiitake dish. I have taken out a gold Cross pen to write down the name of the restaurant in my address book. Dibble is wearing a subtly striped double-breasted wool suit by Canali Milano, a cotton shirt by Bill Blass, a miniglenplaid woven silk tie by Bill Blass Signature and he's holding a Missoni Uomo raincoat. He has a goodlooking, expensive haircut and I stare at it, admiringly, while he starts humming along to the Muzak station a version of what could be "Sympathy for the Devil" that plays throughout all the elevators in the building our offices are in. I'm about to ask Dibble if he watched The Patty Winters Show this morning the topic was Autism but he gets out on the floor before mine and repeats the name of the restaurant, "Thaidialano," and then "See you, Marcus" and steps out of the elevator. The doors shut. I am wearing a minihoundstoothcheck wool suit with pleated trousers by Hugo Boss, a silk tie, also by Hugo Boss, a cotton broadcloth shirt by Joseph Abboud and shoes from Brooks Brothers. I flossed too hard this morning and I can still taste the coppery residue of swallowed blood in the back of my throat. I used Listerine afterwards and my mouth feels like it's on fire but I manage a smile to no one as I step out of the elevator, brushing past a hungover Wittenborn, swinging my new black leather attache case from Bottega Veneta.

My secretary, Jean, who is in love with me and who I will probably end up marrying, sits at her desk and this morning, to get my attention as usual, is wearing something improbably expensive and completely inappropriate: a Chanel cashmere cardigan, a cashmere crewneck and a cashmere scarf, faux-pearl earrings, woolcrepe pants from Barney's. I pull my Walkman off from around my neck as I approach her desk. She looks up and smiles shyly.

"Late?" she asks.

"Aerobics class." I play it cool. "Sorry. Any messages?"

"Ricky Hendricks has to cancel today," she says. "He didn't say what it was he is canceling or why."

"I occasionally box with Ricky at the Harvard Club," I explain. "Anyone else?"

"And... Spencer wants to meet you for a drink at Fluties Pier 17," she says, smiling.

"When?" I ask.

"After six."

"Negative," I tell her as I walk into my office. "Cancel it."

She gets up from behind her desk and follows me in. "Oh? And what should I say?" she asks, amused.

"Just... say... no," I tell her, taking my Armani overcoat off and hanging it on the Alex Loeb coatrack I bought at Bloomingdate's.

"Just... say... no?" she repeats.

"Did you see The Patty Winters Show The Patty Winters Show this morning?" I ask. ..On Autism?" this morning?" I ask. ..On Autism?"

"No." She smiles as if somehow charmed by my addiction to The Patty Winters Show The Patty Winters Show. "How was it?"

I pick up this morning's Wall Street Journal Wall Street Journal and scan the front page all of it one inkstained senseless typeset blur. "I think I was hallucinating while watching it. I don't know. I can't be sure. I don't remember," I murmur, placing the and scan the front page all of it one inkstained senseless typeset blur. "I think I was hallucinating while watching it. I don't know. I can't be sure. I don't remember," I murmur, placing the Journal Journal back down and then, picking up today's back down and then, picking up today's Financial Times, Financial Times, "I really don't know." She just stands there waiting for instructions. I sigh and place my hands together, sitting down at the Palazzetti glasstop desk, the halogen lamps on both sides already burning. "Okay, Jean," I start. "I need reservations for three at Camols at twelvethirty and if not there, try Crayons. All right?" "I really don't know." She just stands there waiting for instructions. I sigh and place my hands together, sitting down at the Palazzetti glasstop desk, the halogen lamps on both sides already burning. "Okay, Jean," I start. "I need reservations for three at Camols at twelvethirty and if not there, try Crayons. All right?"

"Yes sir," she says in a joky tone and then turns to leave.

"Oh wait," I say, remembering something. "And I need reservations for two at Arcadia at eight tonight."

She turns around, her face falling slightly but still smiling. "Oh, something... romantic?"

"No, silly. Forget it," I tell her. "I'll make them. Thanks."

"I'll do it," she says.

"No. No," I say, waving her off. "Be a doll and just get me a Perrier, okay?"

"You look nice today," she says before leaving.

She's right, but I'm not saying anything just staring across the office at the George Stubbs painting that hangs on the wall, wondering if I should move it, thinking maybe it's too close to the Aiwa AM/FM stereo receiver and the dual cassette recorder and the semiautomatic beltdrive turntable, the graphic equalizer, the matching bookshelf speakers, all in twilight blue to match the color scheme of the office. The Stubbs painting should probably go over the lifesize Doberman that's in the corner ($700 at Beauty and the Beast in Trump Tower) or maybe it would look better over the Pacrizinni antique table that sits next to the Doberman. I get up and move all these sporting magazines from the forties they cost me thirty bucks apiece apiece that I bought at Funchies, Bunkers, Gaks and Gleeks, and then I lift the Stubbs painting off the wall and balance it on the table then sit back at my desk and fiddle with the pencils I keep in a vintage German beer stein I got from Mantiques. The Stubbs looks good in either place. A reproduction Black Forest umbrella stand ($675 at Hubert des Forges) sits in an other corner without, I'm just noticing, any umbrellas in it. that I bought at Funchies, Bunkers, Gaks and Gleeks, and then I lift the Stubbs painting off the wall and balance it on the table then sit back at my desk and fiddle with the pencils I keep in a vintage German beer stein I got from Mantiques. The Stubbs looks good in either place. A reproduction Black Forest umbrella stand ($675 at Hubert des Forges) sits in an other corner without, I'm just noticing, any umbrellas in it.

I put a Paul Butterfield tape in the cassette player, sit back at the desk and flip through last week's Sports Illustrated Sports Illustrated, but can't concentrate. I keep thinking about that damn tanning bed Van Patten has and I'm moved to pick up the phone and buzz jean.

"Yes?" she answers.

"Jean. Listen, keep your eyes open for a tanning bed, okay?"

"What?" she asks incredulously, I'm sure, but she's still probably smiling.

"You know. A tanning bed," I repeat casually. "For a... tan."

"Okay..., " she says hesitantly. "Anything else?"

"And, oh shit, yeah. Remind me to return the videotapes I rented last night back to the store." I start to open and close the sterling silver cigar holder that sits by the phone.