May slides into June which slides into July which creepstoward August. Because of the heat I've had intense dreams thelast four nights about vivisection and I'm doing nothing now,vegetating in my office with a sickening headache and aWalkman with a soothing Kenny G CD playing in it, but thebright midmorning sunlight ɻoods the room, piercing my skull,causing my hangover to throb, and because of this, there's noworkout this morning. Listening to the music I notice the secondlight on my phone blinking on and on, which means that Jean isbuzzing me. I sigh and carefully remove the Walkman."What is it?" I ask in monotone."Um, Patrick?" she begins."Ye-es, Je-an?" I ask condescendingly, spacing the two wordsout."Patrick, a Mr. Donald Kimball is here to see you," she saysnervously."Who?" I snap, distracted.She emits a small sigh of worry, then, as if asking, lowers hervoice. "Detective Donald Kimball?"I pause, staring out the window into sky, then at my monitor,then at the headless woman I've been doodling on the back coverof this week's Sports Illustrated, and I run my hand over the glossyɹnish of the magazine once, twice, before tearing the cover oʃand crumpling it up. Finally I start. "Tell him ..." Then, mulling itover, rethinking my options, I stop and begin again. "Tell him I'mat lunch."Jean pauses, then whispers. "Patrick ... I think he knows you'rehere." During my protracted silence, she adds, still hushed, "It'sten-thirty."I sigh, stalling again, and in a contained panic tell Jean, "Sendhim in, I guess."I stand up, walk over to the Jodi mirror that hangs next to theGeorge Stubbs painting and check my hair, running an oxhorncomb through it, then, calmly, I pick up one of my cordlessphones and, preparing myself for a tense scene, pretend to betalking with John Akers, and I start enunciating clearly into thephone before the detective enters the oɽce."Now, John ..." I clear my throat. "You've got to wear clothesin proportion to your physique," I begin, talking to nobody."There are deɹnitely dos and don'ts, good buddy, of wearing abold-striped shirt. A bold-striped shirt calls for solid-colored ordiscreetly patterned suits and ties...."The door to the oɽce opens and I wave in the detective, who issurprisingly young, maybe my age, wearing a linen Armani suitnot unlike mine, though his is slightly disheveled in a hip way,which worries me. I oʃer a reassuring smile."And a shirt with a high yarn count means it's more durablethan one that doesn't ... Yes, I know.... But to determine thisyou've got to examine the material's weave...." I point to theMark Schrager chrome and teak chair on the opposite side of mydesk, silently urging him to sit."Tightly woven fabric is created not only by using a lot of yarnbut by using yarn of high-quality ɹbers, both long and thin,which ... yes ... which are ... which fabricate a close weave asopposed to short and stubbly ɹbers, like those found in tweed.And loosely woven fabrics such as knits are extremely delicate andshould be treated with great care...." Because of the detective'sarrival, it seems unlikely that this will be a good day and I eyehim warily as he takes the seat and crosses his legs in a way thatɹlls me with a nameless dread. I realize I've been quiet too longwhen he turns around to see if I'm oʃ the phone."Right, and ... yes, John, right. And ... yes, always tip thestylist ɹfteen percent...." I pause. "No, the owner of the salonshouldn't be tipped...." I shrug at the detective hopelessly, rollingmy eyes. He nods, smiles understandingly and recrosses his legs.Nice socks. Jesus. "The girl who washes the hair? It depends. I'dsay a dollar or two...." I laugh. "Depends on what she looks like...." I laugh harder. "And yeah, what else she washes...." I pauseagain, then say, "Listen, John, I've got to go. T. Boone Pickensjust walked in...." I pause, grinning like an idiot, then laugh."Just joking ..." Another pause. "No, don't tip the owner of thesalon." I laugh once more, then, ɹnally, "Okay, John ... right, gotit." I hang up the phone, push its antenna down and then,uselessly stressing my normality, say, "Sorry about that.""No, I'm sorry," he says, genuinely apologetic. "I should'vemade an appointment." Gesturing toward the cordless phone I'mplacing back in its recharging cradle, he asks, "Was that, uh,anything important?""Oh that?" I ask, moving toward my desk, sinking into mychair. "Just mulling over business problems. Examiningopportunities ... Exchanging rumors ... Spreading gossip." Weboth laugh. The ice breaks."Hi," he says, sitting up, holding out his hand. "I'm DonaldKimball.""Hi. Pat Bateman." I take it, squeezing it ɹrmly. "Nice to meetyou.""I'm sorry," he says, "to barge in on you like this, but I wassupposed to talk to Luis Carruthers and he wasn't in and ... well,you're here, so ..." He smiles, shrugs. "I know how busy you guyscan get." He averts his eyes from the three copies of SportsIllustrated that lie open atop my desk, covering it, along with theWalkman. I notice them too, then close all three issues and slipthem into the desk's top drawer along with the still-runningWalkman."So," I start, trying to come oʃ as friendly and conversationalas possible. "What's the topic of discussion?""Well," he starts. "I've been hired by Meredith Powell toinvestigate the disappearance of Paul Owen."I nod thoughtfully before asking, "You're not with the FBI oranything, are you?""No, no," he says. "Nothing like that. I'm just a privateinvestigator.""Ah, I see.... Yes." I nod again, still not relieved. "Paul'sdisappearance ... yes.""So it's nothing that oɽcial," he conɹdes. "I just have somebasic questions. About Paul Owen. About yourself—""Coʃee?" I ask suddenly.As if unsure, he says, "No, I'm okay.""Perrier? San Pellegrino?" I oʃer."No, I'm okay," he says again, opening a small black notebookhe's taken out of his pocket along with a gold Cross pen. I buzzJean."Yes, Patrick?""Jean can you bring Mr. ..." I stop, look up.He looks up too. "Kimball.""... Mr. Kimball a bottle of San Pelle—""Oh no, I'm okay," he protests."It's no problem," I tell him.I get the feeling he's trying not to stare at me strangely. Heturns back to his notebook and writes something down, thencrosses something out. Jean walks in almost immediately and sheplaces the bottle of San Pellegrino and a Steuben etched-glasstumbler on my desk in front of Kimball. She gives me a fretful,worried glance, which I scowl at. Kimball looks up, smiles andnods at Jean, who I notice is not wearing a bra today. Innocently,I watch her leave, then return my gaze to Kimball, clasping myhands together, sitting up. "Well, what's the topic of discussion?"I say again."The disappearance of Paul Owen," he says, reminding me."Oh right. Well, I haven't heard anything about thedisappearance or anything...." I pause, then try to laugh. "Not atleast."Kimball smiles politely. "I think his family wants this keptquiet.""Understandable." I nod at the untouched glass and bottle, andthen look up at him. "Lime?""No, really," he says. "I'm okay.""You sure?" I ask. "I can always get you a lime."He pauses brieɻy, then says, "Just some preliminary questionsthat I need for my own ɹles, okay?""Shoot," I say."How old are you?" he asks."Twenty-seven," I say. "Ill be twenty-eight in October.""Where did you go to school?" He scribbles something in hisbook."Harvard," I tell him. "Then Harvard Business School.""Your address?" he asks, looking only at his book."Fifty-ɹve West Eighty-ɹrst Street," I say. "The AmericanGardens Building.""Nice." He looks up, impressed. "Very nice.""Thanks." I smile, ɻattered."Doesn't Tom Cruise live there?" he asks."Yup." I squeeze the bridge of my nose. Suddenly I have toclose my eyes tightly.I hear him speak. "Pardon me, but are you okay?"Opening my eyes, both of them tearing, I say, "Why do youask?""You seem ... nervous."I reach into a drawer in my desk and bring out a bottle ofaspirin."Nuprin?" I oʃer.Kimball looks at the bottle strangely and then back at mebefore shaking his head. "Uh ... no thanks." He's taken out a packof Marlboros and absently lays it next to the San Pellegrino bottlewhile studying something in the book."Bad habit," I point out.He looks up and, noticing my disapproval, smiles sheepishly. "Iknow. I'm sorry."I stare at the box."Do you ... would you rather I not smoke?" he asks, tentative.I continue to stare at the cigarette packet, debating. "No ... Iguess it's okay.""You sure?" he asks."No problem." I buzz Jean."Yes, Patrick?""Bring us an ashtray for Mr. Kimball, please," I say.In a matter of seconds, she does."What can you tell me about Paul Owen?" he ɹnally asks, afterJean leaves, having placed a Fortunoʃ crystal ashtray on the desknext to the untouched San Pellegrino."Well." I cough, swallowing two Nuprin, dry. "I didn't knowhim that well.""How well did you know him?" he asks."I'm ... at a loss," I tell him, somewhat truthfully. "He was partof that whole ... Yale thing, you know.""Yale thing?" he asks, confused.I pause, having no idea what I'm talking about. "Yeah ... Yalething.""What do you mean ... Yale thing?" Now he's intrigued.I pause again—what do I mean? "Well, I think, for one, that hewas probably a closet homosexual." I have no idea; doubt it,considering his taste in babes. "Who did a lot of cocaine...." Ipause, then add, a bit shakily, "That Yale thing." I'm sure I saythis bizarrely, but there's no other way to put it.It's very quiet in the oɽce right now. The room suddenlyseems cramped and sweltering and even though the airconditioning is on full blast, the air seems fake, recycled."So ..." Kimball looks at his book helplessly. "There's nothingyou can tell me about Paul Owen?""Well." I sigh. "He led what I suppose was an orderly life, Iguess." Really stumped, I oʃer, "He ... ate a balanced diet."I'm sensing frustration on Kimball's part and he asks, "Whatkind of man was he? Besides"—he falters, tries to smile—"theinformation you've just given."How could I describe Paul Owen to this guy? Boasting,arrogant, cheerful dickhead who constantly weaseled his way outof checks at Nell's? That I'm heir to the unfortunate informationthat his penis had a name and that name was Michael? No.Calmer, Bateman. I think that I'm smiling."I hope I'm not being cross-examined here," I manage to say."Do you feel that way?" he asks. The question sounds sinisterbut isn't."No," I say carefully. "Not really."Maddeningly he writes something else down, then asks,without looking up, chewing on the tip of the pen, "Where didPaul hang out?""Hang ... out?" I ask."Yeah," he says. "You know ... hang out.""Let me think," I say, tapping my ɹngers across my desk. "TheNewport. Harry's. Fluties. Indochine. Nell's. Cornell Club. TheNew York Yacht Club. The regular places."Kimball looks confused. "He had a yacht?"Stuck, I casually say, "No. He just hung out there.""And where did he go to school?" he asks.I pause. "Don't you know this?""I just wanted to know if you know," he says without lookingup."Er, Yale," I say slowly. "Right?""Right.""And then to business school at Columbia," I add, "I think.""Before all that?" he asks."If I remember correctly, Saint Paul's ... I mean—""No, it's okay. That's not really pertinent," he apologizes. "Ijust have no other questions, I guess. I don't have a lot to go on.""Listen, I just ...," I start softly, tactfully. "I just want to help.""I understand," he says.Another long pause. He marks something down but it doesn'tseem important."Anything else you can tell me about Owen?" he asks, soundingalmost timid.I think about it, then feebly announce, "We were both seven in1969."Kimball smiles. "So was I."Pretending to be interested in the case, I ask, "Do you have anywitnesses or ɹngerprints—"He cuts me oʃ, tiredly. "Well, there's a message on hisanswering machine saying he went to London.""Well," I ask then, hopefully, "maybe he did, huh?""His girlfriend doesn't think so," Kimball says tonelessly.Without even beginning to understand, I imagine, what a speckPaul Owen was in the overall enormity of things."But ..." I stop. "Has anyone seen him in London?"Kimball looks at his book, ɻips over a page and then, lookingback at me, says, "Actually, yes.""Hmmm," I say."Well, I've had a hard time getting an accurate veriɹcation," headmits. "A ... Stephen Hughes says he saw him at a restaurantthere, but I checked it out and what happened is, he mistook aHubert Ainsworth for Paul, so ...""Oh," I say."Do you remember where you were on the night of Paul'sdisappearance?" He checks his book. "Which was on the twentyfourth of June?""Gosh ... I guess ..." I think about it. "I was probably returningvideotapes." I open my desk drawer, take out my datebook andlooking through December announce, "I had a date with a girlnamed Veronica...." I'm completely lying, totally making this up."Wait," he says, confused, looking at his book., "That's ... notwhat I've got."My thigh muscles tense. "What?""That's not the information I've received," he says."Well ..." I'm suddenly confused and scared, the Nuprin bitterin my stomach. "I ... Wait ... What information have youreceived?""Let's see...." He ɻips through his pad, ɹnds something. "Thatyou were with—""Wait." I laugh. "I could be wrong...." My spine feels damp."Well ..." He stops. "When was the last time you were withPaul Owen?" he asks."We had"—oh my god, Bateman, think up something—"goneto a new musical that just opened, called ... Oh Africa, BraveAfrica." I gulp. "It was ... a laugh riot ... and that's about it. Ithink we had dinner at Orso's ... no, Petaluma. No, Orso's." Istop. "The ... last time I physically saw him was ... at anautomated teller. I can't remember which ... just one that wasnear, um, Nell's.""But the night he disappeared?" Kimball asks."I'm not really sure," I say."I think maybe you've got your dates mixed up," he says,glancing at his book."But how?" I ask. "Where do you place Paul that night?""According to his datebook, and this was veriɹed by hissecretary, he had dinner with ... Marcus Halberstam," he says."And?" I ask."I've questioned him.""Marcus?""Yes. And he denies it," Kimball says. "Though at ɹrst hecouldn't be sure.""But Marcus denied it?""Yes.""Well, does Marcus have an alibi?" I have a heightenedreceptivity to his answers now."Yes."Pause."He does?" I ask. "You're sure?""I checked it out," he says with an odd smile. "It's clean."Pause."Oh.""Now where were you?" He laughs.I laugh too, though I'm not sure why. "Where was Marcus?" I'malmost giggling.Kimball keeps smiling as he looks me over. "He wasn't withPaul Owen," he says enigmatically."So who was he with?" I'm laughing still, but I'm also verydizzy.Kimball opens his book and for the ɹrst time gives me aslightly hostile look. "He was at Atlantis with Craig McDermott,Frederick Dibble, Harry Newman, George Butner and"—Kimballpauses, then looks up—"you."In this oɽce right now I am thinking about how long it wouldtake a corpse to disintegrate right in this oɽce. In this oɽcethese are the things I fantasize about while dreaming: Eating ribsat Red, Hot and Blue in Washington, D.C. If I should switchshampoos. What really is the best dry beer? Is Bill Robinson anoverrated designer? What's wrong with IBM? Ultimate luxury. Isthe term "playing hardball" an adverb? The fragile peace ofAssisi. Electric light. The epitome of luxury. Of ultimate luxury.The bastard's wearing the same damn Armani linen suit I've goton. How easy it would be to scare the living wits out of thisfucking guy. Kimball is utterly unaware of how truly vacant I am.There is no evidence of animate life in this oɽce, yet still hetakes notes. By the time you ɹnish reading this sentence, a Boeingjetliner will take oʃ or land somewhere in the world. I would likea Pilsner Urquell."Oh right," I say. "Of course ... We had wanted Paul Owen tocome," I say, nodding my head as if just realizing something. "Buthe said he had plans...." Then, lamely, "I guess I had dinner withVictoria the ... following night.""Listen, like I said, I was just hired by Meredith." He sighs,closing his book.Tentatively, I ask, "Did you know that Meredith Powell isdating Brock Thompson?"He shrugs, sighs. "I don't know about that. All I know is thatPaul Owen owes her supposedly a lot of money.""Oh?" I say, nodding. "Really?""Personally," he says, conɹding, "I think the guy went a littlenutso. Split town for a while. Maybe he did go to London.Sightseeing. Drinking. Whatever. Anyway, I'm pretty sure hellturn up sooner or later."I nod slowly, hoping to look suitably bewildered."Was he involved at all, do you think, in, say, occultism orSatan worship?" Kimball asks seriously."Er, what?""I know it sounds like a lame question but in New Jersey lastmonth—I don't know if you've heard about this, but a youngstockbroker was recently arrested and charged with murdering ayoung Chicano girl and performing voodoo rituals with, well,various body parts—""Yikes!" I exclaim."And I mean ..." He smiles sheepishly again. "Have you heardanything about this?""Did the guy deny doing it?" I ask, tingling."Right." Kimball nods."That was an interesting case," I manage to say."Even though the guy says he's innocent he still thinks he'sInca, the bird god, or something," Kimball says, scrunching hisfeatures up.We both laugh out loud about this."No," I ɹnally say. "Paul wasn't into that. He followed abalanced diet and—""Yeah, I know, and was into that whole Yale thing," Kimballɹnishes tiredly.There is a long pause that, I think, might be the longest one sofar."Have you consulted a psychic?" I ask."No." He shakes his head in a way that suggests he's consideredit. Oh who cares?"Had his apartment been burglarized?" I ask."No, it actually hadn't," he says. "Toiletries were missing. Asuit was gone. So was some luggage. That's it.""Do you suspect foul play?""Can't say," he says. "But like I told you, I wouldn't besurprised if he's just hiding out someplace.""I mean no one's dealing with the homicide squad yet oranything, right?" I ask."No, not yet. As I said, we're not sure. But ..." He stops, looksdejected. "Basically no one has seen or heard anything.""That's so typical, isn't it?" I ask."It's just strange," he agrees, staring out the window, lost. "Oneday someone's walking around, going to work, alive, and then ..."Kimball stops, fails to complete the sentence."Nothing," I sigh, nodding."People just ... disappear," he says."The earth just opens up and swallows people," I say,somewhat sadly, checking my Rolex."Eerie." Kimball yawns, stretching. "Really eerie.""Ominous." I nod my agreement."It's just"—he sighs, exasperated—"futile."I pause, unsure of what to say, and come up with "Futility is ...hard to deal with."I am thinking about nothing. It's silent in the oɽce. To breakit, I point out a book on top of the desk, next to the SanPellegrino bottle. The Art of the Deal, by Donald Trump."Have you read it?" I ask Kimball."No," he sighs, but politely asks, "Is it any good?""It's very good," I say, nodding."Listen." He sighs again. "I've taken up enough of your time."He pockets the Marlboros."I have a lunch meeting with Cliʃ Huxtable at The FourSeasons in twenty minutes anyway," I lie, standing up. "I have togo too.""Isn't The Four Seasons a little far uptown?" He looksconcerned, also getting up. "I mean aren't you going to be late?""Uh, no," I stall. "There's one ... down here.""Oh really?" he asks. "I didn't know that.""Yes," I say, leading him to the door. "It's very good.""Listen," he says, turning to face me. "If anything occurs toyou, any information at all ..."I hold up a hand. "Absolutely. I'm one hundred percent withyou," I say solemnly."Great," the ineʃectual one says, relieved. "And thanks foryour, uh, time, Mr. Bateman."Moving him toward the door, my legs wobbly, astronaut-like,leading him out of the oɽce, though I'm empty, devoid offeeling, I still sense—without deluding myself—that I'veaccomplished something and then, anticlimactically, we talk for afew minutes more about razor-burn balms and tattersall shirts.There was an odd general lack of urgency to the conversationthat I found soothing—nothing happened at all—but when hesmiles, hands me his card, leaves, the door closing sounds to melike a billion insects screaming, pounds of bacon sizzling, a vastemptiness. And after he leaves the building (I have Jean buzzTom at Security to make sure) I call someone recommended bymy lawyer, to make sure none of my phones are wiretapped, andafter a Xanax I'm able to meet with my nutritionist at anexpensive, upscale health-food restaurant called Cuisine de Soy inTribeca and while sitting beneath the dolphin, stuʃed andshellacked, that hangs over the tofu bar, its body bent into an arc,I'm able to ask the nutritionist questions like "Okay, so give methe muɽn lowdown" without cringing. Back at the oɽce twohours later, I ɹnd out that none of my phones are tapped.I also run into Meredith Powell later this week, on Friday night,at Ereze with Brock Thompson, and though we talk for tenminutes, mostly about why neither one of us is in the Hamptons,with Brock glaring at me the entire time, she doesn't mentionPaul Owen once. I'm having an excruciatingly slow dinner withmy date, Jeannette. The restaurant is ɻashy and new and themeal inches along, drags by. The portions are meager. I growincreasingly agitated. Afterwards I want to bypass M.K., eventhough Jeanette complains because she wants to dance. I'm tiredand I need to rest. At my apartment I lie in bed, too distracted tohave sex with her, so she leaves, and after watching a tape of thismorning's Patty Winters Show, which is about the best restaurantsin the Middle East, I pick up my cordless phone and tentatively,reluctantly, call Evelyn.
