Thursday night I run into Harold Carnes at a party for a newclub called World's End that opens in a space where Petty's usedto be on the Upper East Side. I'm with Nina Goodrich and Jean ina booth and Harold's standing at the bar drinking champagne. I'mdrunk enough to ɹnally confront him about the message I left onhis machine. Excused from the booth, I make my way to the otherside of the bar, realizing that I need a martini to fortify myselfbefore discussing this with Carnes (it has been a very unstableweek for me—I found myself sobbing during an episode of Alf onMonday). Nervously, I approach. Harold is wearing a wool suit byGieves & Hawkes, a silk twill tie, cotton shirt, shoes by PaulStuart; he looks heavier than I remember. "Face it," he's tellingTruman Drake, "the Japanese will own most of this country bythe end of the '90s."Relieved that Harold is, as usual, still dispensing valuable andnew information, with the addition of a faint but unmistakabletrace of, god forbid, an English accent, I ɹnd myself brazenenough to blurt out, "Shut up, Carnes, they will not." I down themartini, Stoli, while Carnes, looking quite taken aback, strickenalmost, turns around to face me, and his bloated head breaks outinto an uncertain smile. Someone behind us is saying, "But lookwhat happened to Gekko ..."Truman Drake pats Harold on the back and asks me, "Is thereone suspender width that's more, well, appropriate than others?"Irritably I push him into the crowd and he disappears."So Harold," I say, "did you get my message?"Carnes seems confused at ɹrst and, while lighting a cigarette,ɹnally laughs. "Jesus, Davis. Yes, that was hilarious. That wasyou, was it?""Yes, naturally." I'm blinking, muttering to myself, really,waving his cigarette smoke away from my face."Bateman killing Owen and the escort girl?" He keepschuckling. "Oh that's bloody marvelous. Really key, as they say atthe Groucho Club. Really key." Then, looking dismayed, he adds,"It was a rather long message, no?"I'm smiling idiotically and then I say, "But what exactly do youmean, Harold?" Secretly thinking to myself that this fat bastardcouldn't possibly have gotten into the fucking Groucho Club, andeven if he had, to admit it in such a fashion obliterates the factthat his entrance was accepted."Why, the message you left." Carnes is already looking aroundthe club, waving to various people and bimbos. "By the way,Davis, how is Cynthia?" He accepts a glass of champagne from apassing waiter. "You're still seeing her, right?""But wait, Harold. What-do-you-mean?" I repeat emphatically.He's already bored, neither concerned nor listening, andexcusing himself, says, "Nothing. Good to see you. Oh my, is thatEdward Towers?"I crane my neck to look, then turn back to Harold. "No," I say."Carnes? Wait.""Davis," he sighs, as if patiently trying to explain something toa child, "I am not one to bad-mouth anyone, your joke wasamusing. But come on, man, you had one fatal ɻaw: Bateman'ssuch a bloody ass-kisser, such a brown-nosing goody-goody, that Icouldn't fully appreciate it. Otherwise it was amusing. Now let'shave lunch, or we'll have dinner at 150 Wooster or somethingwith McDermott or Preston. A real raver." He tries to move on."Ray-vah? Ray-vah? Did you say ray-vah, Carnes?" I'm wideeyed, feeling wired even though I haven't done any drugs. "Whatare you talking about? Bateman is what?""Oh good god, man. Why else would Evelyn Richards dumphim? You know, really. He could barely pick up an escort girl, letalone ... what was it you said he did to her?" Harold is stilllooking distractedly around the club and he waves to anothercouple, raising his champagne glass. "Oh yes, 'chop her up.'" Hestarts laughing again, though this time it sounds polite. "Now ifyou'll excuse me, I must really.""Wait. Stop," I shout, looking up into Carnes' face, making surehe's listening. "You don't seem to understand. You're not reallycomprehending any of this. I killed him. I did it, Carnes. Ichopped Owen's fucking head oʃ. I tortured dozens of girls. Thatwhole message I left on your machine was true." I'm drained, notappearing calm, wondering why this doesn't feel like a blessing tome."Excuse me," he says, trying to ignore my outburst. "I reallymust be going.""No!" I shout. "Now, Carnes. Listen to me. Listen very, verycarefully. I-killed-Paul-Owen-and-I-liked-it. I can't make myselfany clearer." My stress causes me to choke on the words."But that's simply not possible," he says, brushing me oʃ. "AndI'm not ɹnding this amusing anymore.""It never was supposed to be!" I bellow, and then, "Why isn't itpossible?""It's just not," he says, eyeing me worriedly."Why not?" I shout again over the music, though there's reallyno need to, adding, "You stupid bastard."He stares at me as if we are both underwater and shouts back,very clearly over the din of the club, "Because ... I had ... dinner... with Paul Owen ... twice ... in London ... just ten days ago."After we stare at each other for what seems like a minute, Iɹnally have the nerve to say something back to him but my voicelacks any authority and I'm not sure if I believe myself when I tellhim, simply, "No, you ... didn't." But it comes out a question, nota statement."Now, Donaldson," Carnes says, removing my hand from hisarm. "If you'll excuse me.""Oh you're excused," I sneer. Then I make my way back to ourbooth where John Edmonton and Peter Beavers are now sittingand I numb myself with a Halcion before taking Jean home, backto my place. Jean is wearing something by Oscar de la Renta.Nina Goodrich was wearing a sequined dress by Matsuda andrefused to give me her number, even though Jean was in thewomen's room downstairs.
