Van Patten and McDermott sit silently for a minute before Craig, concerned and his brow creased in thought, says, 'That's a good one."
"Hey Price," Preston says. "Do you have one?"
"Yeah," Price sighs. "If all of your friends are morons is it a felony, a misdemeanor or an act of God if you blow their f**king heads off with a thirty-eight magnum?"
"Not GQ material," McDermott says. "Try Soldier of Fortune."
"Or Vanity Fair." Van Patten.
"Who is that?" Price asks, staring over at the bar. "Is that Reed Robison? And by the way, Preston, you simply have a tab with a buttonhole sewn into the front of the shirt, which can then be attached by a button to your trousers; and make sure that the stiff pleated front of the shirt doesn't extend below the waistband of your trousers or it will rise up when you sit down now is that jerk Reed Robison? It looks a hell uva lot like him."
Stunned by Price's remarks, Preston slowly turns around, still on his haunches, and after he puts his glasses back on, squints over at the bar. "No, that's Nigel Morrison."
"Ah," Price exclaims. "One of those young British faggots serving internship at...?"
"How do you know he's a faggot?" I ask him.
"They're all faggots." Price shrugs. "The British."
"How would you know, Timothy?" Van Patten grins.
"I saw him f**k Bateman up the ass in the men's room at Morgan Stanley," Price says.
I sigh and ask Preston, "Where is Morrison interning?"
"I forget," Preston says, scratching his head. "Lazard?"
"Where?" McDermott presses. "First Boston? Goldman?"
"I'm not sure," Preston says. "Maybe Drexel? Listen, he's just an assistant corporate finance analyst and his ugly, blacktooth girlfriend is in some dinky rat hole doing leveraged buy outs."
.'Where are we eat ing?" I ask, my patience at an all-time low. "We need to make a reservation. I'm not standing at some f**king bar."
"What in the f**k is Morrison wearing?" Preston asks himself. "Is that really a glen-plaid suit with a checkered shirt?"
"That's not Morrison," Price says.
"Who is it then?" Preston asks, taking his glasses off again.
"That's Paul Owen," Price says.
"That's not Paul Owen," I say. "Paul Owen's on the other side of the bar. Over there."
Owen stands at the bar wearing a double-breasted wool suit.
"He's handling the Fisher account," someone says.
"Lucky bastard," someone else murmurs.
"Lucky Jew bastard," Preston says.
"Oh Jesus, Preston," I say. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Listen, I've seen the bastard sitting in his office on the phone with CEOs, spinning a f**king menorah. The bastard brought a Hanukkah bush into the office last December," Preston says suddenly, peculiarly animated.
"You spin a dreidel, Preston," I say calmly, "not a menorah. You spin a dreidel."
"Oh my god, Bateman, do you want me to go over to the bar and ask Freddy to fry you up some f**king potato pancakes?" Preston asks, truly alarmed. "Some... latkes?"
"No," I say. "Just cool it with the anti-Semitic remarks."
"The voice of reason." Price leans forward to pat me on the back. "The boy next door."
"Yeah, a boy next door who according to you let a British corporate finance analyst intern sodomize him up the ass," I say ironically.
"I said you were the voice of reason," Price says. "I didn't say you weren't a homosexual."
"Or redundant," Preston adds.
"Yeah," I say, staring directly at Price. "Ask Meredith if I'm a homosexual. That is, if she'll take the time to pull my dick out of her mouth."
"Meredith's a fag hag," Price explains, unfazed, "that's why I'm dumping her."
"Oh wait, guys, listen, I got a joke." Preston rubs his hands together.
"Preston," Price says, "you are a joke. You do know you weren't invited to dinner. By the way, nice jacket; nonmatching but complementary."
"Price, you are a bastard, you are so f**king mean to me it hurts," Preston says, laughing. "Anyway, so JFK and Pearl Bailey meet at this party and they go back to the Oval Office to have sex and so they f**k and then JFK goes to sleep and..." Preston stops. "Oh gosh, now what happens... Oh yeah, so Pearl Bailey says Mr. President I wanna f**k you again and so he says I'm going to sleep now and in... thirty-no, wait..." Preston pauses again, confused. "Now... no, sixty minutes... no... okay, thirty minutes I'll wake up and we'll do it again but you've got to keep one hand on my c**k and the other on my balls and she says okay but why do I have to keep one hand on your dick and one... one hand on your balls... and..." He notices that Van Patten is idly doodling something on the back of a napkin. "Hey Van Patten - are you listening to me?"
