"Rollins?" I guess.
"Get this," McDermott says. "Hampden-Sydney."
"He's a parasite, a loser, a weasel," Van Patten concludes.
"But he's worth eight hundred million," McDermott repeats emphatically.
"Go over and give the dwarf head - will that shut you'up?" Price says. "I mean how impressed can you get, McDermott?"
"Anyway," I mention, "nice babe."
"That girl is hot," McDermott agrees.
"Affirmative." Price nods, but grudgingly.
"Oh man," Van Patten says, distressed. "I know that chick."
"Oh bullshit," we all moan.
"Let me guess," I say. "Picked her up at Tunnel, right?"
"No," he says, then after sipping his drink, "She's a model. Anorexic, alcoholic, uptight bitch. Totally French."
"What a joke you are," I say, unsure if he's lying.
"Wanna bet?"
"So what?" McDermott shrugs. "I'd f**k her."
"She drinks a liter of Stoli a day then throws it up and redrinks it, McDermott," Van Patten explains. "Total alkie."
"Total cheap alkie," Price murmurs.
"I don't care," McDermott says bravely. "She is beautiful. I want to f**k her. I want to marry her. I want her to have my children."
"Oh Jesus," Van Patten says, practically gagging. "Who wants to marry a chick who's gonna give birth to a jug of vodka and cranberry juice?"
"He has a point," I say.
"Yeah. He also wants to shack up with the Armenian chick at the bar," Price sneers. "What'll she give birth to - a bottle of Korbel and a pint of peach juice?"
"What Armenian chick?" McDermott asks, exasperated, craning his neck.
"Oh Jesus. Fuck off, you faggots." Van Patten sighs.
The maitre d' stops by to say hello to McDermott, then notices we don't have our complimentary Bellinis, and runs off before any of us can stop him. I'm not sure how McDermott knows Alain so well - maybe Cecelia? - and it slightly pisses me off but I decide to even up the score a little bit by showing everyone my new business card. I pull it out of my gazelleskin wallet (Barney's, $850) and slap it on the table, waiting for reactions.
"What's that, a gram?" Price says, not apathetically.
"New card." I try to act casual about it but I'm smiling proudly. "What do you think?"
"Whoa," McDermott says, lifting it up, fingering the card, genuinely impressed. "Very nice. Take a look." He hands it to Van Patten.
"Picked them up from the printer's yesterday," I mention.
"Cool coloring," Van Patten says, studying the card closely.
"That's bone," I point out. "And the lettering is something called Silian Rail."
"Silian Rail?" McDermott asks.
"Yeah. Not bad, huh?"
"It 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."
We all lean over and inspect David's card and Price quietly says, "That's 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," 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."
