I want to light my cigar but don't have any matches; yet just holding it, catching some of its aroma along with the knowledge that drugs are incoming, comforts me and I take two of the drink tickets from Price and try to get him a Finlandia on the rocks which they don't have, the hardbody behind the bar informs me bitchily, but she's got a rad body and is so hot-looking that I will leave her a big tip because of this. I settle on an Absolut for Price and order a J&B on the rocks for myself. As a joke I almost bring Tim a Bellini but he seems far too edgy tonight to appreciate this so I wade back through the crowd to where he stands and hand him the Absolut and he takes it thanklessly and finishes it with one gulp, looks at the glass and grimaces, giving me an accusatory look. I shrug helplessly. He resumes staring at the train tracks as if possessed. There are very few chicks in Tunnel tonight.
"Hey, I'm going out with Courtney tomorrow night."
"Her?" he shouts back, staring at the tracks. "Great." Even with the noise I catch the sarcasm.
"Well, why not? Carruthers is out of town."
"Might as well hire someone from an escort service," he shouts bitterly, almost without thinking.
"Why?" I shout.
"Because she's gonna cost you a lot more to get laid."
"No way," I scream.
"Listen, I put up with it too," Price shouts, lightly shaking his glass. Ice cubes clank loudly, surprising me. "Meredith's the same way. She expects to be paid. They all do."
"Price?" I take a large gulp of Scotch. "You're priceless..."
He points behind him. "Where do those tracks go?" Laser lights start flashing.
"I don't know," I say after a long time, I don't even know how long.
I get bored watching Price, who is neither moving nor speaking. The only reason he occasionally turns away from the train tracks is to look for Madison or Ricardo. No women anywhere, just an army of professionals from Wall Street in tuxedos. The one female spotted is dancing alone in a corner to some song I think is called "Love Triangle." She's wearing what looks like a sequined tank top by Ronaldus Shamask and I concentrate on that but I'm in an edgy pre-coke state and I start chewing nervously on a drink ticket and some Wall Street guy who looks like Boris Cunningham blocks my view of the girl. I'm about to head off to the bar when Madison comes back - it's been twenty minutes - and he sniffs loudly, a big plastered jittery grin on his face as he shakes hands with a sweaty stern-looking Price who moves away so quickly that when Ted tries to slap him in a friendly sort of way on his back he just hits air.
I follow Price back past the bar and the dance floor, past the basement, and upstairs, past the long line for the women's room which is strange since there seem to be no women at the club tonight, and then we're in the men's room, which is empty, and Price and I slip into one of the stalls together and he bolts the door.
"I'm shaking," Price says, handing me the small envelope. "You open it."
I take it from him, carefully unfolding the edges of the tiny white package, exposing the supposed gram - it looks like less to the dim fluorescent light of the men's room.
"Jeez," Price whispers in a surprisingly gentle way. "That's not a helluva lot, is it?" He leans forward to inspect it.
"Maybe it's just the light," I mention.
"What the f**k is Ricardo's problem?" Price asks, gaping at the coke.
"Shhh," I whisper, taking out my platinum American Express card. "Let's just do it."
"Is he f**king selling it by the milligram?" Price asks. He sticks his own platinum American Express card into the powder, bringing it up to his nose to inhale it. He stands there silently for a moment, and then gasps "Oh my god" in a low, throaty voice.
"What?" I ask.
"It's a f**king milligram of... 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, red-faced and sweating; he screams at me as if this was my fault, as if buying the gram from Madison was my idea.
"I want to get high off this, Bateman," Price says slowly, his voice rising. "Not sprinkle it on my f**king All-Bran!"
"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.
