Harry’s
“You should match the socks with the trousers,” Todd Hamlin tells Reeves, who is listening intently, stirring his Beefeater on the rocks with a swizzle stick.
“Who says?” George asks.
“Now listen,” Hamlin patiently explains. “If you wear gray trousers, you wear gray socks. It’s as simple as that.”
“But wait,” I interrupt. “What if the shoes are black?”
“That’s okay,” Hamlin says, sipping his martini. “But then the belt has to match the shoes.”
“So what you’re saying is that with a gray suit you can either wear gray or black socks,” I ask.
“Er … yeah,” Hamlin says, confused. “I guess. Did I say that?”
“See, Hamlin,” I say, “I disagree about the belt since the shoes are so far away from the actual belt line. I think you should concentrate on wearing a belt that coordinates with the trousers.”
“He has a point,” Reeves says.
The three of us, Todd Hamlin and George Reeves and myself, are sitting in Harry’s and it’s a little after six. Hamlin is wearing a suit by Lubiam, a great-looking striped spread-collar cotton shirt from Burberry, a silk tie by Resikeio and a belt from Ralph Lauren. Reeves is wearing a six-button double-breasted suit by Christian Dior, a cotton shirt, a patterned silk tie by Claiborne, perforated cap-toe leather lace-ups by Allen-Edmonds, a cotton handkerchief in his pocket, probably from Brooks Brothers; sunglasses by Lafont Paris lie on a napkin by his drink and a fairly nice attaché case from T. Anthony rests on an empty chair by our table. I’m wearing a two-button single-breasted chalk-striped wool-flannel suit, a multicolored candy-striped cotton shirt and a silk pocket square, all by Patrick Aubert, a polka-dot silk tie by Bill Blass and clear prescription eyeglasses with frames by Lafont Paris. One of our CD Walkman headsets lies in the middle of the table surrounded by drinks and a calculator. Reeves and Hamlin left the office early today for facials somewhere and they both look good, faces pink but tan, hair short and slicked back. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Real-Life Rambos.
“But what about vests?” Reeves asks Todd. “Aren’t they … out?”
“No, George,” Hamlin says. “Of course not.”
“No,” I agree. “Vests have never been out of fashion.”
“Well, the question really is—how should they be worn?” Hamlin inquires.
“They should fit—” Reeves and I start simultaneously.
“Oh sorry,” Reeves says. “Go ahead.”
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “You go ahead.”
“I insist,” George says.
“Well, they should fit trimly around the body and cover the waistline,” I say. “It should peek just above the waist button of the suit jacket. Now if too much of the vest appears, it’ll give the suit a tight, constricted look that you don’t want.”
“Uh-huh,” Reeves says, nearly mute, looking confused. “Right. I knew that.”
“I need another J&B,” I say, getting up. “Guys?”
“Beefeater on rocks with a twist.” Reeves, pointing at me.
Hamlin. “Martini.”
“Sure thing.” I walk over toward the bar and while waiting for Freddy to pour the drinks I hear some guy, I think it’s this Greek William Theodocropopolis, from First Boston, who’s wearing a sort of tacky wool jacket in a houndstooth check and an okay-looking shirt, but he also has on a super-looking cashmere tie from Paul Stuart that makes the suit look better than it deserves to, and he’s telling some guy, another Greek, drinking a Diet Coke, “So listen, Sting was at Chernoble—you know that place the guys who opened Tunnel opened—and so this was on Page Six and someone drives up in a Porsche 911 and in the car was Whitney and—”
Back at our table Reeves is telling Hamlin about how he taunts the homeless in the streets, about how he hands a dollar to them as he approaches and then yanks it away and pockets it right when he passes the bums.
“Listen, it works,” he insists. “They’re so shocked they shut up.”
“Just … say … no,” I tell him, setting the drinks on the table. “That’s all you have to say.”
“Just say no?” Hamlin smiles. “It works?”
“Well, actually only with pregnant homeless women,” I admit.
“I take it you haven’t tried the just-say-no approach with the seven-foot gorilla on Chambers Street?” Reeves asks. “The one with the crack pipe?”
“Listen, has anyone heard of this club called Nekenieh?” Reeves asks.
From my POV Paul Owen sits at a table across the room with someone who looks a lot like Trent Moore, or Roger Daley, and some other guy who looks like Frederick Connell. Moore’s grandfather owns the company he works at. Trent is wearing a mini-houndstooth-check worsted wool suit with multicolored overplaid.
“Nekenieh?” Hamlin asks. “What’s Nekenieh?”
“Guys, guys,” I say. “Who’s sitting with Paul Owen over there? Is that Trent Moore?”
“Where?” Reeves.
“They’re getting up. That table,” I say. “Those guys.”
“Isn’t that Madison? No, it’s Dibble,” Reeves says. He puts on his clear prescription eyeglasses just to make sure.
“No,” Hamlin says. “It’s Trent Moore.”
“Are you sure?” Reeves asks.
Paul Owen stops by our table on his way out. He’s wearing sunglasses by Persol and he’s carrying a briefcase by Coach Leatherware.
“Hello, men,” Owen says and he introduces the two guys he’s with, Trent Moore and someone named Paul Denton.
Reeves and Hamlin and I shake their hands without standing up. George and Todd start talking to Trent, who is from Los Angeles and knows where Nekenieh is located. Owen turns his attention my way, which makes me slightly nervous.
“How have you been?” Owen asks.
“I’ve been great,” I say. “And you?”
“Oh terrific,” he says. “How’s the Hawkins account going?”
“It’s …” I stall and then continue, faltering momentarily, “It’s … all right.”
“Really?” he asks, vaguely concerned. “That’s interesting,” he says, smiling, hands clasped together behind his back. “Not great?”
“Oh well,” I say. “You … know.”
“And how’s Marcia?” he asks, still smiling, looking over the room, not really listening to me. “She’s a great girl.”
“Oh yes,” I say, shaken. “I’m … lucky.”
Owen has mistaken me for Marcus Halberstam (even though Marcus is dating Cecelia Wagner) but for some reason it really doesn’t matter and it seems a logical faux pas since Marcus works at P & P also, in fact does the same exact thing I do, and he also has a penchant for Valentino suits and clear prescription glasses and we share the same barber at the same place, the Pierre Hotel, so it seems understandable; it doesn’t irk me. But Paul Denton keeps staring at me, or trying not to, as if he knows something, as if he’s not quite sure if he recognizes me or not, and it makes me wonder if maybe he was on that cruise a long time ago, one night last March. If that’s the case, I’m thinking, I should get his telephone number or, better yet, his address.
“Well, we should have drinks,” I tell Owen.
“Great,” he says. “Let’s. Here’s my card.”
“Thanks,” I say, looking at it closely, relieved by its crudeness, before slipping it into my jacket. “Maybe I’ll bring …” I pause, then carefully say, “Marcia?”
“That would be great,” he says. “Hey, have you been to that Salvadorian bistro on Eighty-third?” he asks. “We’re eating there tonight.”
“Yeah. I mean no,” I say. “But I’ve heard it’s quite good.” I smile weakly and take a sip of my drink.
“Yes, so have I.” He checks his Rolex. “Trent? Denton? Let’s split. Reservation’s in fifteen minutes.”
Goodbyes are said and on their way out of Harry’s they stop by the table Dibble and Hamilton are sitting at, or at least I think it’s Dibble and Hamilton. Before they leave, Denton looks over at our table, at me, one last time, and he seems panicked, convinced of something by my presence, as if he recognized me from somewhere, and this, in turn, freaks me out.
“The Fisher account,” Reeves says.
“Oh shit,” I say. “Don’t remind us.”
“Lucky bastard,” Hamlin says.
“Has anyone seen his girlfriend?” Reeves asks. “Laurie Kennedy? Total hardbody.”
“I know her,” I say, admit, “I knew her.”
“Why do you say it like that?” Hamlin asks, intrigued. “Why does he say it like that, Reeves?”
“Because he dated her,” Reeves says casually.
“How did you know that?” I ask, smiling.
“Girls dig Bateman.” Reeves sounds a little drunk. “He’s GQ. You’re total GQ, Bateman.”
“Thanks guy, but …” I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic but it makes me feel proud in a way and I try to downplay my good looks by saying, “She’s got a lousy personality.”
“Oh Christ, Bateman,” Hamlin groans. “What does that mean?”
“What?” I say. “She does.”
“So what? It’s all looks. Laurie Kennedy is a babe,” Hamlin says, emphatically. “Don’t even pretend you were interested for any other reason.”
“If they have a good personality then … something is very wrong,” Reeves says, somehow confused by his own statement.
“If they have a good personality and they are not great-looking”—Reeves holds his hands up, signifying something—“who f*cking cares?”
“Well, let’s just say hypothetically, okay? What if they have a good personality?” I ask, knowing full well what a hopeless, asinine question it is.
“Fine. Hypothetically even better but—” Hamlin says.
“I know, I know.” I smile.
“There are no girls with good personalities,” we all say in unison, laughing, giving each other high-five.
“A good personality,” Reeves begins, “consists of a chick who has a little hardbody and who will satisfy all sexual demands without being too slutty about things and who will essentially keep her dumb f*cking mouth shut.”
“Listen,” Hamlin says, nodding in agreement. “The only girls with good personalities who are smart or maybe funny or halfway intelligent or even talented—though god knows what the f*ck that means—are ugly chicks.”
“Absolutely.” Reeves nods.
“And this is because they have to make up for how f*cking unattractive they are,” Hamlin says, sitting back in his chair.
“Well, my theory’s always been,” I start, “men are only here to procreate, to carry on the species, you know?”
They both nod.
“And so the only way to do that,” I continue, choosing words carefully, “is … to get turned on by a little hardbody, but sometimes money or fame—”
“No buts,” Hamlin says, interrupting. “Bateman, are you telling me that you’re gonna make it with Oprah Winfrey—hey, she’s rich, she’s powerful—or go down on Nell Carter—hey, she’s got a show on Broadway, a great voice, residuals pouring in?”
“Wait,” Reeves says. “Who is Nell Carter?”
“I don’t know,” I say, confused by the name. “She owns Nell’s, I guess.”
“Listen to me, Bateman,” Hamlin says. “The only reason chicks exist is to get us turned on, like you said. Survival of the species, right? It’s as simple”—he lifts an olive out of his drink and pops it into his mouth—“as that.”
After a deliberate pause I say, “Do you know what Ed Gein said about women?”
“Ed Gein?” one of them asks. “Ma?tre d’ at Canal Bar?”
“No,” I say. “Serial killer, Wisconsin in the fifties. He was an interesting guy.”
“You’ve always been interested in stuff like that, Bateman,” Reeves says, and then to Hamlin, “Bateman reads these biographies all the time: Ted Bundy and Son of Sam and Fatal Vision and Charlie Manson. All of them.”
“So what did Ed say?” Hamlin asks, interested.
“He said,” I begin, “‘When I see a pretty girl walking down the street I think two things. One part of me wants to take her out and talk to her and be real nice and sweet and treat her right.’” I stop, finish my J&B in one swallow.
“What does the other part of him think?” Hamlin asks tentatively.
“What her head would look like on a stick,” I say.
Hamlin and Reeves look at each other and then back at me before I start laughing, and then the two of them uneasily join in.
“Listen, what about dinner?” I say, casually changing subjects.
“How about that Indian-Californian place on the Upper West Side?” Hamlin suggests.
“Fine with me,” I say.
“Sounds good,” Reeves says.
“Who’ll make the rez?” Hamlin asks.