Paul Smith
I’m standing in Paul Smith talking to Nancy and Charles Hamilton and their two-year-old daughter, Glenn. Charles is wearing a four-button double-breasted linen suit by Redaelli, a cotton broadcloth shirt by Ascot Chang, a patterned silk tie by Eugenio Venanzi and loafers by Brooks Brothers. Nancy is wearing a silk blouse with mother-of-pearl sequins and a silk chiffon skirt by Valentino and silver earrings by Reena Pachochi. I’m wearing a six-button double-breasted chalk-striped wool suit and a patterned silk tie, both by Louis, Boston, and a cotton oxford cloth shirt by Luciano Barbera. Glenn is wearing silk Armani overalls and a tiny Mets cap. As the salesgirl rings up Charles’s purchases, I’m playing with the baby while Nancy holds her, offering Glenn my platinum American Express card, and she grabs at it excitedly, and I’m shaking my head, talking in a high-pitched baby voice, squeezing her chin, waving the card in front of her face, cooing, “Yes I’m a total psychopathic murderer, oh yes I am, I like to kill people, oh yes I do, honey, little sweetie pie, yes I do …” After the office today I played squash with Ricky Hendricks, then had drinks with Stephen Jenkins at Fluties and I’m supposed to meet Bonnie Abbott for dinner at Pooncakes, the new Bishop Sullivan restaurant in Gramercy Park, at eight o’clock. The Patty Winters Show this morning was about Concentration Camp Survivors. I take out a Sony Watchman pocket TV (the FD-270) that has a 2.7-inch black-and-white miniscreen and weighs only thirteen ounces, and hold it out to Glenn. Nancy asks, “How’s the shad roe at Rafaeli’s?” Right now, outside this store, it’s not dark yet but it is getting there.
“It’s terrific,” I murmur, staring happily at Glenn.
Charles signs the slip and while placing his gold American Express card back into his wallet he turns to me and recognizes someone over my shoulder.
“Hey Luis,” Charles says, smiling.
I turn around.
“Hi, Charles. Hi, Nancy.” Luis Carruthers kisses Nancy’s cheek, then shakes the baby’s hand. “Oh hiya, Glenn. My my, you look so big.”
“Luis, you know Robert Chanc—” Charles starts.
“Pat Bateman,” I say, putting the Watchman back in my pocket. “Forget it. We’ve met.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s right. Pat Bateman,” Charles says. Luis is wearing a wool-crepe suit, a cotton broadcloth shirt and a silk tie, all by Ralph Lauren. Like me, like Charles, he wears his hair slicked back and he’s wearing Oliver Peoples redwood-framed glasses. Mine, at least, are nonprescription.
“Well well,” I say, shaking his hand. Luis’s grip is overly firm, yet horribly sensuous at the same time. “Excuse me, I have to purchase a tie.” I wave bye-bye to baby Glenn once more and move off to inspect the neckwear in the adjoining room, wiping my hand against a two-hundred-dollar bath towel that hangs on a marble rack.
Soon enough Luis wanders over and leans against the tie drawer, pretending to examine the ties like I’m doing.
“What are you doing here?” he whispers.
“Buying a tie for my brother. It’s his birthday soon. Excuse me.” I move down the rack, away from him.
“He must feel very lucky to have a brother like you,” he says, sliding up next to me, grinning sincerely.
“Maybe, but I find him completely repellent,” I say. “You might like him though.”
“Patrick, why won’t you look at me?” Luis asks, sounding anguished. “Look at me.”
“Please, please leave me alone, Luis,” I say, my eyes closed, both fists clenched in anger.
“Come on, let’s have a drink at Sofi’s and talk about this,” he suggests, starting to plead.
“Talk about what?” I ask incredulously, opening my eyes.
“Well … about us.” He shrugs.
“Did you follow me in here?” I ask.
“Into where?”
“Here. Paul Smith. Why?”
“Me? Follow you? Oh come on.” He tries to laugh, scoffing at my remark. “Jesus.”
“Luis,” I say, forcing myself to make eye contact. “Please leave me alone. Go away.”
“Patrick,” he says. “I love you very much. I hope you realize this.”
I moan, moving over to the shoes, smiling wanly at a salesperson.
Luis follows. “Patrick, what are we doing here?”
“Well, I’m trying to buy a tie for my brother and”—I pick up a loafer, then sigh—“and you’re trying to give me head, figure it out. Jesus, I’m getting out of here.”
I move back over to the tie rack, grab one without choosing and take it up to the register. Luis follows. Ignoring him, I hand the salesgirl the platinum AmEx card and tell her, “There’s a bum outside the door.” I point out the window at the crying homeless man with the bag of newspapers standing on a bench next to the store’s entrance. “You should call the police or something.” She nods thanks and runs my card through the computer. Luis just stands there, shyly staring at the ground. I sign the receipt, take the bag and inform the salesgirl, pointing at Luis, “He’s not with me.”
Outside I try to wave down a cab on Fifth Avenue. Luis hurries out of the store after me.
“Patrick, we’ve got to talk,” he calls out over the roar of traffic. He runs up to me, grabbing my coat sleeve. I whirl around, my switchblade already open, and I jab it threateningly, warning Luis to stay back. People move out of our way, continue walking.
“Hey, whoa, Patrick,” he says, holding his hands up, backing off. “Patrick …”
I hiss at him, still holding out the knife until a cab I flag down skids to a stop. Luis tries to get near me, his hands still up, and I keep the knife aimed at him, slicing the air with it, while I open the door to the cab and back in, still hissing, then I close the door and tell the driver to head over to Gramercy Park, to Pooncakes.