American Psycho: A Novel by Bret Easton Ellis

Author:Bret Easton Ellis [Ellis, Bret Easton]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Psychological, Women - Crimes against, Wall Street, Women, Wall Street (New York, Horror, Serial Murderers, Manhattan (New York, Psychopaths, General, Psychological Fiction, Rapists, Horror Tales, Literary, Crimes Against, N.Y.)
ISBN: 9780679735779
Google: 1fMSEAFJanAC
Publisher: Vintage Books
Published: 1991-06-15T00:20:54.778000+00:00

Paul Owen

I screened calls all morning long in my apartment, taking none of them, glaring tiredly at a cordless phone while sipping cup after cup of decaf herbal tea. Afterwards I went to the gym, where I worked out for two hours; then I had lunch at the Health Bar and could barely eat half of an endive-with-carrot-dressing salad I ordered. I stopped at Barney’s on my way back from an abandoned loft building I had rented a unit in somewhere around Hell’s Kitchen. I had a facial. I played squash with Brewster Whipple at the Yale Club and from there made reservations for eight o’clock under the name Marcus Halberstam at Texarkana, where I’m going to meet Paul Owen for dinner. I choose Texarkana because I know that a lot of people I have dealings with are not going to be eating there tonight. Plus I’m in the mood for their chili-wrapped pork and one or two Dixie beers. It’s June and I’m wearing a two-button linen suit, a cotton shirt, a silk tie and leather wing-tips, all by Armani. Outside Texarkana a cheerful black bum motions for me, explaining that he’s Bob Hope’s younger brother, No Hope. He holds out a Styrofoam coffee cup. I think this is funny so I give him a quarter. I’m twenty minutes late. From an open window on Tenth Street I can hear the last strains of “A Day in the Life” by the Beatles.

The bar in Texarkana is empty and in the dining area only four or five tables have people at them. Owen is at a booth in the back, complaining bitterly to the waiter, grilling him, demanding to know the exact reasons why they are out of the crawfish gumbo tonight. The waiter, a not-bad-looking faggot, is at a loss and helplessly lisps an excuse. Owen is in no mood for pleasantries, but then neither am I. As I sit down, the waiter apologizes once more and then takes my drink order. “J&B, straight,” I stress. “And a Dixie beer.” He smiles while writing this down—the bastard even bats his eyelashes—and when I’m about to warn him not to attempt small talk with me, Owen barks out his drink order, “Double Absolut martini,” and the fairy splits.

“This is really a beehive of, uh, activity, Halberstam,” Owen says, gesturing toward the near-empty room. “This place is hot, very hot.”

“Listen, the mud soup and the charcoal arugula are outrageous here,” I tell him.

“Yeah, well,” he grumbles, staring into his martini glass. “You’re late.”

“Hey, I’m a child of divorce. Give me a break,” I say, shrugging, thinking: Oh Halberstam you are an asshole. And then, after I’ve studied the menu, “Hmmm, I see they’ve omitted the pork loin with lime Jell-O.”

Owen is wearing a double-breasted silk and linen suit, a cotton shirt and a silk tie, all by Joseph Abboud, and his tan is impeccable. But he’s out of it tonight, surprisingly untalkative, and his dourness drizzles over my jovial, expectant mood,

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