I'm with Craig McDermott in Harry's on Hanover. He's smokinga cigar, drinking a Stoli Cristall martini, asking me what the rulesare for wearing a pocket square. I'm drinking the same thing,answering him. We're waiting for Harold Carnes, who just gotback from London on Tuesday, and he's half an hour late. I'mnervous, impatient, and when I tell McDermott that we shouldhave invited Todd or at least Hamlin, who was sure to havecocaine, he shrugs and says that maybe we'll be able to ɹndCarnes at Delmonico's. But we don't ɹnd Carnes at Delmonico'sso we head uptown to Smith & Wollensky for an eight o'clockreservation that one of us made. McDermott is wearing a sixbutton double-breasted wool suit by Cerruti 1881, a tattersallcotton shirt by Louis, Boston, a silk tie by Dunhill. I'm wearing asix-button double-breasted wool suit by Ermenegildo Zegna, astriped cotton shirt by Luciano Barbera, a silk tie by Armani,suede wing-tips by Ralph Lauren, socks by E. G. Smith. MenWho've Been Raped by Women was the topic on The Patty WintersShow this morning. Sitting in a booth at Smith and Wollensky,which is strangely empty, I'm on Valium, drinking a good glass ofred wine, wondering absently about that cousin of mine at St.Alban's in Washington who recently raped a girl, biting herearlobes oʃ, getting a sick thrill not ordering the hash browns,how my brother and I once rode horses together, played tennis—this is burning from my memory but McDermott eclipses thesethoughts when he notices I haven't ordered the hash browns afterdinner has arrived."What is this? You can't eat at Smith and Wollensky withoutordering the hash browns," he complains.I avoid his eyes and touch the cigar I'm saving in my jacketpocket."Jesus, Bateman, you're a raving maniac. Been at P & P toolong," he mutters. "No fucking hash browns."I don't say anything. How can I tell McDermott that this is avery disjointed time of my life and that I notice the walls havebeen painted a bright, almost painful white and under the glareof the ɻuorescent lights they seem to pulse and glow. FrankSinatra is somewhere, singing "Witchcraft." I'm staring at thewalls, listening to the words, suddenly thirsty, but our waiter istaking orders from a very large table of exclusively Japanesebusinessmen, and someone who I think is either GeorgeMacGowan or Taylor Preston, in the booth behind this one,wearing something by Polo, is eyeing me suspiciously andMcDermott is still staring at my steak with this stunned look onhis face and one of the Japanese businessmen is holding anabacus, another one is trying to pronounce the word "teriyaki,"another is mouthing, then singing, the words to the song, and thetable laughs, an odd, not completely foreign sound, as he lifts upa pair of chopsticks, shaking his head conɹdently, imitatingSinatra. His mouth opens, what comes out of it is: "that srycomehitle stale ... that clazy witchclaft ..."
