American Psycho Page #3

BATEMAN:

(Talking over her) Two things. One. You can't bleach a Cerruti. Out of the question. Two. (Louder) Two. I can only get these sheets in Santa Fe. These are very expensive sheets and I really need them clean.

She keeps talking and Bateman leans into her.

BATEMAN:

If you don't shut your f***ing mouth, I will kill you.

She gasps in shock, but continues to talk faster.

BATEMAN:

Now listen, I have a lunch meeting at Hubert's in twenty minutes,with Ronald Harrison and I need those sheets cleaned by this afternoon.

She keeps talking.

BATEMAN:

Listen. I cannot understand you!

Bateman starts laughing, slaps his hand down on the counter.

BATEMAN:

This is crazy. You're a fool. I can't cope with this.

Bateman is on the verge of tears.

BATEMAN:

Stupid bitchee! Understand?! Oh Christ!

Someone enters the store behind him. It's VICTORIA, late-twenties, attractive but a little overweight, wearing a tailored business suit with white sneakers and sports socks.

VICTORIA:

Patrick?

She takes off her sunglasses.

VICTORIA:

Hi, Patrick. I thought that was you.

BATEMAN:

Hello (Mumbles un incomprehensible name)

Awkward pause.

VICTORIA:

Isn't it ridiculous? Coming all the way up here, but, they really are the best.

BATEMAN:

Then why can't they get these stains out? I mean can you talk to these people or something? I'm not getting anywhere.

Victoria moves toward the sheet that the old man is holding up. She touches it and the woman behind the counter begins talking again.

VICTORIA:

Oh, What are those?

BATEMAN:

Oh, well...it's cranberry juice. Cranapple.

VICTORIA:

(Skeptically) Really?

BATEMAN:

Listen, if you could talk to them I would really appreciate it. I'm really late. I have a lunch appointment at Hubert's in fifteen minutes.

Bateman turns to leave.

VICTORIA:

Hubert's? That moved uptown, right?

BATEMAN:

Well, oh boy, listen, I've got to go. Thank you, Victoria?

VICTORIA:

Maybe we could have lunch one day next week? You know, I'm downtown near Wall Street quite often.

BATEMAN:

Oh, I don't know, Victoria. I'm at work all the time.

VICTORIA:

Well, what about, a Saturday?

BATEMAN:

(Checking his watch) Next Saturday?

VICTORIA:

(Shrugging) Yeah.

BATEMAN:

Can't, I'm afraid. Matinee of Les Mis. Listen, I've really got to go. I'll...Christ...I'll call you.

VICTORIA:

Okay. Do.

Bateman glares at the woman behind the counter and rushes out the door. Victoria stares after him as we hear the sound of the bell on the closing door.

INT. BATEMAN'S APARTMENT - DAY

Bateman is sitting on the sofa watching a video, talking to Courtney on a portable phone. He's holding a video box in one hand, perusing the title: Inside Lydia's Ass. Offscreen we hear the sounds of the porn movie as he talks.

BATEMAN:

Listen, you're dating Luis, he's in Arizona. You're f***ing me, and we haven't made plans. What could you possibly be up to tonight?

COURTNEY:

Stop it. I'm...

BATEMAN:

On a lot of lithium?

COURTNEY:

Waiting for Luis to call me. He said he'd call tonight.

BATEMAN:

Pumpkin? Pumpkin, you're dating an a**hole.

COURTNEY:

Mm-mmh.

BATEMAN:

Pumpkin, you're dating the biggest dickweed in New York.

BATEMAN:

Pumpkin, you're dating a tumbling, tumbling dickweed.

COURTNEY:

Patrick, stop calling me pumpkin, okay? I have to go.

BATEMAN:

Courtney?

COURTNEY:

Mmm.

BATEMAN:

Dinner.

COURTNEY:

I can't!

BATEMAN:

I'm thinking Dorsia.

COURTNEY:

Dorsia's nice.

BATEMAN:

For something fabulous.

Bateman hangs up, opens up the Zagat's guide and dials the number for Dorsia with trembling fingers. It's busy and so he puts it on speakerphone, constant redial. He waits with his head in his hands, sweating with anxiety, until there is finally an answer.

MAITRE D':

Dorsia.

BATEMAN:

(Both of his eyes are closed) Um...Yes...I know it's a little late but is it possible to reserve a table for two at eight or eight-thirty perhaps?

Long pause. The Maitre D' starts giggling quietly and then more loudly until the laughter is almost hysterical and he hangs up the phone.

INT. TAXI- NIGHT

Bateman and Courtney are in the back of a cab. Courtney is heavily medicated.

COURTNEY:

A facial at Elizabeth Arden, which was really relaxing, then to the Pottery Bam where I got this little silver muffin dish. (She starts to pass out)

BATEMAN:

Is that Donald Trump's car?

COURTNEY:

(Thickly) Oh God, Patrick. Shut up.

BATEMAN:

You know, Courtney, you should take some more lithium. Or have a Diet Coke. Some caffeine might get you out of this slump.

COURTNEY:

I just want to have a child. Just...two...perfect...children... (Her voice trails as she descends back into a drug haze)

The cab draws up outside a restaurant. The awning reads "Barcadia."

INT. BARCADIA - NIGHT

An insanely expensive nouvelle Italian restaurant all polished natural brick, spotless white tablecloths, minimalist flower arrangements, discreet lighting.

Courtney starts to sink back in her chair and Bateman leans over and pulls her back up.

COURTNEY:

Are we here?

BATEMAN:

Yeah.

COURTNEY:

This is Dorsia?

BATEMAN:

(Examining a menu that says "Barcadia" in large script) Yes, dear.

BATEMAN:

Courtney, you're going to have the peanut butter soup with smoked duck and mashed squash. New York Matinee called it a "playful but mysterious little dish." You'll love it. And then...the red snapper with violets and pine nuts. I think that'll follow nicely.

COURTNEY:

Mmmm...thanks, Patrick.

She falls asleep at the table.

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM, PIERCE & PIERCE - DAY

Bateman and Luis Carruthers are seated at a long table in the conference room at Pierce & Pierce, which looks out onto a spectacular view of Manhattan.

CARRUTHERS:

Patrick, thanks so much for looking after Courtney. Dorsia, how impressive! How on earth did you get a reservation there?

BATEMAN:

Lucky, I guess.

CARRUTHERS:

That's a wonderful suit. Don't tell me, Don't tell me, Let me guess. Mmm...Valentino Couture.

BATEMAN:

Uh-huh.

CARRUTHERS:

(Reaching out to touch it) It looks so soft.

BATEMAN:

(Catching Luis hand) Your compliment was sufficient Luis.

Carruthers is distracted by a question from the colleague on his left. Paul Allen enters, carrying the Wall St. Journal under his arm. He is handsome, supremely confident and self-satisfied; he sees himself as a leader among men.

ALLEN:

(To Bateman) Hello, Halberstam. Nice tie. How the hell are you?

Their conversation fades down as we hear Bateman's thoughts.

BATEMAN (V.O.):

Allen has mistaken me for this d*ckhead Marcus Halberstam. It seems logical because Marcus also works at P&P and in fact does the same exact thing I do and he also has a penchant for Valentino suits and Oliver Peoples glasses. Marcus and I even go to the same barber, although I have a slightly better haircut.

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