American Psycho Page #5

BATEMAN:

Hey, Hamilton, have a Holly, Jolly Christmas. Is Allen still handling the Fisher account?

HAMILTON:

Of course. Who else?

EVELYN:

Mistletoe Alert. Merry X-Mas, Patrick. (kisses on him on the cheek). Merry X-Mas, Harry (kisses him on the cheek as well.)

BATEMAN:

Merry Christmas.

EVELYN:

You're late, honey.

BATEMAN:

No, I'm not late.

EVELYN:

Oh, Yes, You are.

BATEMAN:

I've been here the entire time, you just didn't see me.

EVELYN:

Say hello to Snowball. Snowball says Merry Christmas, Patrick.

BATEMAN:

What is it?

EVELYN:

It's a baby Piggy-Wiggy, isn't it? It's a Vietnamese Pot-Belly Pig. They make darling pets. (talks to the Pig) Don't you? Don't you? (pig squeals). Stop scowling, Patrick. You're such a Grinch. What does Mr. Grinch want for Christmas? And don't say breast implants again.

Bateman walks away.

BATEMAN:

Allen.

ALLEN:

Marcus! Merry Christmas! How you been? Workaholic, I suppose?

BATEMAN:

I haven't seen you in a while.

ALLEN:

Hey, Hamilton. We're going to Nell's. Limo's out front.

BATEMAN:

We should have dinner.

ALLEN:

Maybe you could bring, um...

BATEMAN:

Cecelia?

ALLEN:

Yes, Cecelia!

BATEMAN:

Oh, Cecelia would adore it.

ALLEN:

Well, then let's do it, Marcus. (Allen looks to Evelyn who walks up confused) Great party.

EVELYN:

Thanks. (turns to Patrick) Patrick, why is he calling you Marcus?

BATEMAN:

(chuckles) Mistletoe Alert.

INT. TEXARKANA RESTAURANT - NIGHT

An insanely expensive nouvelle Tex-Mex restaurant, with an ironic Southwestern decor: Santa Fe colors, Navajo blankets, naive cowboy art, rawhide banquettes.

Bateman bursts in the door, late, and approaches the MAITRE D'.

BATEMAN:

Marcus Halberstam. For two at seven?

Paul Allen is seated at a table underneath an enormous pair of ram's horns. He is arguing with the WAITER.

ALLEN:

No, I want to know. I came here for the cilantro crawfish gumbo, alright? Which is after all the only excuse one could have for being in this restaurant, which is by the way, almost completely empty.

WAITER:

I'm very sorry sir.

BATEMAN:

J&B, straight. And a Corona.

WAITER:

Would you like to hear-

ALLEN:

Double Absolut martini.

WAITER:

Yes, sir. Would you like to hear the specials?

BATEMAN:

Not if you want to keep your spleen.

The Waiter leaves.

ALLEN:

This is a real beehive of, uh, activity, Halberstam. This place is hot, very hot.

BATEMAN:

Listen, the mud soup and the charcoal arugula are outrageous here.

ALLEN:

Yeah, well, you're late.

BATEMAN:

Hey, I'm a child of divorce. Give me a break (Studying the menu; he's in a surprisingly good mood) Hmmm, I see they've omitted the pork loin with lime jello.

ALLEN:

We should've gone to Dorsia. I could've gotten us a table.

BATEMAN:

Nobody goes there anymore.

There is a long disgruntled silence.

BATEMAN:

Is that Ivana Trump? (Laughs) Oh, Jeez Patrick--I mean Marcus--what are you thinking? Why would Ivana be at Texarkana?

Another pause.

BATEMAN:

So, uh...wasn't Rothschild originally handling the Fisher account? How did you get it?

ALLEN:

Well, I could tell you that, Halberstam, but then I'd have to kill you.

He guffaws. Bateman laughs politely.

LATER:

Paul Allen is very drunk. BATEMAN cold sober.

BATEMAN:

I like to dissect girls. Did you know I'm utterly insane?

Allen continues laughing and motions to the waiter for another drink.

ALLEN:

Uh, uh...Great tan, Marcus. Really impressive. Where do you tan?

BATEMAN:

Salon.

ALLEN:

I've got a tanning bed at home. You should look into it.

Bateman nods, agitated.

ALLEN:

And, Uh...Cecelia, how is she? Where is she tonight?

BATEMAN:

Cecelia is, uh, well...you know Cecelia. I think she's having dinner with, um...Evelyn Williams.

ALLEN:

Evelyn. Great ass. Goes out with that loser Patrick Bateman. What a dork.

BATEMAN:

(laughs) Another Martini, Paul?

INT. BATEMAN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

The living room floor has been meticulously covered with newspaper.

Allen is slumped drunkenly in a white Eames chair, a glass in his hand. Bateman is looking through his CDs.

BATEMAN:

You like Huey Lewis and the News?

ALLEN:

(drunkenly) They're okay.

BATEMAN:

Their early work was a little too New Wave for my taste. But when Sports came out in '83, I think they really came into their own, commercially and artistically.

Bateman walks to his bathroom, gets into a clear raincoat that covers all of his clothing, taking a large ax out of the shower. He takes two Valium.

BATEMAN:

(Said partly from the bathroom) The whole album has a clear, crisp sound and a new sheen of consummate professionalism that gives the songs a big boost.

Bateman comes back out and leans the ax against the wall. He walks to the foyer and puts on a raincoat, watching Allen from behind ail the time.

BATEMAN:

He's been compared to Elvis Costello but I think Huey has a far more bitter, cynical sense of humor.

Allen is absent-mindedly leafing through the Barneys catalogue.

ALLEN:

Hey, Halberstam?

BATEMAN:

Yes, Allen?

ALLEN:

Why are there copies of the Style section all over the place? Do you--Do you have a dog? A little chow or something? (laughs)

BATEMAN:

No, Allen.

ALLEN:

(Confused) Is that a raincoat?

BATEMAN:

Yes, it is.

Bateman moves to the CD player. He takes a CD out of its case and slides it in the machine.

Bateman puts on "Hip To Be Square."

BATEMAN:

In '87 Huey released this. Fore!, their most accomplished album. I think I heir undisputed masterpiece is "Hip To Be Square," a song so catchy that most people probably don't listen to the lyrics. But they should because it's not just about the pleasures of conformity and the importance of trends. It's also a personal statement about the band itself.

Bateman crosses the room and picks up the ax.

We follow Bateman from behind as he walks up to Allen, the ax raised over his head.

BATEMAN:

Hey, Paul?! Ahh

As Allen turns around, FROM ALLEN'S POV we see Bateman swing the ax toward his face.

Blood sprays onto the white raincoat.

FROM BEHIND ALLEN, we see Bateman as he yanks the ax out.

Allen drops to the floor. His body falls out of the frame. We stay on his legs twitching mechanically.

Blood pulses onto the newspaper-covered floor.

BATEMAN:

(Raising the ax and screaming) Try getting a reservation at Dorsia now, you f***ing stupid bastard!

LOW ANGLE ON BATEMAN as he beats Allen with the back of the ax.

OFFSCREEN, the sound of the ax hitting Allen.

BATEMAN:

(Panting) You...F***ing...Bastard...

Bateman takes his raincoat off, still panting. He folds the coat carefully in half, bloody side in, and drapes it neatly over the back of a chair.

He sits back on the white sofa and surveys the scene. He checks his Rolex and lights a cigar.

OFFSCREEN, Paul Allen's last faint sighs are heard.

INT. LOBBY - NIGHT

BATEMAN drags a large, blood-soaked sleeping bag through the lobby, past the bored doorman, who looks up from the post for a moment.

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