American Psycho Page #8

INT. PAUL OWEN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Bateman is letting himself into the apartment. It is very

similar to Bateman's, but even more minimalist. The walls

are white-pigmented concrete with a large minimalist painting

on the wall. One wall is covered in a trendy, large-scale

scientific drawing above a long, black leather couch.

BATEMAN:

Where to send the bastard? Dallas? Pans?

He throws some clothes into a suitcase, randomly grabbing

toiletries and shoving them in.

BATEMAN:

Singapore? London. I'll send the a**hole to London.

He puts some music on to help muffle his voice, then leans

over the answering machine.

He does a passable imitation of Owen's speech.

BATEMAN:

Hi, this is Paul. I've been called away to London

for a few days. Meredith, I'll call you when I get back.

Hasta la vista, baby.

INT. BATEMAN'S OFFICE - MORNING

Bateman is sitting at his desk, with the latest copy of

Sports Illustrated in front of him and his Walkman playing

Kenny G. We hear the MUSIC until Jean enters and he takes

the Walkman off.

BATEMAN:

(Faintly irritable)

What is it?

JEAN:

Patrick?

BATEMAN:

(Condescendingly)

Ye-es, Je-an?

JEAN:

Patrick, a Mr. Donald KIMBALL is here to see you.

BATEMAN:

Who?

JEAN:

Detective Donald KIMBALL?

Silence. Bateman stares out the window, then down at the

drawing of a headless woman he's been doodling on the back

cover of Sports Illustrated.

BATEMAN:

Tell him I'm at lunch.

JEAN:

(whispering)

Patrick, I think he knows you're here.

It's only ten-thirty.

Silence.

BATEMAN:

Send him in, I guess. As she exits, he picks up the cordless

phone and pretends to talk to someone at the other end.

BATEMAN:

Now, John, you've got to wear clothes in proportion

to your physique. There are definite do's and don'ts, good

buddy, of wearing a bold-striped shirt. A hold-striped shirt

calls for solid-colored or discreetly patterned suits and ties...

The door to the office opens and he waves in DETECTIVE DONALD

KIMBALL. KIMBALL is surprisingly young - about Bateman's age -

and good-looking, dressed in a crumpled linen Armani suit of

the type Bateman and his friends might wear.

Kimball sits down and crosses his legs with a

self-assurance that makes Bateman so nervous he forgets to

carry on with his fake conversation. Kimball looks up at

him curiously, noticing the silence.

BATEMAN:

(Realizing that Kimball is staring at him)

Right. And yes...always tip the stylist fifteen percent.

Bateman shrugs at the detective, rolling his eyes in

exasperation.

KIMBALL nods understandingly.

BATEMAN:

Listen, John, I've got to go. T Boone Pickens just

walked in...

(He laughs inanely)

Just joking...

(Pause)

No don't tip the owner of the salon. Okay, John,

right, got it.

(He hangs up the phone and pushes the antenna in)

Sorry about that.

KIMBALL:

No, I'm sorry. I should've made an appointment.

(Gesturing toward the phone)

Was that anything important?

BATEMAN:

Oh that? Just mulling over business problems.

Examining opportunities...Exchanging rumors...

Spreading gossip.

They laugh politely.

KIMBALL:

(Holding out his hand)

Hi. I'm Donald KIMBALL

BATEMAN:

(Shaking firmly)

Hi. Pat Bateman. Nice to meet you.

KIMBALL:

I'm sorry to barge in on you like this. but I was supposed

to talk to Luis Carruthers and he wasn't in and...well,

you're here, so...I know how busy you guys can get.

KIMBALL stares at the three open copies of Sports

Illustrated and the Sony Walkman lying on Bateman's desk.

Bateman sees the look and sweeps the magazines

into the top drawer along with the Walkman, which is

still running.

BATEMAN:

(Forcing himself to sound friendly and relaxed)

So, what's the topic of discussion?

KIMBALL:

I've been hired by Meredith Powell to investigate

the disappearance of Paul Owen.

BATEMAN:

You're not with the FBI or anything, are you?

KIMBALL:

Nothing like that. I'm just a private investigator.

BATEMAN:

Ah, I see...Yes. Paul's disappearance...Yes.

KIMBALL:

So it's nothing that official. I just have some

basic questions. About Paul Owen. About yourself-

BATEMAN:

Coffee?

KIMBALL:

No. I'm okay.

BATEMAN:

Perrier? San Pellegrino?

KIMBALL:

No, I'm okay.

KIMBALL takes out a small black notepad and the same gold

Cross pen that Bateman and his friends all use. Bateman buzzes

Jean.

JEAN (O.S.)

Patrick?

BATEMAN:

Can you bring Mr...

KIMBALL:

KIMBALL.

BATEMAN:

Mr. Kimball a bottle of San Pelle-

KIMBALL:

Oh no, I'm okay.

BATEMAN:

It's no problem

Bateman watches intently as KIMBALL writes something down

in his notebook, then crosses something out. Jean enters

and places the bottle of San Pellegrino and a Steuben etched

glass on the table, shooting a concerned glance at Bateman.

He glares at her. KIMBALL smiles and nods at Jean as she leaves.

BATEMAN:

Well, what's the topic of discussion?

KIMBALL:

The disappearance of Paul Owen.

BATEMAN:

Oh right. Well, I haven't heard anything about the

disappearance or anything...

(Trying to laugh)

Not on "Page Six" at least.

KIMBALL:

I think his family wants this kept quiet.

BATEMAN:

Understandable.

(Staring at the untouched bottle of San Pellegrino)

Lime?

KIMBALL:

No, really. I'm okay.

BATEMAN:

You sure? I can always get you a lime.

A pause.

KIMBALL:

Just some preliminary questions that I need for my own

files, okay?

BATEMAN:

Shoot.

KIMBALL:

How old are you?

BATEMAN:

Twenty-six. I'll be twenty-seven in October.

KIMBALL:

(Scribbling in his notebook)

Where did you go to school?

BATEMAN:

Harvard. The Harvard Business School.

KIMBALL:

Your address?

BATEMAN:

Fifty-five West Eighty-First Street. The American

Gardens Building.

KIMBALL:

(Looking up, impressed)

Nice. Very nice.

BATEMAN:

(Flattered)

Thanks.

A pause as KIMBALL studies his notebook. Bateman closes his

eyes, as if in pain.

KIMBALL:

Pardon me, but are you okay?

BATEMAN:

Who do you ask?

KIMBALL:

You seem...nervous.

Bateman reaches into his desk drawer and brings out a

bottle of aspirin.

BATEMAN:

Nuprin?

KIMBALL Uh...no, thanks.

Kimball takes out a pack of Marlboro's and lays it on the

desk.

BATEMAN:

Bad habit.

KIMBALL:

I know. I'm sorry.

A pause, as Bateman stares at the cigarettes.

KIMBALL:

Would you rather I not smoke?

BATEMAN:

No, I guess it's okay.

KIMBALL:

You sure?

BATEMAN:

No problem.

(Buzzing Jean)

JEAN (O.S.)

Yes, Patrick?

BATEMAN:

Bring us an ashtray for Mr. KIMBALL, please.

She whisks in with a crystal ashtray as they sit in silence.

KIMBALL:

What can you tell me about Paul Owen?

BATEMAN:

Well...

He coughs, shakes two Nuprin into his hand and swallows

them dry.

KIMBALL:

How well did you know him?

BATEMAN:

I'm...at a loss. He was part of that whole...Yale thing,

you know.

KIMBALL:

Yale thing?

A pause.

BATEMAN:

Yeah...Yale thing.

KIMBALL:

What do you mean...Yale thing?

A pause.

BATEMAN:

Well, I think for one that he was probably a closet

homosexual. Who did a lot of cocaine...that Yale thing.

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