I’m coming back from Central Park where, near the children’s zoo, close to the spot I murdered the McCaffrey boy, I fed portions of Ursula’s brain to passing dogs. Walking down Fifth Avenue around four o’clock in the afternoon, everyone on the street looks sad, the air is full of decay, bodies lie on the cold pavement, miles of it, some are moving, most are not. History is sinking and only a very few seem dimly aware that things are getting bad. Airplanes fly low across the city, crossing in front of the sun. Winds shoot up Fifth, then funnel down Fifty-seventh Street. Flocks of pigeons rise in slow motion and burst up against the sky. The smell of burning chestnuts mixes with carbon monoxide fumes. I notice the skyline has changed only recently. I look up, admiringly, at Trump Tower, tall, proudly gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. In front of it two smartass nigger teenagers are ripping off tourists at three-card monte and I have to fight the impulse to blow them away.

A bum I blinded one spring sits cross-legged on a ratty blanket near the corner of Fifty-fifth Street. Moving closer I see the beggar’s scarred face and then the sign he’s holding beneath it, which reads VIETNAM VET BLINDED IN VIETNAM. PLEASE HELP ME. WE ARE HUNGRY AND HOMELESS. We? Then I notice the dog, who is already eyeing me suspiciously and, as I approach its master, gets up, growling, and when I’m standing over the bum, it finally barks, wagging its tail frantically. I kneel down, threateningly raise a hand at it. The dog backs off, its paws askew.

I’ve pulled out my wallet, pretending to drop a dollar into his empty coffee can, but then realize: Why bother pretending? No one’s watching anyway, definitely not him. I retract the dollar, leaning in. He senses my presence and stops shaking the can. The sunglasses he wears don’t even begin to cover the wounds I inflicted. His nose is so junked up I can’t imagine a person breathing through it.

“You never were in Vietnam,” I whisper in his ear.

After a silence, during which he pisses in his pants, the dog whimpering, he croaks, “Please… don’t hurt me.”

“Why would I waste my time?” I mutter, disgusted.

I move away from the bum, noticing, instead, a little girl smoking a cigarette, begging for change outside Trump Tower. “Shoo,” I say. She says “Shoo” back. On The Patty Winters Show this morning a Cheerio sat in a very small chair and was interviewed for close to an hour. Later this afternoon, a woman wearing a silver fox and mink coat has her face slashed in front of the Stanhope by an enraged fur activist. But now, still staring at the sightless bum from across the street, I buy a Dove Bar, a coconut one, in which I find part of a bone.

Thursday night I run into Harold Carnes at a party for a new club called World’s End that opens in a space where Petty’s used to be on the Upper East Side. I’m with Nina Goodrich and Jean in a booth and Harold’s standing at the bar drinking champagne. I’m drunk enough to finally confront him about the message I left on his machine. Excused from the booth, I make my way to the other side of the bar, realizing that I need a martini to fortify myself before discussing this with Cannes (it has been a very unstable week for me—I found myself sobbing during an episode of Alf on Monday). Nervously, I approach. Harold is wearing a wool suit by Gieves & Hawkes, a silk twill tie, cotton shirt, shoes by Paul Stuart; he looks heavier than I remember. “Face it,” he’s telling Truman Drake, “the Japanese will own most of this country by the end of the ‘90s.”

Relieved that Harold is, as usual, still dispensing valuable and new information, with the addition of a faint but unmistakable trace of, god forbid, an English accent, I find myself brazen enough to blurt out, “Shut up, Carnes, they will not.” I down the martini, Stoli, while Cannes, looking quite taken aback, stricken almost, turns around to face me, and his bloated head breaks out into an uncertain smile. Someone behind us is saying, “But look what happened to Gekko…”

Truman Drake pats Harold on the back and asks me, “Is there one suspender width that’s more, well, appropriate than others?” Irritably I push dim into the crowd and he disappears.

“So Harold,” I say, “did you get my message?”

Carnes seems confused at first and, while lighting a cigarette, finally laughs. “Jesus, Davis. Yes, that was hila rious. That was you, was it?”

“Yes, naturally.” I’m blinking, muttering to myself, really, waving his cigarette smoke away from my face.

“Bateman killing Owen and the escort girl?” He keeps chuckling. “Oh that’s bloody marvelous. Really key, as they say at the Groucho Club. Really key.” Then, looking dismayed, he adds, “It was a rather long message, no?”

I’m smiling idiotically and then I say, “But what exactly do you mean, Harold?” Secretly thinking to myself that this fat bastard couldn’t possibly have gotten into the fucking Groucho Club, and even if he had, to admit it in such a fashion obliterates the fact that his entrance was accepted.

“Why, the message you left.” Carnes is already looking around the club, waving to various people and bimbos. “By the way, Davis, how is Cynthia?” He accepts a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “You’re still seeing her, right?”

“But wait, Harold. What-do-you-mean?” I repeat emphatically.

He’s already bored, neither concerned nor listening, and excusing himself, says, “Nothing. Good to see you. Oh my, is that Edward Towers?”

I crane my neck to look, then turn back to Harold. “No,” I say. “Carnes? Wait.”

“Davis,” he sighs, as if patiently trying to explain something to a child, “I am not one to bad-mouth anyone, your joke was amusing. But come on, man, you had one fatal flaw: Bateman’s such a bloody ass-kisser, such a brown-nosing goody-goody, that I couldn’t fully appreciate it. Otherwise it was amusing. Now let’s have lunch, or we’ll have dinner at 150 Wooster or something with McDermott or Preston. A real raver.” He tries to move on.

“Ray-vah? Ray-vah? Did you say ray-vah, Carnes?” I’m wide-eyed, feeling wired even though I haven’t done any drugs. “What are youtalking about? Bateman is what?”

“Oh good god, man. Why else would Evelyn Richards dump him? You know, really. He could barelypick up an escort girl, let alone… what was it you said he did to her?” Harold is still looking distractedly around the club and he waves to another couple, raising his champagne glass. “Oh yes, ‘chop her up.’” He starts laughing again, though this time it sounds polite. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must really.”

“Wait. Stop,” I shout, looking up into Carnes’ face, making sure he’s listening. “You don’t seem to understand. You’re not really comprehending any of this.I killed him. I did it, Carnes. I chopped Owen’s fucking head off. I tortured dozens of girls. That whole message I left on your machine was true.” I’m drained, not appearing calm, wondering why this doesn’t feel like a blessing to me.

“Excuse me,” he says, trying to ignore my outburst. “I really must be going.”

“No!” I shout. “Now, Carnes. Listen to me. Listen very, very carefully. I-killed-Paul-Owen-and-I-liked-it. I can’t make myself any clearer.” My stress causes me to choke on the words.

“But that’s simply not possible,” he says, brushing me off. “And I’m not finding this amusing anymore.”

“It never was supposed to be!” I bellow, and then, “Why isn’t it possible?”

“It’s just not,” he says, eyeing me worriedly.

“Why not?” I shout again over the music, though there’s really no need to, adding “You stupid bastard.”