“Listen, I’ve got to go,” I say, checking my Rolex. “I don’t want to miss… Stupid Pet Tricks.”

“Okay,” she says, composing herself. “Bye.”

“Night,” I say.

We both head off in our separate directions, but suddenly she calls out something.

I turn around.

“Don’t forget you have a breakfast meeting with Frederick Bennet and Charles Rust at ‘21,’” she says from the door, which the doorman is holding open for her.

“Thanks,” I call out, waving. “It slipped my mind completely.”

She waves back, disappearing into the lobby.

On my way over to Park Avenue to find a cab I pass an ugly, homeless bum—a member of the genetic underclass—and when he softly pleads for change, for “anything,” I notice the Barnes & Noble book bag that sits next to him on the steps of the church he’s begging on and I can’t help but smirk, out loud, “Oh right, like you read…,” and then, in the back of the cab on the way across town to my apartment, I imagine running around Central Park on a cool spring afternoon with Jean, laughing, holding hands. We buy balloons, we let them go.

May slides into June which slides into July which creeps toward August. Because of the heat I’ve had intense dreams the last four nights about vivisection and I’m doing nothing now, vegetating in my office with a sickening headache and a Walkman with a soothing Kenny G CD playing in it, but the bright midmorning sunlight floods the room, piercing my skull, causing my hangover to throb, and because of this, there’s no workout this morning. Listening to the music I notice the second light on my phone blinking off and on, which means that Jean is buzzing me. I sigh and carefully remove the Walkman.

“What is it?” I ask in monotone.

“Um, Patrick?” she begins.

“Ye-es, Je-an?” I ask condescendingly, spacing the two words out.

“Patrick, a Mr. Donald Kimball is here to see you,” she says nervously.

“Who?” I snap, distracted.

She emits a small sigh of worry, then, as if asking, lowers her voice. “Detective Donald Kimball?”

I pause, staring out the window into sky, then at my monitor, then at the headless woman I’ve been doodling on the back cover of this week’s Sports Illustrated, and I run my hand over the glossy finish of the magazine once, twice, before tearing the cover off and crumpling it up. Finally I start. “Tell him…” Then, mulling it over, rethinking my options, I stop and begin again. “Tell him I’m at lunch.”

Jean pauses, then whispers. “Patrick… I think he knows you’re here.” During my protracted silence, she adds, still hushed, “It’s ten-thirty.”

I sigh, stalling again, and in a contained panic tell Jean, “Send him in, I guess.”

I stand up, walk over to the Jodi mirror that hangs next to the George Stubbs painting and check my hair, running an oxhorn comb through it, then, calmly, I pick up one of my cordless phones and, preparing myself for a tense scene, pretend to be talking with John Akers, and I start enunciating clearly into the phone before the detective enters the office.

“Now, John…” I clear my throat. “You’ve got to wear clothes in proportion to your physique,” I begin, talking to nobody. “There are definitely dos and don’ts, good buddy, of wearing a bold-striped shirt. A bold-striped shirt calls for solid colored or discreetly patterned suits and ties.…”

The door to the office opens and I wave in the detective, who is surprisingly young, maybe my age, wearing a linen Armani suit not unlike mine, though his is slightly disheveled in a hip way, which worries me. I offer a reassuring smile.

“And a shirt with a high yarn count means it’s more durable than one that doesn’t… Yes, I know… But to determine this you’ve got to examine the material’s weave …” I point to the Mark Schrager chrome and teak chair on the opposite side of my desk, silently urging him to sit.

“Tightly woven fabric is created not only by using a lot of yarn but by using yarn of high-quality fibers, both long and thin, which… yes… which are… which fabricate a close weave as opposed to short and stubbly fibers, like those found in tweed. And loosely woven fabrics such as knits are extremely delicate and should be treated with great care…” Because of the detective’s arrival, it seems unlikely that this will be a good day and I eye him warily as he takes the seat and crosses his legs in a way that fills me with a nameless dread. I realize I’ve been quiet too long when he turns around to see if I’m off the phone.

“Right, and… Yes, John, right. And… yes, always tip the stylist fifteen percent…” I pause. “No, the owner of the salon shouldn’t be tipped…. “ I shrug at the detective hopelessly, rolling my eyes. He nods, smiles understandingly and recrosses his legs. Nice socks. Jesus. “The girl who washes the hair? It depends. I’d say a-dollar or two…” I laugh. “Depends on what she looks like…” I laugh harder. “And yeah, what else she washes…” I pause again, then say, “Listen, John, I’ve got to go. T. Boone Pickens just walked in…” I pause, grinning like an idiot, then laugh. “Just joking…” Another pause. “No, don’t tip the owner of the salon.” I laugh once more, then, finally, “Okay, John… right, got it.” I hang up the phone, push its antenna down and then, uselessly stressing my normality, say, “Sorry about that.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he says, genuinely apologetic. “I should’ve made an appointment.” Gesturing toward the cordless phone I’m placing back in its recharging cradle, he asks, “Was that, uh, anything important?”

“Oh that?” I ask, moving toward my desk, sinking into my chair. ‘Just mulling over business problems. Examining opportunities… Exchanging rumors… Spreading gossip.” We both laugh. The ice breaks.

“Hi,” he says, sitting up, holding out his hand. “I’m Donald Kimball.”

“Hi. Pat Bateman.” I take it, squeezing it firmly. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, “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…” He smiles, shrugs. “I know how busy you guys can get.” He averts his eyes from the three copies of Sports Illustrated that lie open atop my desk, covering it, along with the Walkman. I notice them too, then close all three issues and slip them into the desk’s top drawer along with the still-running Walkman.

“So,” I start, trying to come off as friendly and conversational as possible. “What’s the topic of discussion?”

“Well,” he starts. “I’ve been hired by Meredith Powell to investigate the disappearance of Paul Owen.”

I nod thoughtfully before asking, “You’re not with the FBI or anything, are you?”

“No, no,” he says. “Nothing like that. I’m just a private investigator.”

“Ah, I see… Yes.” I nod again, still not relieved. “Paul’s disappearance… Yes.”

“So it’s nothing that official,” he confides. “I just have some basic questions. About Paul Owen. About yourself—”

“Coffee?” I ask suddenly.

As if unsure, he says, “No, I’m okay.”

“Perrier? San Pellegrino?” I offer.

“No, I’m okay,” he says again, opening a small black notebook he’s taken out of his pocket along with a gold Cross pen.

I buzz Jean.

“Yes, Patrick?”

“Jean can you bring Mr…” I stop, look up.

He looks up too. “Kimball.”

“…Mr. Kimball a bottle of San Pelle—”

“Oh no, I’m okay,” he protests.

“It’s no problem,” I tell him.

I get the feeling he’s trying not to stare at me strangely. He turns back to his notebook and writes something down, then crosses something out. Jean walks in almost immediately and she places the bottle of San Pellegrino and a Steuben etched-glass tumbler on my desk in front of Kimball. She gives me a fretful, worried glance, which I scowl at. Kimball looks up, smiles and nods at Jean, who I notice is not wearing a bra today. Innocently, I watch her leave, then return my gaze to Kimball, clasping my hands together, sitting up. “Well, what’s the topic of discussion?” I say again.